October 11th, 2009

Vengeance and justice is nigh

Hmm. I'm not quite sure what's up with the following item. It's certainly not an account of a real event. But it bears some resemblance to reality. It'd be ridiculous for me to deny any connection with my day-jobbery.

            “What you doing up in here, nigguh?” says Trog. “This is a Zone No-Go for you and your kind now, nigguh!”
            Bios twists the big thick red control cuff that wraps the gray gun barrel, resetting it to Lift-Pin. He opens fire on Trog, blasting him back against the break room wall, then gradually lifting him upon the end of the blazing blue beam until the fucker is pinned up in a corner by the ceiling. “Piss on you, Trog!” Bios says. “I’m here for that bitch Debbiform, and this time I’m getting the job done!”
            Trog squeals, his skinny ass mashed in a corner where two walls and the ceiling meet. Bios lets him squeal like that for a few seconds and then releases the beam. The fucker falls to the floor and lays there squealing and coughing.

Weeks ago:

            Bios suspected he was about to get fired from his job at the nursing home because of the machinations of Debbiform and her confederates. So Bios started to make his move against her, because she had already killed over thirty of the home’s residents and was working on ending ten more of them. She was using her own personal brand of Jesusism to decide who needed to be poisoned.
            “They said we can use the Jesus Glass to make the decisions,” she kept saying. “It’s allowed under state law.” The Jesus Glass was this ridiculous contraption that was something rather like an old TV monitor with a keyboard attached to it, though the keyboard only had six big keys on it, each one bearing a different style of holy cross. It had a rabbit ears-style antenna and it got its info out of the air, analog-style, broadcast from a nearby church.
            For some reason the Jesus Glass never gave any advice other than that which hastened the pain and eventual death of the home’s residents.
            So Bios had knocked the Jesus Glass off the steel prep table where it sat in the kitchen and it broke all over the floor. They tried to make him pay two hundred fifty dollars to buy a new Jesus Glass, but Bios told them to all go and fuck off, and that finally got him fired.

            Debbiform starts screaming her head off when Bios steps into the kitchen. “Oh no! Oh hell no!” she shrieks. “You get out of here!  You can’t be in here!”
            “Fuck you!” Bios says, turning the gun’s control cuff, selecting a new setting. He chooses Acid-Blast and fires a few bolts at her. She screams some more because the beams burn like concentrated sulfuric acid.  She runs to the sink and tries to splash water on the burns. Then she grabs the spray hose from the dish sink and tries to spray the burns. She gets a lot of water all over the floor.
            Bios shoots her again. “Quit trying to treat your wounds!  It will do you no good anymore.” He adjusts the control again, this time to Shrinker. He fires at her, hits her square in the forehead and she shrinks by two feet. She isn’t tall anyway, but now she’s short as a little kid.
            “Oh fuck!” she screams, realizing what Bios has done to her. He pulses her again with another short blast and she shrinks another six inches. Then he dashes down the length of the room to the prep table where the new Jesus Glass sits. He knocks it off the table. Now their second Jesus Glass is a broken pile of junk.
            “Fix it, faggot!” Debbiform shrieks.  “Fix this right now!”
            Instead he shoots her one, two, three, four more times, short little blasts of pink light striking her, each one depriving her of more size. Now she’s about as tall as a Chihuahua puppy. “Now I’m gonna kick you to death!” Bios says, stomping toward her. She scuttles underneath a refrigerator. She’s so short now, that she doesn’t even have to duck to make the six-inch clearance.
            Bios selects a pair of eighteen-inch tongs from a rack of hanging utensils. He’s pleased that Debbiform has trapped herself under the refrigerator, but now he realizes that he can’t reach all the way to the back wall, where she hides, with those tongs. He considers finding a broom with which to run her out of there but then he’d have to leave the kitchen, go to the mop closet or the storeroom to find a broom, and then the miniscule turd might escape while he is way. So then he has a better idea. 
            “You better get out from under there, bitch, and submit to being placed into captivity, or you will seriously regret it!” He sets a two-quart saucepan on the stove and empties a greasy jug of cooking oil into it. He turns the burner on full blast.
           “I ain’t coming out until you say you will make me big again!”
            “Well that’s not ever happening, you murdering monster. I wrecked your new Jesus Glass and in a few minutes I’ll be putting an end to your fucking chicanery once and for all.” While the oil heats, Bios finds a big gallon jar in the very fridge under which Debbiform is hiding. It’s full of brine and a few stray hamburger dill chips. He dumps all that out in a sink.
            Then Leotard enters the kitchen. She looks like a stack of tires topped with a fringe of frazzled fiberglass hair. “If you have any wisdom, Leotard,” Bios says, “you’ll get out of here.  I don’t have the kind of iron-clad evidence on you like I do on Debbiform, but I’ll still cut you down in a second.” He waves the gun at the squat newcomer. “Because I fucking hate you, whether you did anything or not.”
            Bios knows that Leotard is, in fact, probably complicit in Debbiform’s crimes. She is a Jesus Glass nut like Debbiform. Always praying to her fake-ass TV god and shit like that. Suddenly seized with anger and hatred, Bios points the gun, still set on Shrinker, at Leotard and opens fires. He doesn’t let off the trigger for a few long seconds. The beam warbles and whines and bleebles and Leotard gets smaller and smaller and smaller until she is finally drilled down to the smallest possible size: about as big as an adult cockroach.
            “Aw fuck!” Bios says, looking at the power reading on the gun. He’s discharged a lot of power. Resisting the temptation to stomp the life out of Leotard, he instead shouts at her: “It’s gonna be a while before this recharges!  Try not to get killed in the meantime.  Not that I’m going to make you big again either, you dumb conservative doxy.”
            Now the oil on the stove is hot. Bios lifts the pan off the stove and lowers it toward the floor, toward the underside of the refrigerator under which Debbiform cowers. He flings the pot of hot oil over the floor underneath the fridge. Since there is water on the floor from Debbiform’s thrashing about earlier, it makes a pleasing sizzle as it slicks across the quarry tile.
            Debbiform screams as she first sees and then feels the burning oil slick. In a second, she is out from under the fridge, stomping her feet furiously, trying to kick off hot oil residue. Bios grabs the tongs, clamps down and seizes his miniature enemy.
           Debbiform screams and writhes, clamped in aluminum teeth, as Bios lifts her from the floor and raises her above a prep table. The pickle jar waits. He lowers her through the mouth of the jar and lets go with the tongs. Debbiform collapses into the bottom of the pickle jar, screaming. Bios leans over the jar and shouts down into it, “Fuck you!  Fuck you and die!” He slaps the lid on top of the jar and then rummages in a drawer. Finding a paring knife, he uses it to punch a few rude holes into the jar’s aluminum lid. “Air holes!  Not that you’ll need them for long!”

            A few minutes later, Bios is carrying the jar containing the shrunken Debbiform. He is taking it outside the building. He notes that it has apparently occurred to her to try to call for help using her tiny cell phone.
            “Better call now. Where you’re headed, you might not be able to get a signal,” Bios  said.  “Hey, take a look at where you are going to end up!”
              They have entered the graveyard behind the home. Bios lowers the jar and aims Debbiform toward an object. It’s a headstone sitting ahead of a shabbily-dug hole. Says the stone: “Here Lies Fucking Debbiform: Murderer.”
            “Yeah! I’m in the graveyard!” Bios thinks he can hear Debbiform scream into her miniature phone. “He’s burying me alive in a jar!”
            “My religion’s got TV now, too, Debbiform!” Bios shouts, lowering the jar into the hole. “I saw what to do in my own Glass this morning. Great Cthulhu said it to me: Justice!”
            He laughs and laughs as he shovels dirt over the jar, as Debbiform’s shrieks become fainter and fainter.