A Secret Hidden Surprise for Anyone who Checks This!
Here is the ending to my "novel" which the genereal public hasn't seen. Enjoy.
Dan Feuerbach
English 354
5-9-2006
“Dismembered” Final Chapter
Menke hung up the phone. Gibson was on his way. Menke sat down at the Village Inn and prepared for the worst. His pack of cigarettes resting in his coat pocket, because I’m the “writer” and I can include whatever stupid-ass details I want, he sighed and ordered a patty melt from the waitress with the infected nose piercing.
Gibson hung up his phone and got into his car. He didn’t know what to expect. He drove the little Taurus down O Street. Great fucking idea, he thought, it’s five in the afternoon, and this is going to take forever.
He pulled into the spot next to Menke’s BMW. This was unusual for Gibson. His boss rarely called him to do stuff out side of work. He shut and locked his door and headed into the restaurant.
“Your meal’s on me.” Menke said.
“Why am I here?”
“I have some bad news for you, Everett.” Menke took a deep breath. “You’re fired.”
“What? Why am I fired? I thought I did a good job.”
“Well, you tried hard. You really did. I’d like to thank you for your effort. However, it just wasn’t good enough.”
Gibson paused. He didn’t know what to say.
“I can’t believe you called me all the fucking way out here to fire me, you stupid asshole. What the fuck is wrong with you.”
Gibson got up and left.
Gibson wanted to take a nap. He went to his middle room and took the pillows off his fold out that he got from his mother before he left for college. He pulled the bed out of the couch. The part that clicks upright wouldn’t click back down. He realized his pullout couch had now become useless. He knew what he had to do.
The same familiar lights that anyone dumb enough to read this saw at the beginning of this “novel” did stuff that implied danger and sorrow. So what if I can’t explain how this waste of letters, who drives a Taurus, got up to the hill with an out-folded couch.
He pulled the bat out from the trunk. He couldn’t believe it. How could this couch do this to him? This piece of shit just cuts him off when he needed it the most. What a bastard of a couch. He lifted the bat over his head.
The first noise it made was a dull thud as the black bad struck the side. He tried it again and the padding gave way.
“Thanks for the fucking effort, couch,” he said, “but it just wasn’t good enough, couch.”
He mercilessly cracked the bat into the side the support railings at the foot of the bed.
“You tried so hard. Never mind that you weren’t good enough. The fucking effort is what counts. Isn’t it you stupid bastard?”
He knocked the mattress to the ground and started hitting the metal springs underneath. He accidentally came down too hard and the shock to the bat transferred to his fingers.
“Fuck you.” He screeched.
He shook his hands and then went back to work. Pounding harder and harder into the stained, yellowed pads, splintering the wooden frame and bending every piece of metal he could find.
A cop came up the hill. The blue uniform of the where-ever-the-hell-this-novel-takes-place police department cloaked the officer wearing it. The lanky, thin cop came over to the destroyed couch.
“Sir, is something wrong?”
Gibson stood over his victim, clutching the bat in his bruised hands. He looked at the cop and saw fear in his eyes for just a moment.
Gibson’s hair went every possible direction. A slight strand of foam was sliding down his mouth. His white shirt with yellow armpits and torn sweatpants gave him the look of a man who escaped asylum and killed the first couch potato he could find.
“Sir, do you need some help?”
“When they kick at your front door?” Gibson said.
He ran to his Taurus, just barely out pacing the stunned cop. He reached under the seat and found his nine. The officer grabbed him, and Gibson struggled free. It must have been the weight of all that corpses that made him strong.
“If nothing else,” Gibson’s voice went into a higher pitch, suited for mocking people, “I tried hard.”
He put the gun in his mouth a splattered his knowledge, memories, and skills everywhere the bullet wanted.
In the dungeon with Kopelson, Menke wondered what they would do next.
“Does he know?” Kopelson asked.
“Who cares? We need to come clean.”
“Why?”
Menke reached into his pocket and pulled out the newspaper article. It was about an eighty-year-old woman in California who received a hip transplant from Kopelson’s agency and got syphilis.
“What if this was ours? You know we don’t test these well.”
“Who gives a fuck?” Kopelson said, “It doesn’t affect you.”
Menke put the article back in his pocket.
“We need to come clean. This isn’t worth it.”
“Relax, Tom, when you talk like that it makes me nervous. We said we’d keep this shit quiet. Are you going to keep it quiet?”
“Are you not listening? Our parts are infecting people.”
“I knew this would happen, you fucking cheese-dick.”
Kopelson pulled out his 9.
“Well, you sure tried hard, but it just wasn’t good enough. I’m afraid I’ll have to kill you.”
Menke began to sweat.
“You’re being rash…”
Then Menke fell to the floor and breathed his last.
Kopelson sat in his office when it began. He heard the elevator open and the jack-booted thugs of the swat team come to his office. He was prepared.
In the copy room at the front of the hallway to his office there a laser beam went off. He heard a man cry out and slump to the floor. The team wasn’t expecting this. Guns fired and the laser beam shut down. How does Kopelson know this? Fuck you!
At the first office after the copy room boiling oil came out of a hose at a rate of fifteen gallons a second. There was a smattering of gunfire interspersed with more screams. Kopelson smiled to himself as he heard the call for retreat. The boots turned around and ran away. A few bullets bounced off his bullet proof door.
“This was totally worth the effort.” He said.
The next night, he knew it was over. He had some laughs, killed some people, but he knew it was time to end it. He had been holed up in his office for two days with nothing to eat except the food in the downstairs vending machine that he snatched through broken glass. He couldn’t remember if he took the food before or after he called the police to tell them dead or alive he wouldn’t go with anyone.
The fun thing about due process is you can’t kill anyone without it, legally. Before they could give him the lethal dose he knew he deserved he would have to be tried, then sentenced, then he’d appeal and blah blah blah blah blah.
He turned off the lights. He disarmed the traps. He went down the stairs.
Just as he suspected, soldiers were there, with there sexy M-16’s. They leveled their guns at his heart. He put his hands up. Two soldiers threw him to the ground and a cop laid handcuffs on him.
“Hey boys,” Kopelson said, “thanks for the effort.”
The bomb he installed in his chest cavity went off.
Not a life was spared.
Dan Feuerbach
English 354
5-9-2006
“Dismembered” Final Chapter
Menke hung up the phone. Gibson was on his way. Menke sat down at the Village Inn and prepared for the worst. His pack of cigarettes resting in his coat pocket, because I’m the “writer” and I can include whatever stupid-ass details I want, he sighed and ordered a patty melt from the waitress with the infected nose piercing.
Gibson hung up his phone and got into his car. He didn’t know what to expect. He drove the little Taurus down O Street. Great fucking idea, he thought, it’s five in the afternoon, and this is going to take forever.
He pulled into the spot next to Menke’s BMW. This was unusual for Gibson. His boss rarely called him to do stuff out side of work. He shut and locked his door and headed into the restaurant.
“Your meal’s on me.” Menke said.
“Why am I here?”
“I have some bad news for you, Everett.” Menke took a deep breath. “You’re fired.”
“What? Why am I fired? I thought I did a good job.”
“Well, you tried hard. You really did. I’d like to thank you for your effort. However, it just wasn’t good enough.”
Gibson paused. He didn’t know what to say.
“I can’t believe you called me all the fucking way out here to fire me, you stupid asshole. What the fuck is wrong with you.”
Gibson got up and left.
Gibson wanted to take a nap. He went to his middle room and took the pillows off his fold out that he got from his mother before he left for college. He pulled the bed out of the couch. The part that clicks upright wouldn’t click back down. He realized his pullout couch had now become useless. He knew what he had to do.
The same familiar lights that anyone dumb enough to read this saw at the beginning of this “novel” did stuff that implied danger and sorrow. So what if I can’t explain how this waste of letters, who drives a Taurus, got up to the hill with an out-folded couch.
He pulled the bat out from the trunk. He couldn’t believe it. How could this couch do this to him? This piece of shit just cuts him off when he needed it the most. What a bastard of a couch. He lifted the bat over his head.
The first noise it made was a dull thud as the black bad struck the side. He tried it again and the padding gave way.
“Thanks for the fucking effort, couch,” he said, “but it just wasn’t good enough, couch.”
He mercilessly cracked the bat into the side the support railings at the foot of the bed.
“You tried so hard. Never mind that you weren’t good enough. The fucking effort is what counts. Isn’t it you stupid bastard?”
He knocked the mattress to the ground and started hitting the metal springs underneath. He accidentally came down too hard and the shock to the bat transferred to his fingers.
“Fuck you.” He screeched.
He shook his hands and then went back to work. Pounding harder and harder into the stained, yellowed pads, splintering the wooden frame and bending every piece of metal he could find.
A cop came up the hill. The blue uniform of the where-ever-the-hell-this-novel-takes-place police department cloaked the officer wearing it. The lanky, thin cop came over to the destroyed couch.
“Sir, is something wrong?”
Gibson stood over his victim, clutching the bat in his bruised hands. He looked at the cop and saw fear in his eyes for just a moment.
Gibson’s hair went every possible direction. A slight strand of foam was sliding down his mouth. His white shirt with yellow armpits and torn sweatpants gave him the look of a man who escaped asylum and killed the first couch potato he could find.
“Sir, do you need some help?”
“When they kick at your front door?” Gibson said.
He ran to his Taurus, just barely out pacing the stunned cop. He reached under the seat and found his nine. The officer grabbed him, and Gibson struggled free. It must have been the weight of all that corpses that made him strong.
“If nothing else,” Gibson’s voice went into a higher pitch, suited for mocking people, “I tried hard.”
He put the gun in his mouth a splattered his knowledge, memories, and skills everywhere the bullet wanted.
In the dungeon with Kopelson, Menke wondered what they would do next.
“Does he know?” Kopelson asked.
“Who cares? We need to come clean.”
“Why?”
Menke reached into his pocket and pulled out the newspaper article. It was about an eighty-year-old woman in California who received a hip transplant from Kopelson’s agency and got syphilis.
“What if this was ours? You know we don’t test these well.”
“Who gives a fuck?” Kopelson said, “It doesn’t affect you.”
Menke put the article back in his pocket.
“We need to come clean. This isn’t worth it.”
“Relax, Tom, when you talk like that it makes me nervous. We said we’d keep this shit quiet. Are you going to keep it quiet?”
“Are you not listening? Our parts are infecting people.”
“I knew this would happen, you fucking cheese-dick.”
Kopelson pulled out his 9.
“Well, you sure tried hard, but it just wasn’t good enough. I’m afraid I’ll have to kill you.”
Menke began to sweat.
“You’re being rash…”
Then Menke fell to the floor and breathed his last.
Kopelson sat in his office when it began. He heard the elevator open and the jack-booted thugs of the swat team come to his office. He was prepared.
In the copy room at the front of the hallway to his office there a laser beam went off. He heard a man cry out and slump to the floor. The team wasn’t expecting this. Guns fired and the laser beam shut down. How does Kopelson know this? Fuck you!
At the first office after the copy room boiling oil came out of a hose at a rate of fifteen gallons a second. There was a smattering of gunfire interspersed with more screams. Kopelson smiled to himself as he heard the call for retreat. The boots turned around and ran away. A few bullets bounced off his bullet proof door.
“This was totally worth the effort.” He said.
The next night, he knew it was over. He had some laughs, killed some people, but he knew it was time to end it. He had been holed up in his office for two days with nothing to eat except the food in the downstairs vending machine that he snatched through broken glass. He couldn’t remember if he took the food before or after he called the police to tell them dead or alive he wouldn’t go with anyone.
The fun thing about due process is you can’t kill anyone without it, legally. Before they could give him the lethal dose he knew he deserved he would have to be tried, then sentenced, then he’d appeal and blah blah blah blah blah.
He turned off the lights. He disarmed the traps. He went down the stairs.
Just as he suspected, soldiers were there, with there sexy M-16’s. They leveled their guns at his heart. He put his hands up. Two soldiers threw him to the ground and a cop laid handcuffs on him.
“Hey boys,” Kopelson said, “thanks for the effort.”
The bomb he installed in his chest cavity went off.
Not a life was spared.
posted by Dan at 3:57 AM
1 Comments:
You break down the fourth wall too much says I. And you take things too personally. A writer needs a certain detachment from the real world, perhaps too the point of having trouble functioning in it.
There's a reason why I'm a better writer than you Mr. went to hobo museum without me asshole.
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