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From: Pariah Dog <pariah_dog@excite.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Home in time for Melrose {Pariah Dog} (Halloween violence MF group)
Date: Sun, 24 Sep 2000 11:10:17 -0400
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<1st attachment, "Melrose.txt" begin>

This is a work of fiction.
You may repost this story on any newsgroup, but you must retain 
my name and E-mail address on each and every copy.
This story may not be posted on any website, free or otherwise, 
without my express permission.

The following story may contain a subject that is adult in 
nature. If you are under the legal age you do not have my 
permission to read it. If you are of legal age then enjoy.

Email the author at Pariah_Dog@Excite.com

============================================================

Home in time for Melrose. (Halloween violence MF group)


You're late. Your boss just had to have those reports finished 
tonight and now you're late. Dinner will be ruined, your wife 
will be as accommodating as an arctic ice flow and you still 
have to stop off at the shops to get a loaf of bread. Melrose 
Place starts in just half an hour and you're going to miss it 
because you're late. 

It's all that bastard's fault. "I need those reports tonight," 
he said. Yeah right. He just wanted to get an early start on 
his bloody fishing trip with his scum-sucking mates. So you had 
to stay behind and finish his job.

And now you're fucking late.

You need to calm down so you turn on the radio. Some good old 
Rock and Roll is required. Some Creedence Clearwater Revival 
maybe, or maybe some Eagles. You're in the perfect mood for 
Hotel California. Or what about Pink Floyd? Now that's the 
ticket, something from "Wish You Where Here" is just what the 
doctor ordered.

"You're listening to the party hour on Triple S. The only 
station with 100 percent dance music, 24 hours a day."

"What the hell is this crap?" you ask as you fumble for the 
tuner. There has to be something better than this. You lock 
onto another station.

"You're listening to 108 FM. The only station that plays 100 
percent Rap music 24 hours a day."

Goddam Rap music. Angrily you twist the off switch, which 
promptly breaks off in your hand. 

Unbelievable! 

You throw the knob at the radio and watch as it bounces off the 
dash and out the passenger side window. You now have 100 
percent Rap music and no way of turning it off. Life just 
doesn't get any better than this. You reach into the glove box 
and pull out a ball pain hammer. Now that's a strange thing to 
find in a glove box, and why is the handle sticky? You push 
these thoughts out of your mind, there are more important 
things to attend to right now. With a few gentle adjustments 
you manage to turn off the radio. 

And the heater unit. 

And the ashtray.

Strangely enough you begin to feel calmer. Beating the living 
daylights out of the dashboard was just the release you needed. 
You put the hammer away and smile, a big I'm-okay-you're-okay 
sort of smile as you spot the lights of the supermarket up 
ahead. Five minutes to get the bread, a quick in and out and 
you'll still have twenty minutes left until Melrose starts. 

No problems. 

Of course, your wife will still be pissed at you but that's 
nothing unusual these days. And dinner will be ruined but it 
would have tasted like shit anyway. She never could cook worth 
a damn. Not even when you married her. But in those days she 
made up for it in other ways. There won't be any of that 
tonight though. Hasn't been any of that for a long time. When 
you first married her she was insatiable, she couldn't get 
enough of you. She would even turn up at work sometimes and you 
would have to send your secretary out to an early lunch. 

A long early lunch. 

Let's face it, the girl liked to fuck. And she wasn't too fussy 
about where she did it either. Remember that time on the train 
when you were on your way home from the nightclub? How she had 
whispered in your ear that she wanted to fuck your brains out, 
right here, right now. And she did too. A train with more than 
just a few people in it and here she was, bouncing up and down 
in your lap, moaning and groaning like it was the best fuck she 
ever had. Maybe it was a hint of what was too come when she 
asked you if you minded that she fucked anyone in the carriage 
who wanted her. You knew you should have said that yes, you did 
mind, but you just had to play the understanding husband, 
didn't you? Remember how you felt watching her get screwed by 
all those guys? At first it was kind of a turn on, but soon you 
felt that knot starting to tighten in the pit of your stomach. 
You probably shouldn't have dragged her away from all those 
men, but you couldn't help yourself. And when those three guys 
followed you off the train and tried to take her away from you 
on the platform... 

What did happen then? Why is it so hard to remember? You can 
recall them threatening you, and even one of them grabbing your 
wife by the arm, but then it was just a blur. The next thing 
you knew you were walking home with your wife on your arm and 
your knuckles bleeding. And what about that look in your wife's 
eyes, like she was ready to do it all again. As soon as you got 
home she had fucked your brains out, right there on the living 
room floor.

How could a woman who needed it so much, now not want it at 
all? Well the answer to that question was at the local gym. 
Apparently she had been getting some special attention from the 
aerobics instructor, according to the photos in your desk at 
work. Good quality photos too, very good definition with some 
nice close ups, eliminating any chance of mistaken identity. 
Yep, overall some nice quality work and worth every penny you 
paid for them. 

So what do you do about it? 

The usual response would be to go around to his place and punch 
his lights out. But what do you do when the person your wife is 
cheating with is another woman? A woman for Christ's sake. How 
can you compete with that? Thank God you don't have any kids. 
Imagine trying to explain to them that your divorcing their 
mother because she's a Dyke?

You turn into the driveway of the supermarket and start looking 
for a place to park. But what the hell is this? Some sort of 
construction work taking up the first six rows of parking bays, 
which means you have a bit of a walk ahead of you. You guide 
your car into a vacant spot and begin the trek. It looks like 
you'll have to navigate your way through all this construction. 
You notice that the route is defined by those little plastic 
flags, the kind that you see at all the best second hand car 
yards. The light is not that good out here so you don't see 
that large puddle until you've stepped in it, letting water 
trickle down your socks and into your two hundred-dollar shoes. 
Fortunately the squelching that accompanies your every step 
serves to remind you to be more observant in the future. The 
entrance to the supermarket rises before you as you emerge from 
the labyrinth but in a last despairing leap a nail reaches out 
and tears the surface of your briefcase. 

Your briefcase? Why are you carrying that? Why didn't you leave 
it in the car? Well it's too late to take it back now. You 
continue on through the entrance, hoping against hope that it 
will be warm inside. As you enter the heat hits you like a slap 
in the face, instantly fogging up your glasses. It's like a 
sauna in here. It must be a hundred and twenty degrees at 
least. In and out you think. In and out then home for Melrose. 
You push your way through the turnstile and head for the bakery 
section with a slight detour through the freezer section to try 
to cool off a bit. At last you reach the isle that has the 
bread. 

Or should I say the aisle with the empty shelves. Nothing, not 
a damn thing. Something inside your head starts to unravel, and 
you start to reach for a familiar lump inside your jacket. But 
wait, what is that down near the end of the aisle? You walk 
down there and see a loaf of bread. True, it's some obscure 
Lebanese blend, but it's still bread. 

"Oh well a change is as good as a holiday" you mutter to 
yourself as you head toward the checkouts. Your mind is stable 
again and the lump in your jacket is forgotten for now. It's as 
hot as blazes in here but you keep your jacket on. Why is that?

The checkouts are a disaster. There must be twenty people here 
and only two checkouts are open. The frustration is building 
again and you're getting ready to explode. Movement in the 
corner of your eye catches your attention, a young girl with 
bright orange hair is opening an express lane. At last you're 
catching a break. You walk over to the checkout thinking that 
everything is going to be all right. By the time you get back 
to your car you'll still have fifteen minutes to get home for 
Melrose. You might miss the opening credits but you can live 
with that, can't you? You're catapulted from your thoughts by 
sudden pain in your shins. A little old lady pushing a shopping 
cart has bumped into you before heading for the same checkout 
you wanted. My God, look at that thing. It's full to 
overflowing with tinned cat food and bags of kitty litter. What 
is she, the fucking patron saint of cats or something? And how 
the hell is she pushing it? It must weigh a ton. That thing in 
your head is unravelling again. You reach inside your jacket. 

Now lets be honest here, it's not a jacket at all is it? It's 
more like an overcoat. And that lump inside it, that comforting 
weight resting against you side. You know what it is don't you? 
Can you remember when you first started carrying that around 
with you? 

The little old lady, she of the blue rinse set, looks up at you 
and asks, "You don't mind do you?" 

You take hold of the shotgun and pull it out from under your 
coat. "Mind?" you ask as you pump a round into the chamber. 
"No, I don't mind at all". You pull the trigger and the little 
old lady disappears in a spray of blood and Snappy Tom. That 
thing in your head is gone now. With a touch of remorse you 
realize it was your sanity. You pump in another round as the 
manager comes running up. 

"What the hell is going on here?" he demands. 

"This is" you reply as you smile and blow him away. Things are 
getting pretty messy around here. "Cleanup on checkout eight" 
you yell and start to laugh. 

People are just standing there, staring at you. No one has 
panicked, nobody's running for the door. They're just not 
taking this seriously. Obviously they need a bit more 
incentive. You turn to the girl at the checkout. That orange 
hair is just too inviting a target. One pull of the trigger and 
everyone starts to get the idea. People are diving into aisles, 
under counters and out the doors. You take some pot shots and 
manage to tag an overweight businessman. He's still moving so 
you walk over and put the barrel to his forehead. The look of 
fear in his face is invigorating as you pull the trigger but 
all you hear is a click. 

Out of ammo. 

You search your pocket but to no avail. The fat executive is 
looking at you, hope starting to bleed back into his eyes. You 
reverse the gun and bring the butt down into his face, driving 
bone fragments into his brain. 

Looking around you see your briefcase over by the checkouts. 
You walk over, kneel down and open it. It's empty except for a 
box of shells, a half eaten sandwich and a lump of human flesh 
that looks suspiciously like your bosses' hand. Just what did 
you do before you left work this evening? As you reload the 
shotgun you try to remember but you draw a blank. Obviously the 
boss is not going fishing tomorrow. You fill your pockets with 
the remaining shells and go hunting.


***

It doesn't take long to clean up the stragglers. It's amazing 
what people will do to keep from dying, isn't it? You find one 
man hiding in the freezer section, trying vainly to dig his way 
under the frozen peas and beans. Laughing maniacally you turn 
him into meat and two veg. All this work makes you hungry 
though, so you take a bite of that sandwich you found in you 
briefcase. Tastes good, doesn't it? 

The memories start to flood back now, about that last 
altercation in the office with your boss and how it ended with 
his head under the photocopying machine. You have no idea how 
you managed to lift that heavy piece of office equipment up so 
high, and neither did your boss judging by the look of surprise 
on his face. He reminded you of a rabbit, caught in the 
headlights of a car, just before you xeroxed his arse. Was it 
really necessary to smash it down on him so often though? It 
took you ages to get all the blood, brains and bone fragments 
out of the carpet. After you had cleaned up that stain, and 
wrapped what was left of his skull in bubble wrap that you 
found in the stationary cupboard, you had dragged the body down 
to the 14th floor where a new tenant had started renovating 
before moving in. That bandsaw they set up sure came in handy, 
didn't it? It only took a couple of minutes to reduce your boss 
to cold cuts. You wonder briefly how much a kilo you could have 
gotten for him if you hadn't taken the remains down to the 
incinerator in the basement. Who would have thought that boss 
burns so easily? Or maybe it was all that gasoline you poured 
over him before you threw him in. You might have used a bit too 
much actually, judging by how the flames from the incinerator 
had quickly set fire to the basement. At least you don't have 
to worry about anyone finding any incriminating evidence. As 
these memories sweep over you, you begin to wonder if your boss 
had a part in that sandwich that you're eating, but then a new 
memory comes flooding back. 

Cooking a roast the night before, seasoning it so it would 
taste just like pork, and listening to the silence in the 
house. No nagging wife complaining about how your career was 
going nowhere, about how you don't help out around the house, 
and how bad you are in bed. The temptation had been there to 
ask her about her new lover, the aerobics instructor who was a 
part time carpet muncher, but somehow it didn't seem to be 
enough. The knife had felt good in your hands that night, 
perfectly balanced, like it was an extension of your arm. It 
had buried itself into her like she was made of hot butter. The 
slashing, the slicing, it had all felt right. And it kept 
plunging in, long after she had stop screaming. When the knife 
had finished its job you moved toward the sink, but almost lost 
your balance on the slippery kitchen floor. You were like an 
innocent child jumping in puddles, except these puddles where a 
dark, visceral, red. As you looked down at your now ex-wife you 
remembered how your life was never going to be good enough for 
her. But that was all behind you now. Nope, no more listening 
to complaints for you. You set about cleaning up the mess, 
getting the house spotlessly clean. If your wife had seen what 
a good job you had done she would have been impressed. But she 
couldn't really see it, could she? Not with the jar on the 
mantle piece turned the other way like that. So after that you 
had set about cooking the roast.

It's kind of ironic really. Your wife was always complaining 
about you not eating her. Looks like she's getting her wish 
now. 

You finish off the sandwich and head towards the back of the 
store. Spotting a nondescript door you decide to see what's 
inside. Opening the door reveals a small office with a fold-up 
chair and a card table. It's what's on the table that gets your 
attention, a small colour TV. Checking your watch you see that 
it's 8:30, just in time for Melrose. You take your coat off and 
notice that your clothes are soaked in blood and gore from the 
office. Not that it really matters too you, not when you have 
some serious television watching to do. You sit down and relax 
as the first of the Police arrive outside.

***

One hour later and you're chuckling to yourself. You love a 
good episode of Melrose Place, and tonight was an absolute 
blast. Of course, it would have been a lot better if that damn 
phone hadn't kept ringing. Cops can be very stubborn when they 
want to be. The first time they rang you told them you would be 
available in an hour. The second time they called you told them 
to fuck off and hung up on them. The third time they rang you 
dragged a screaming stock clerk out by the hair and shot him in 
front of the main doors. 

During the commercial break of course.

They appeared to get the hint after that. The rest of the show 
went without interruption. But then it was over and you had to 
figure out what to do next. The Police must have been watching 
too, because as soon as the show finished the calls on the loud 
hailer started. I guess they would have called you if you 
hadn't shot the phone off the wall. 

They mention that your wife is on her way. Now that would be a 
neat trick. You assume they haven't checked the mantelpiece 
yet. 

They ask you if you're responsible for the fire at your office 
building. You shout back that yes, you are, but it was just to 
cover up the fact that you had turned your boss into a deli 
special. Well honesty is the best policy after all. 

They offer to negotiate, you offer to send out your hostages 
piece by piece. 

They ask you to settle down, you blow away an old man that was 
looking at you funny. 

You want to make sure that they understand just who is in 
charge around here. It takes some convincing but eventually 
they get the idea. It was just after you played supermarket 
bowling with the head of some punk with a ring through his lip. 
After that they ask you what your demands are.

You tell them you want to see Saddam Hussein suck George Bush's 
cock on international television. They tell you they'll work on 
it.

You tell them that you want the CIA to tell the world who 
really shot JFK. They tell you no problem.

You tell them you want eight track stereos to replace CD's. 
They tell you they'll get right on it.

You begin to think they're not taking you seriously. You decide 
to demonstrate to them that they should show you some respect, 
but you discover that you have a small problem.

You've run out of hostages.

Probably wasn't such a good idea to play "Who can outrun a 
shotgun blast". Oh well, life is full of little problems. It 
would only be a matter of time before they discover your 
mistake, so you decide to act first. Checking your supplies you 
see that you have one shell left. You could just end it here, 
jam the barrel under your chin and perform radical plastic 
surgery, but you decide on something a little more spectacular. 
You stride out the front door and feel yourself instantly 
enveloped in spotlights. You can feel your flesh start to 
tingle with sensation and adrenaline crashes through your body. 
You raise your shotgun and aim for the nearest convenient head. 
You must have taken them by surprise because you have enough 
time to fire, blowing it apart like a rotten pumpkin. The 
shocked silence that follows is broken by the sound of hundreds 
of guns being cocked. You spread your arms in a Jesus Christ 
pose and wait for oblivion.

The End.


<1st attachment end>


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