Cowbob and the Teeter-Totter Gang
     

“Let me guess, you are one of them their bounty hunters looking to settle the score and bath in milkshake glory. Is that about the size of it pilgrim?”

With a quick flick of his wrists, both six shooters were drawn from their resting place and aimed square on Jack’s jawline.

Many ooh’s and aaw’s came murming from the crowd as they heard him speak.

“I’m not just a bounty hunter partner...I’m Cowbob.” Now give yourselves up or I’ll be forced to lay down rubber on yer lily liver.”

Cowbob dropped to the ground as a thick rubber band came flying across the room. It bounced off of the counter and disappeared in the distance. With a loud click, the first shot from his six shooter hit its mark. It bounced off of the mug, spilling the root beer directly on the man’s lap. Laughter rained upon him loud and true and in an instant, the man died of embarrassment. Retaliation came from the gang as the rifle released an extra thick band. Cowbob rolled out of the way at the last second, watching it bounce off of the warm spot his body had just occupied. Two more bands were released from his gun, both nailing the men in the knuckles. Large fat tears streamed down their faces as their gun wielding hands turned red and started to swell.

Three down, two to go! Cowbob thought as he nimbly dove over the chair. Shot after shot came towards him, never feeling the warmth of his skin. He released the band, aiming high. It came into contact with the light fixture and bounced off. Its new course drove it straight into the chest of Jack’s partner. The sheer force brought the man off of his feet and tumbling into Jack the rubber-bandit.

Still reluctant to give up, Jack stood, wobbly feet and all, and let loose a band that knocked Cowbob’s hat off of his head.

“No one shows my hat hair you dirty varmint!”

He braced his legs as he released the remaining bands at Jack. He watched it careen towards his fore-head, sure it would whelp its mark.

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                                                                        Excerpt

The voices will not stop.  I see blood everywhere; violent images encompass my every waking thought.  At the grocery store, I approach the meat counter.  I ask the butcher for some pork chops.  That is when I see it.  The butcher does not bring out a cut of succulent pig, no, it’s an infant.  The butcher brings his cleaver down on the squirming pink child; a scream is cut short as he lops off its head.

              I vomit, there on the floor.  It splashes on my shoes.  The baby murderer is once again just a man, with cuts of pork.  “Are you alright sir, can I get you some water?”

The blood splattered apron, the smell of entrails.  It is too much.  I clasp my hand over my mouth, trying to stop the fresh spew of bile.  It comes anyway, dripping from my fingers and running down the front of my shirt.

“Sir…?”  The man behind the counter questioned.  I wipe my hand on my pants and make for a hasty retreat, leaving him with the task of cleaning up my mess.  I walk quickly towards the aisles of canned goods.  It is free of customers.  I sit on the floor and begin to rock back and forth.  Groceries can wait, I need to get home.  Rising from the floor, I head for the front of the store.  I grab a bottle of water out of the soda cooler and go to the register.

The pretty young cashier asks if I found everything alright.  She tries not to notice my disheveled appearance.  Suddenly her face erupts into a mass of bloody flesh.  Her eyes glow and horns sprout from the top of her head.  “I will kill you, you fucking piece of shit.”  The five dollar bill drops from my hand onto the floor.  Fuck the water, I run towards the door.

“Sir, your water…”

I hit the door, hard.  I feel my nose crunch and a warm stream flow from it.  Drops of blood mix with the mess on my shirt; I wipe my arm across my face and leave a smear down my sleeve.  I make it outside.  The sunlight burns my eyes and I fumble for my sunglasses.  They were bent out of shape from the fight with the door.  I put them on anyway; they helped to shield my burning retinas.

Walking down the sidewalk, drips of blood continue to fall.  As they splash onto the concrete they turn into spiders, fat, black spiders.  I feel it pop and crunch as I squash one beneath my tennis shoe.  I hate spiders.

I reach the bus stop.  An old woman is sitting on the bench.  As I watch she ages, her bones turn to dust beneath my gaze.  “What are you gawking at, boy?”  I quickly turn away, not wishing to have any further communication with the dust-that-used-to-be-human.

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