Jake

Started working, on the side, on a new novel. Now, it is in the early stages, first draft and all of that… but this is me and I like to share. So here’s the opening bits of it, as they stand now. And this is all you get:

Where to begin…

The gods had run out of bullets. This was, understandably, going to be a problem for everyone. The gods didn’t exactly shop at Wal*Mart or some other chain store that sold you ammo along with half a side of beef. No, the gods created ammunition. Along with sunshine, false hope, spicy salsa and tiny birds, various caliber ammo had become one of the god’s chief exports. Right from heaven, delivered to your door in thirty minutes of the next victim’s free.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, the god’s messenger service stank, which accounted for the number of murder victims that go free every year. Still, we’re not here to discuss the god’s various short comings vis a vis filling out FedEx forms.

Without bullets no one could fire their guns. Just empty clikclicklickclick noises followed by frustration, checking clips and throwing guns at each other as if they would accelerate to bullet-like speeds and become, themselves, the bullets they once fired.

The gods looked down, wondered what happened and checked the warehouse. They found that someone had broken into the warehouse and set it on fire, setting off every bullet in present and future at the same time. This caused, as one might expect, a bit of a mess. So the gods thought and thought and consulted with each other and came up with a plan.

And so, with a wave of various miracle causing hands, the Gods instantly replaced every missing bullet in the world with tiny, gunpowder launchable, dinosaurs.

No, really. It worked pretty much the same as bullets. Have a gun, pull the trigger. Tiny dinosaur flies out at high speed and latches onto a target. Once latched on the dinosaur proceeds to do dinosaur things (i.e. – biting and clawing and, to be fair, pooping) on the target. Having a life span of only minutes, the dinosaurs die quick enough and rot. They also didn’t do as much property damage. Fire a dinosaur into the side of a house and it would gnaw your rosebushes for a few minutes and then help fertilize the place. They actually worked out much better than bullets. Except for reloads. You could lose a finger reloading.

But then this guy.

Jake “Ka-boing” Smith was a gunsmith and dinosaur wrangler. He was bad at one job and good at the other. He also had a mayonnaise fetish but that doesn’t much to do with the rest of this story. I mean, it makes its occasional appearance, so I thought maybe I should warn you early but I wouldn’t dwell on it. Jake can still get it up, regardless of the mayonnaise situation near-by. Mayo just makes it easier.

Jake was sitting in his office, eating lunch, one day when it happened. He sat on a stool, stuffing leaking out of old rips in the leather cushion. Dinosaur eggs sat on his desk in a little holster, waiting for them to hatch so he could load up a rifle. He ate some lunch, a simple sandwich, nothing fancy at all. And yes, damn it, it had mayo on it. Are you happy now?

And as he sat there, shifting on his torn seat, trying to focus past the rich, creamy smell from his lunch and keep an eye on work, the clock ticked away. Tick tock tick tock tick tock. He didn’t notice, but Jake blinked on every other tock.

Tick tock tick tockblink tick tock tick tockblink.

The door to his shop opened.

Tick tock tick tockblink tick tock tick tockblink.

A man walked through.

Tick tock tick tockblink tick tock tick tockblink.

He raised a gun and leveled it at Jake who felt time slow down around him.

Tick tock.

Tick tockblink.

Tick tock.

Tick tockblink.

Tiny dinosaurs flew through the air, right at Jake’s face and chest. He screamed and tried to dive for cover. The dinosaurs flew closer still, creating tiny vortices in the air like a bad movie special effect circa the year 2000.

Tick tock.

Tick tockblink.

Tick tock.

Tick tockblink.

And then the dinosaurs exploded into butterflies.

Time sped back up. Jake looked down at his chest. A rare, beautiful and precious Monarch butterfly flapped as it clutched Jake’s shirt.

“Well fuck me,” Jake said, dropping his sandwich and looking at the man with the gun, “not this again.”

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