Sex and Murder Magazine

By Dave Erlewine

My train was early. In the parking lot, I sprinted, nearly catching it. A young guy in the last train car waved. Scrawled on the back of that car, in blue, was "Rich Fucks".

I put my hands on my knees. At 44, I had the body of an abused man 50 years older. The next train wouldn't arrive for another 45 minutes. My stomach hurt at the prospect of calling my boss, explaining I'd be late. I decided to take it easy, catch a matinee and eat Chinese buffet.

In the IHOP parking lot, I called my boss, said I was puking. Then I polished off blueberry pancakes and five cups of sugary black coffee. A short woman with a plump ass walked by, putting it out there. I watched it until she disappeared around the corner. Then I remembered the massage parlor I used to go to.

A short Asian woman came to the door. She buzzed me in. Thirty minutes later, my dick and wallet drained, I stumbled into the sunlight and figured out what to do until the Chinese place opened.

After lunch, I grabbed a six-pack of Coors. I sat in my car at the park, listening to CDs. At 4:30, I put the three remaining beers in my trunk and headed home, chewing gum.

*****

About thirty yards from my house, as I clicked on the garage door opener, my next-door-neighbor leaped out from behind his bushes and sprinted toward my house. He carried a red gym bag. It was the first time in years he'd stepped on my property, other than to clean up dog shit.

He knocked on my car window. I hesitated. This was a guy who didn't even wave when I drove by. Was it Tim? Jim?

I rolled the window down.

"You got a gun?" he had the voice of a drill instructor.

I undid my seat belt. The garage was cramped, what with my wife's SUV hogging up space. I gingerly opened my door, trying not to knock it against the wall or him.

He dug into his gym bag and handed me a small silver gun.

"They'll be here soon."

"Who?"

He laughed, "Who? The crackheads from Baltimore. They're raping women in Catonsville. A war on the burbs."

I stood there, holding the gun, unsure what to say. He ran back to his house. I glanced around my street. Everything looked the same, except the kids weren't playing. Sunny day like today the cul-de-sac would have had at least a couple of them, throwing balls or yelling at each other.

In the kitchen, I yelled, "Hello!"

"Go to the basement, now." My son's whisper sounded like a hiss.

My 14-year-old boy was dressed like Rambo. He had black smudges under his eyes.

"Is that Mom's make-up?" I laughed and started coughing.

He grabbed my hand.

"Mom is pissed."

He led me to the basement. My stomach felt light. My wife was small but vicious, a female Joe Pesci. She hunched on the floor, tapping buttons on the cable box.

"Can't get anything in."

My son grunted.

She walked toward me.

"We've been calling all day. Where were you?"

"Fucking clients, they called this morning, demanding I--" My lame story was interrupted by yelling and banging outside.

My son pointed at my mom. "Get in the back room and lock the door." Then he ran upstairs. I took a step towards the back room. Even if she hadn't already locked it behind her, I would have followed my son into battle.

Across the street, a young guy wearing a hooded sweatshirt kicked the Bakers' door. Another tossed a brick through the window. Then both men disappeared through it. I followed my son towards the house. We found Mrs. Baker, pushing 75 and battling emphysema, on her knees in front of the men. The men had their back to us. My son shot the taller one in the back of the head and then the other guy in the neck.

My son grabbed Mrs. Baker by the hand. The tall guy's big cock was still in her mouth. She spit it out and let us help her up. Only as we walked through her front door did Mr. Baker appear, sprawled out on the entry room couch, his neck slit open. We shielded her eyes and went back to our house.

I banged on the door to the back room.

"Open the door, Jackie!"

My son said "Kimolee" or maybe "Chemo Free" and the door opened. He hugged my wife and then helped Mrs. Baker inside. Granted I'd been drinking a lot recently and coming home late, but had my wife and son joined a militia?

The back door led to an underground bunker. Mrs. Baker seemed less surprised than me. She followed them down. Then I did.

"How do I lock this fucking thing?"

"Just come down, Dad."

After I reached the tiled floor, my son climbed the ladder and locked it. My wife turned on a light. Surrounding us were all sorts of canned vegetables, bagged chips, jars of peanut butter, gallons of every conceivable juice. To the left was a hallway leading to several bedrooms and a full bathroom. The ceilings were at least 15 feet. Were they cathedral?

A few minutes later, my wife and son explained everything, how this revolution had been a long time coming, how Rush Limbaugh had predicted it months ago, how it would soon be happening across the country.

Later that night, they came. We didn't go out like Davey Crockett, hiding under our bed. We killed four of them, all looking younger than 12. Then we went back into the bunker to wait, pray, and talk about all the shit that had gone wrong with our marriage while our son sat in the corner cleaning the guns.




































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