PLOTS WITH GUNS #4 : FALL 2008

The man enters our home without a knock, flips the deadbolt, turns to face us. “No worries, folks,” he says, and in his hand, at his side: a black handgun.

From the couch, my wife wags a finger. “Now here’s a man,” she says, “knows what he wants.”

The man winks at my wife and walks between us, taking the chair by the woodstove. He wears a tailored black suit, white collar, no tie. The hair on his head and below his lips is the color of wet sand.

“Nice animals,” he says, nodding to the mounts on the wall. And then: “Christ, people, cut the tension in here with a knife.”

“Perceptive as well,” says my wife.

“Who are you?” I say. “And what do you want?”

The man smiles. “Craziest thing. I needed a place, yeah? And I thought: The old farmhouse at the end of the road. The house of my youth. No one lives in that fuckin hole. But lo and behold …”

“Here we are,” says my wife. “The professor and his fragile bride.”

I ignore it. “Place for what?”

“A meeting,” says the man. “The meeting of meetings.”

“What on?” I say.

The man looks at my wife. “The inquisitive sort,” he says.

“Just look around,” says my wife, waving at the stacks of journals and drawings and the gleaming tools of taxidermy.

But the man does not look at anything beyond my wife. She in her jean shorts and bikini top, freckle-shouldered, heavy-lidded.

The man nods at the shoebox at my wife’s side. “Don’t stop the party on my account, yeah?”

My wife opens the box and proceeds to roll a joint. She packs the paper with slender fingertips and licks it closed, green eyes going back and forth between the task and the man. There was a time when she didn’t touch the stuff, didn’t eye other men, but all that changed on a brutal weekend not long after our union. Four years later, we have no right being together. Yet here we are, dwelling in our shared misery, tearing each other apart a little more each day.

As she lights up, I say, “Let us go, have your meeting, disappear. You were never here.”

The man stands. “Professor,” he says, “lighten up.” With his back to me, he takes the blunt from my wife and sucks deeply. My wife does something I cannot see. The man’s body rocks a bit. He grunts and coughs from the smoke. This, I understand, is for my benefit. She does this for me.

“You’re bringing people into our home,” I say.

The man turns and jams the gun into my eye, forcing my head against the chair. I am aware of the erection in his slacks.

“Yes indeed,” he says, eyes bulging. “Some bad motherfucking people.”

He withdraws the gun and makes a calming motion. “Boorish, I know,” he says. “You can imagine my stress.” He takes a hit, tips his head to the ceiling and closes his eyes, staying that way for several moments.

Finally, he says, “So what’s the problem here? Let’s get to the root of this conflict.”

“Now you’re going to analyze us?”

“Play along, professor,” says the man. “There’s time to kill.”

We remain silent. My wife draws her feet up on the couch, legs cocked, giving the man more to ponder. He hands her the joint and she brushes those slender fingertips over his palm as she takes it.

“Let me guess,” says the man. “Money? In-laws? Dysfunction?”

If you only knew, I think. My wife cannot get that weekend out of her head, and because of this she’s invited it in, as if reliving it will keep her sane. Me: I’ve simply lost the will to fight. To care. To live.

“It’s the age difference, yeah? Ten to one says you were his student.”

“Think grief,” says my wife, and I am surprised to hear this out loud, in front of a stranger. I half expect her to finish the thought: We lost a son.

“Ah,” the man says, but the look he shares with my wife is not one of sympathy, she and her parted lips and steady gaze, and after a few moments he turns to me and says, “Fuck, partner, I gotta do it.” He yanks me by the collar to the floor, produces a length of cord and very efficiently binds my hands and feet behind my back. It’s clear he has done this before.

My wife is hoisted from the couch and slung over his shoulder. I notice the shoebox in her hands as she is carried down the hall. The man laughs. “Bring what you need, darlin.”

The door closes, and they do what they do. My muscles ache and cramp against the restraints. There’s a skinning knife on the corner of the kitchen table, and I try like hell to shimmy there on my stomach, to roll, but the cord cuts deeper with each movement. I end up on my side, dizzy and panting. Time passes. Eventually I doze, nightmares dominated by throaty screams and flayed flesh.

When I come to, the sun is setting, casting shadows across the walls. The bedroom door opens and feet pad down the hall. My wife appears before me freshly showered and dressed, the handgun tucked in the waistband of her jeans. There’s a rug burn on her cheek, purple and yellow bruising up and down her arms.

“He fucked me six ways from Sunday,” she says, but I hear the quiver in her voice. “How does that sit?”

I can only shake my head. She cuts the restraints and my limbs spring back. When the numbness wears off, I know, the pain will come.

Moaning from the bedroom. And then the man is coming down the hall, ever so slowly, shrieks of pain punctuating his trip. My wife raises her eyebrows. “You remember having that spirit?” she says.

I am able to sit up. Rub life into my arms.

My wife crouches in front of me, wet hair framing her cheeks. “Here’s what I learned,” she says. “It’s a payoff. They’re coming with cash, but it’s only for show. They plan to bury him.”

And he plans to run us as interference, I think. Knowing we lived here all along. House of his youth, my ass.

The man comes into view, naked and crawling, his crotch a pulpy red bloom. He lets loose with some type of plea, but his tongue has been severed and he is unable to deliver the words. I watch his face hit the floor and his body convulse and I forget all about the discomfort in my joints.

I rise to my feet and nearly go back down. My wife, the taxidermist, catches me in a bear hug. I feel the handgun pressing into my abdomen. Then she wraps her hands around my throat and begins to squeeze.

“I never came so hard,” she says, but she is crying now, shaking me by the neck. I knock at her arms but she holds on, manic, desperate for a reaction, something, anything.

“Goddamn you,” she cries. “I let him do things. Just like before—” and that’s enough for me: I backhand her to the floor and pounce, snapping her head back and forth with an open hand, teeth bared, four years of bridled fury unleashed at once. “Yes,” she whispers. “Yes.” The act is so consuming—so utterly satisfying—that I nearly miss the sound from the front of the house.

I grab the gun and jump up. “Was that you?” I say to the man. But of course it wasn’t.

They’re at the door.

I wipe a hand across my mouth and look down at my wife. Blood runs from her nostrils but she is conscious, alert. I pull her to her feet and bring her to me. We look into each other’s eyes and see what we need to see. I hand her the gun, point to a spot against the wall. She moves with a purpose. Once she’s in position I step over the dying man on my way to meet them, head buzzing with déjà vu.

Four years ago strangers came to our home and took something very precious from us. Random stuff; a silenced infant; two nights in hell. You do what you can to deal with something like that, but in the end you just want to square it. The people on our porch know nothing of this history. Tonight, they just picked the wrong fucking door to knock on.


	The man enters our home without a knock, flips the deadbolt, turns to face us. “No worries, folks,” he says, and in his hand, at his side: a black handgun. From the couch, my wife wags a finger. “Now here’s a man,” she says, “knows what he wants.” The man winks at my wife and walks between us, taking the chair by the woodstove. He wears a tailored black suit, white collar, no tie. The hair on his head and below his lips is the color of wet sand. “Nice animals,” he says, nodding to the mounts on the wall. And then: “Christ, people, cut the tension in here with a knife.” “Perceptive as well,” says my wife. “Who are you?” I say. “And what do you want?” The man smiles. “Craziest thing. I needed a place, yeah? And I thought: The old farmhouse at the end of the road. The house of my youth. No one lives in that fuckin hole. But lo and behold …” “Here we are,” says my wife. “The professor and his fragile bride.” I ignore it. “Place for what?” “A meeting,” says the man. “The meeting of meetings.” “What on?” I say. The man looks at my wife. “The inquisitive sort,” he says. “Just look around,” says my wife, waving at the stacks of journals and drawings and the gleaming tools of taxidermy. But the man does not look at anything beyond my wife. She in her jean shorts and bikini top, freckle-shouldered, heavy-lidded. The man nods at the shoebox at my wife’s side. “Don’t stop the party on my account, yeah?” My wife opens the box and proceeds to roll a joint. She packs the paper with slender fingertips and licks it closed, green eyes going back and forth between the task and the man. There was a time when she didn’t touch the stuff, didn’t eye other men, but all that changed on a brutal weekend not long after our union. Four years later, we have no right being together. Yet here we are, dwelling in our shared misery, tearing each other apart a little more each day. As she lights up, I say, “Let us go, have your meeting, disappear. You were never here.” The man stands. “Professor,” he says, “lighten up.” With his back to me, he takes the blunt from my wife and sucks deeply. My wife does something I cannot see. The man’s body rocks a bit. He grunts and coughs from the smoke. This, I understand, is for my benefit. She does this for me. “You’re bringing people into our home,” I say. The man turns and jams the gun into my eye, forcing my head against the chair. I am aware of the erection in his slacks. “Yes indeed,” he says, eyes bulging. “Some bad motherfucking people.” He withdraws the gun and makes a calming motion. “Boorish, I know,” he says. “You can imagine my stress.” He takes a hit, tips his head to the ceiling and closes his eyes, staying that way for several moments. Finally, he says, “So what’s the problem here? Let’s get to the root of this conflict.” “Now you’re going to analyze us?” “Play along, professor,” says the man. “There’s time to kill.” We remain silent. My wife draws her feet up on the couch, legs cocked, giving the man more to ponder. He hands her the joint and she brushes those slender fingertips over his palm as she takes it. “Let me guess,” says the man. “Money? In-laws? Dysfunction?” If you only knew, I think. My wife cannot get that weekend out of her head, and because of this she’s invited it in, as if reliving it will keep her sane. Me: I’ve simply lost the will to fight. To care. To live. “It’s the age difference, yeah? Ten to one says you were his student.” “Think grief,” says my wife, and I am surprised to hear this out loud, in front of a stranger. I half expect her to finish the thought: We lost a son. “Ah,” the man says, but the look he shares with my wife is not one of sympathy, she and her parted lips and steady gaze, and after a few moments he turns to me and says, “Fuck, partner, I gotta do it.” He yanks me by the collar to the floor, produces a length of cord and very efficiently binds my hands and feet behind my back. It’s clear he has done this before. My wife is hoisted from the couch and slung over his shoulder. I notice the shoebox in her hands as she is carried down the hall. The man laughs. “Bring what you need, darlin.” The door closes, and they do what they do. My muscles ache and cramp against the restraints. There’s a skinning knife on the corner of the kitchen table, and I try like hell to shimmy there on my stomach, to roll, but the cord cuts deeper with each movement. I end up on my side, dizzy and panting. Time passes. Eventually I doze, nightmares dominated by throaty screams and flayed flesh. When I come to, the sun is setting, casting shadows across the walls. The bedroom door opens and feet pad down the hall. My wife appears before me freshly showered and dressed, the handgun tucked in the waistband of her jeans. There’s a rug burn on her cheek, purple and yellow bruising up and down her arms. “He fucked me six ways from Sunday,” she says, but I hear the quiver in her voice. “How does that sit?” I can only shake my head. She cuts the restraints and my limbs spring back. When the numbness wears off, I know, the pain will come. Moaning from the bedroom. And then the man is coming down the hall, ever so slowly, shrieks of pain punctuating his trip. My wife raises her eyebrows. “You remember having that spirit?” she says. I am able to sit up. Rub life into my arms. My wife crouches in front of me, wet hair framing her cheeks. “Here’s what I learned,” she says. “It’s a payoff. They’re coming with cash, but it’s only for show. They plan to bury him.” And he plans to run us as interference, I think. Knowing we lived here all along. House of his youth, my ass. The man comes into view, naked and crawling, his crotch a pulpy red bloom. He lets loose with some type of plea, but his tongue has been severed and he is unable to deliver the words. I watch his face hit the floor and his body convulse and I forget all about the discomfort in my joints. I rise to my feet and nearly go back down. My wife, the taxidermist, catches me in a bear hug. I feel the handgun pressing into my abdomen. Then she wraps her hands around my throat and begins to squeeze. “I never came so hard,” she says, but she is crying now, shaking me by the neck. I knock at her arms but she holds on, manic, desperate for a reaction, something, anything. “Goddamn you,” she cries. “I let him do things. Just like before—” and that’s enough for me: I backhand her to the floor and pounce, snapping her head back and forth with an open hand, teeth bared, four years of bridled fury unleashed at once. “Yes,” she whispers. “Yes.” The act is so consuming—so utterly satisfying—that I nearly miss the sound from the front of the house. I grab the gun and jump up. “Was that you?” I say to the man. But of course it wasn’t. They’re at the door. I wipe a hand across my mouth and look down at my wife. Blood runs from her nostrils but she is conscious, alert. I pull her to her feet and bring her to me. We look into each other’s eyes and see what we need to see. I hand her the gun, point to a spot against the wall. She moves with a purpose. Once she’s in position I step over the dying man on my way to meet them, head buzzing with déjà vu. Four years ago strangers came to our home and took something very precious from us. Random stuff; a silenced infant; two nights in hell. You do what you can to deal with something like that, but in the end you just want to square it. The people on our porch know nothing of this history. Tonight, they just picked the wrong fucking door to knock on.
	Andy enjoys Charleston Chews, burnt orange and Eva Mendes. He grew up on the 45th Parallel, in a snowy burg full of Pollocks, and now lives three hours south, in a snowy burg with only half the Pollocks. He's written about a stoner who wins the Nobel Peace Prize, a half-man who can change the future and the world's worst porn star. He's proud to have been Thieves Jargon's weekly writer, and to have appeared in the original PWG.