Ficlets

Check Your Head

Jon sat on his bed, sobbing, paper crumpled in his hands. He was like that until the sun slid behind the cutout houses on their cul-de-sac as if afraid someone’s husband was in the driveway.

He collected himself and decided to visit Paul. First he had to get something, though. He went in his dad’s bedroom, not caring what the old man would say – it wouldn’t matter, anyway. He pulled the shoebox out of the closet and opened it. The .45 sat inside like a turd.

Only he didn’t know how to load it. So he grabbed a knife from the kitchen instead.

Paul’s lab reeked of chemistry and ozone. His crude homemade supercomputer crackled and sparked in one corner. A puppy whose skin had been replaced by velour scampered in its cage. Paul didn’t look up from his workbench.

“You didn’t knock, Jon,” he said in a sepulchral voice.

“315, Paul!”

“That’s impossible,” Paul replied without a hint of affect. “The test is scaled. The lowest possible score is 400.”

“315! 315! 315!” Jon shrieked as he charged, slashing the air.

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