"It's Just a Fantasy; It's Not the Real Thing"
(Science fiction/horror)

Maniac Press was going to publish, among other anthologies, an antho called Blood, Guts & Psychopaths. This story was supposed to go in that antho, but Maniac Press abruptly decided to cancel all antho plans and fold. It's always annoying when this happens. These folks shouldn't make grand plans for magazines and anthologies if they aren't prepared to handle it and make it happen. Many of us waste much time submitting, waiting, and then waiting after acceptance, only to find out a project isn't happening. We sit on stories that we cannot submit elsewhere, only to find out after many wasted months, that it isn't happening.

Anyway, I'm leaving this page up for now, but "It's Just a Fantasy; It's Not the Real Thing" is a hard story to place. I'd only submitted it to two magazines, both of which balked; it was liked, but a little too risqué to run in most publications. The subject matter is certainly violent and potentially disturbing. And no, the events in this story are not depictions of fantasies I'd like to act out.

Stan Chandler is a research scientist at a laboratory, but his life is miserable. His boss is terrible, his wife a cast-iron bitch, his stepson the prince of all punks, his stepdaughter a wanton slut. Stan is at the end of his rope dealing with his pent-up anger, and wishes he could do something about it. His therapist suggests visualizing fantasies in which he exacts his revenge on the people who make his life miserable. Stan does, and within his vivid fantasies, he finds great relief--he always feels a thousand percent better when he embarks on his detailed fantasies to attack, torture, and even kill those people.

But are they fantasies? They seem perhaps too vivid, and begin worrying his therapist. Yet people he "kills" in his fantasies are alive and well later, and he seems to kill them multiple times. But it's so real...

This is the second story I've written that was inspired by a Billy Joel song of the same name. For more information, read about it.
 

"It's Just a Fantasy; It's Not the Real Thing"
(Excerpt)
by David M. Fitzpatrick

“Sometimes I feel as if I’m withdrawing from common sense and reality. Like I’m going to lose it and kill the bastard. Just point a gun and pull a trigger. I never do, but that’s how I feel.”

Stan Chandler could feel Sharon Bemis regarding him as he trembled and sweated on the overstuffed chair. His head was in his hands, his eyes fixed on the pattern in the rug. He couldn’t help but wonder what she said about him off the job. Did she tell her husband about that client who had that problem and told her those things every week?

Sharon said, “It’s quite all right to have those feelings. At one time or another, we all have them.”

He lifted his face to stare incredulously at her. “I’m talking about murder… about killing my boss.”

“It’s just a fantasy,” she said. “Perhaps that’s what you need to help you work through these anger problems—a fantasy you can use to prevent those feelings from controlling you. Stan, you’re a very stressed man. Your marriage has been faltering. Your stepson is always in trouble. Your stepdaughter’s promiscuity is out of control. Your job is very trying—being a theoretical physicist working on top secret experiments is bad enough, but you have a boss who is anything but amicable.”

She leaned forward, looking over the tops of her glasses. “What I’m saying is that perhaps these fantasies should be broadened. You need to set time aside every day to envision these things you’d like to do—sort of a solitary, mental role-playing exercise. I think you’ll find that your stress level will greatly diminish.”

“You’re saying I should think about killing my boss?”

“Sure. Or imagine punching him in the nose, or kicking your wife in the teeth, or knocking your son out, or chaining a chastity belt on your daughter.”

He scrunched his brow. “Those are all things I’ve told you I thought about.”

“Exactly,” she said. “It’s healthy to imagine those things, even act them out in your mind. In fact, not envisioning them could result in your anger problems worsening.”

He sighed. “How do I go about this?”

“That’s completely up to you.” She looked up at the clock behind him and said, “Our time is up, Stan. I leave you until next week, and in that time I want you to work on building your fantasies. The only rules are that you keep them out of reality.”

*   *   *

He heard Crawford stomping down the hallway seconds before the man entered his office, but he was reclined back in his seat, feet on his desk, uncaring.

Crawford appeared in the doorway and froze at the spectacle. The burly man’s lab coat looked as if it had just been bleached and starched, his tie fresh off a rack somewhere. Not a hair was out of place. “I thought I saw you leave a few minutes ago, heading home early,” he growled, eyes widening behind his glasses. “Instead, I find you in here with your feet on your desk. You’re supposed to be in your lab, working on that damned experiment for which I’d rather you lost your funding. What the hell is this, Chandler?”

“It’s because you’re a desk jockey,” Stan said simply.

“What?” Crawford said, visibly astounded.

“Your lab coat,” Stan said. “It’s always pressed and starched. Your hair’s perfect. It’s because you push a pen and don’t do any of the research around here. The rest of us are all committed, but all you do is criticize everything and climb up our asses. What kind of scientist are you? No physicist worth his salt would allow himself to be reduced to nothing more than an administrator.”

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” Crawford huffed, gripping the door frame with one hand and clenching his other into a fist.

“I never had the guts before,” Stan said with a smug grin. “You sicken me, you fat, stupid bastard. Not just because you’ve sold out science, or for your company-man attitude. Not just because you criticize our theoretical research. No, I hate you for personal reasons, too. You’re a mean man, Crawford; a rotten, superior, shit-sucking, ass-kissing, people-stomping cocksucker, and I’d like nothing more than to pop you right in the nose. What do you think of that, fat boy?”

Crawford’s eyes had widened and his face had reddened throughout Stan’s monologue, and now he exploded. “I’ll tell you what I think about it, Chandler—you’re fired, you insubordinate wretch! Clean out your desk, and I mean now!

Stan sighed contentedly, putting his feet back on the floor and standing. He walked around the desk and towards the door blocked by Crawford’s wide frame, and then he hauled off and popped the man right in the nose.

The next few minutes were a flurry of Crawford screaming, blood spraying, alarms sounding, people stampeding in, and security officers running. Stan enjoyed it all, even when the officers slammed his face into the concrete wall and cuffed him. He just laughed and laughed and laughed.

*   *   *

After Stan excitedly related all the details to Sharon, she looked completely aghast—very unusual for her normally emotionless expression. “This isn’t good news.”

“This is great news!” he corrected. “I haven’t felt this good in years! And I owe it all to your recommendation.”
“Stan,” she said carefully, steepling her fingers before her, “I told you to fantasize. Not to act it out.”

He looked surprised. “This is a fantasy, Sharon. I wouldn’t have even imagined trying any of this for real.”
“My apologies, I misunderstood. You told it so vividly, I thought you had…”

“It was vivid, all right,” he said. “It couldn’t have been any better if I’d actually been there for real.”
“So… the fantasizing is working?” she asked.

“Indeed,” he said with a smile. “I’m going to try it again. I can face the man now—no matter how bad he gets.”

*   *   *

That feeling lasted about a week. Crawford came storming into Stan’s lab, sputtering about budget overruns and late reports and lack of results on Stan’s project, and Stan felt his intestines tightening like tangled ropes. When he couldn’t take it any longer, he pulled the handgun out of his lab coat and fired once. The bullet went in between the eyes and took the man’s brains out the back of his head.

*   *   *

Sharon listened to his story without interruption. When he was through, she said, “And you feel better now?”

“Even better than the first one,” he said. “I admit it was quite a step to go from punching him in the nose to blowing his brains out, but it was damn good. I got the gun from my brother-in-law. He collects them.”
Sharon said, “If this were a fantasy… why did you need a real gun?”

He grinned at her dubious look. “Don’t worry… if I really had blown him away, do you think I’d be here? You’d have heard about it on the news.”

She smiled. “Just ensuring you’re still grounded in reality, and it seems you are. I’m pleased these fantasies are working for you. Are you comfortable, after two rounds with your boss as the subject, to work on other aspects of your life?”

“Absolutely. In fact, when I leave here, I’m going to run back to the lab, then go home and deal with my wife.”

*   *   *

Stan didn’t even wait for her to start in on him like she always did. The kids were away, Rory at a soccer game and Jenna probably out getting laid. Lorna was in the kitchen, leaning on the counter, reading a magazine. He walked in, dropped his briefcase, and said, “Get your ass up.”

She looked at him as if he’d just thrown a bucket of fresh dog shit in her face. “What did you say to me?” Her brown hair was up in a bun but a few strands danced before her face.

“You heard me. Stand up and face me, bitch.”

She did so. She was a good-looking woman, with ample hips and full breasts, pouty lips and deep blue eyes, and for a moment he was actually attracted to her again—but then she spoke in her queen-bitch attitude and he remembered why he’d grown to hate her. “You’d better have a damn good explanation, asshole,” she said.
“Oh, there is,” he said with a contented smile. “For ten years, I’ve let you treat me like shit. Not anymore.”

Although it had been a while since he’d done it, the kick he executed was pretty good for a man with a years-dusty black belt. His shoe hit square in her face and he felt teeth and bone crunch. She went over backward and slammed her head into the counter on the way down.

She was all arms and legs, grabbing for anything, crying and slobbering amidst the blood. He didn’t let up as she blubbered and kicked her in the ass—hard. She oomphed and spasmed and he kicked again, at her thigh; then again, at her hip; another at her rib cage. He heard bones snapping as he did, and she howled in agony.

That was enough. He felt better. He left her there, broken and bleeding on the cold tile, and headed back to the lab.

*   *   *

Lorna was her usual self when he got home that evening, but Stan barely noticed. She was reading a magazine at the counter when he came in, and started right in on him. The car payment wasn’t on time, like the world was ending because of it. He just smiled and said “Yes, dear” a lot.

Rory came home soon after, attitude a mile long, acting like only invincible teenage boys can. Jenna arrived shortly after, and even though she had a fresh hickey on her neck, he didn’t say anything. He was in too good a mood...

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *  

But Stan Chandler hasn't begun to experience good moods as a result of his vivid fantasies. They get better--or maybe they get worse.

To read the whole story, let's hope someone decides to publish it.

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