 "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. |
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.