Maricella stole all the toilet paper again. She thinks she’s some kind of goddamned fashion designer or something.
“You look like a friggin’ mummy,” I said.
She spun in her chair, crossed her arms, and glared at me. She’d been on one of her Internet fashion forums again.
“There wasn’t any toilet paper,” I said. “Again.”
She sighed and stared at me from under droopy eyelids.
“I needed it,” I said.
She smirked, and then turned back to her computer. A scrap of TP drifted to the floor.
“Stop stealing all the toilet paper, damnit!”
She said nothing – just clicked her mouse at me.
Next day, I went shopping over at the strip mall with the grocery store and the sporting goods store. I bought milk, bananas, and a 50-caliber, chrome-plated Desert Eagle hand gun. The guy at the sporting goods store called it a “hand cannon.” I think it looks pretty, and I understand it’ll put about a 10-inch hole in Maricella. So I feel pretty good about it. The bananas? Not so much. They were really green. But what can you do?
Back at the house, I found Maricella in front of the television, watching her “stories.” She was still wearing her TP costume.
“Hi, Maricella,” I said.
“Shhh!” She waved me off without even turning to look.
I pulled out the Desert Eagle. The gun felt heavy in my hand. I kind of understood why the man had called it a “hand cannon.” “We need to talk,” I said.
Maricella ignored me, opting instead to watch as a man called Jack Barnes confronted his lesbian sister for having an affair with Jack’s wife who, as it happened, lay dying of a brain aneurysm just a few feet away. It was pretty dramatic, but I was about to introduce some drama of my own into the situation.
“I said,” pulling the slide back to cock the gun, just like the man showed me, “that we need to talk.”
She turned to shush me, her eyes all fiery and angry looking. But then she saw the 10-inch – I’d opted for the long barrel – chrome-plated pistol, and all the anger drained out of her face. Her eyes got really, really big.
I should have fired right then, but I was having too much fun watching her reaction. She gaped and goggled said, “Bu-bu-bu-bu…” It was awesome. But then she scrambled over the side of the coach and dove for cover under a table. That was not awesome.. And having had enough of her non-awesomeness, I pulled the trigger.
The back of the couch exploded – I’d forgotten to aim – and cotton flew everywhere. The noise was staggering, and the kick – well, I nearly fell over backwards. I stepped back, took a deep breath, and raised the gun again, just in time to see the mummified bitch crawl through the door to the kitchen. She flung the door closed behind her.
I fired again.
The doorknob just seemed to disappear, leaving nothing but a foot-wide, ragged hole in its place. It was a hell of a thing to see – like magic – one second it was there, and the next there was nothing but empty space. I decided right then that I’d made a good purchase.
That was about an hour ago, though. And while I’ve managed some highly-satisfactory remodeling of our kitchen in the meantime, we’re now in a standoff. The problem is that the bitch has my cat. I’ve got her pinned down in the pantry, but she’s using Fluffy as a fucking shield. I swear to God, if I could just aim this thing, the toilet-paper-thieving whore would be so dead by now.
by Anthony Miller