Fiction Friday: TG #3

I’ve never finished reading a book. I’ve never finished watching movies or TV shows. I find it all so…boring. How long have I been alive? I don’t count years of life but years of boredom. The trivial things everyone else finds entertaining; it all feels like nonsense to me. Even now, I’m sitting here waiting to meet this, this vigilante. I have a book in my hands but I’m not reading it. I stare at the words and make up things when others ask me about the book. I usually get caught for being wrong, but those who’ll never read the book won’t know who to believe. My supporters will support me.

I’m not interested in this vigilante business, but the Department heads say he causes social backlash and financial hardship. He hasn’t caused any major problems and he’ll eventually get killed trying to save people. The Department heads disagree and think he’ll become a greater threat. I keep telling them if someone could stop me from ruling the richest country in the world, they would have by now. They tell me I’m too arrogant and then I get bored again and ignore them. They think I’m dumb because I play dumb for the public, but they have no idea how smart I am. I’m the smartest man. No one knows how smart I am. People wish they could be as smart as me.

Acting dumb for the public? My publicist’s idea. At first, I liked the idea. It felt like I played a character on TV. Play the fool to win the hearts and minds of the people. They never saw that coming. The cattle. The poor. These disgusting people. If they weren’t needed, I’d get rid of them all. Honestly, there are just too many people. You kill one and ten more pop up. They’re a plague. A disgusting virus on the Earth. I could do it. I mean, I’ll probably have someone else do it, but I could do it if I wanted to. I’m strong enough. And with enough bullets, I can do anything.

I stopped being the fool once I took over the media. They do whatever I say, when I say, and they don’t ask questions. I hate when people question me. They don’t know how smart I am and they’re not smart, so they ask questions to make up for being stupid. No one questions me anymore. If they do, they aren’t around long enough to get an answer. Questions are boring and don’t interest me. When people do as I say, I’m not bored. I like it.

I don’t want to wait this long, but my generals tell me they’re bringing in a specialist to interrogate this vigilante. Part of me has some interest in this. My generals think an extremist group or cult or something funds the vigilante. I never listen to what they say. I’m getting restless just sitting here. I need to do something. Why hasn’t he woken up yet? Doesn’t he know how busy I am? I have things to do and places to be.

Life felt easier in my youth. I didn’t have as much power, but I had more fun. I managed and funded many businesses. I even spent some time working in film and television. I won the election because everyone knew my name and had known it for years. You can’t buy decades of publicity in a few months on a campaign. You can’t buy my kind of celebrity. I enjoyed life more before the celebrity. I could do what I wanted when fewer people had their eyes on me. I participated more in my organization back then. I got my nickname around this time. The Tommy Gun. Ron Teagun. The T-Gun; the Tommy Gun. A lot of people died by my hands and by my guns. I’m proud of this nickname.

They didn’t make those Thompson rifles at the time. When I started out, I had to steal one from a museum. I didn’t think it still worked; I just wanted it. I got hired for this jewel heist when I still had pimples on my face. We got the gems but, as we left, I saw her in a glass case. I had always liked them because they were different from other rifles. I never saw one in person. I didn’t think. I just took it. All the guys laughed at me for grabbing a piece of junk, but I cleaned it up and tested it. It still worked! I used it on every job until I became the boss and sent other guys out on jobs.

I had a new line of rifles made just for my men. All new Thompson rifles. They were popular again and everyone had one, even police departments around the country. I made millions just from weapon sales. I still have my first Thompson in my office at home. I call her Trisha, my most prized possession. I still clean her once a week.

Thompson rifle sales generated good money; legitimate money. I had my first successful business venture. I continued most of the illegal activities. An accountant suggested investing in other companies and businesses. Many of them failed, but I still made a profit. I knew how to work the system and get everything I wanted. Whether the businesses failed or not, I always gained something. My power and influence grew.

I built a name for myself the hard way, from the ground up. I’m smart like that. Not like this vigilante kid. He wants attention; blowing things up so people know his name. He won’t build a career from that. He won’t make money from that. But he does have money. Where did he get it? He needs money for armor and explosives. I doubt he buys anything else. He should buy a hairbrush and deodorant; such a dirty person, unkempt mange of hair. He needs a shave. I can smell him from ten feet away. My generals are threatened by this guy? I’m insulted. I’m better than everyone; especially this guy. They don’t know what they’re talking about. I should have them killed. I’ll kill them some other time. I still have use for them.

This book makes my hands sweaty. Why am I still holding it? This guy clearly has never read a book. He looks homeless. That might be why we can’t find any information on him; no work history, no finger print records. I’ve never met a ghost. He mumbled a name, but my sources have no information on that person either. Someone named Sasha. Perhaps he has Arabic contacts. He doesn’t look like a terrorist and my men don’t think he has any ties, but we’ll learn more once the doctor arrives. I can’t wait to see that.

As exciting as that sounds, nothing compares to holding my Trisha. I love the feel of her cold, black steel in my hands, the fine wood finish of the handles, feeling the curves and mechanisms. They made her in 1926, model M1921AC; so beautiful. Her model inspired the new rifles. They have better manufacturing, but nothing compares to Trisha. My irreplaceable Trisha. I still have her in my hands every day. We haven’t gotten to play in so long. I miss hearing her sing. I would give anything to hear her sing again, but I don’t get my hands dirty anymore. I’ve had no need for that in a long time.

We used to make beautiful music. I remember, years ago before I became a boss, we had to teach a lesson to a rival gang. Not just a lesson for them, but a lesson to anyone who wanted to mess with us. Me and a couple boys went in, but I got to have all the fun. Trish and I serenaded the warehouse with a symphony of gun fire. Continuous, rapid fire, a swarm of bullets; the air filled with smoke as the floor filled with blood and empty shells. I truly felt at peace during those moments. I felt I lived my purpose; my dream.

I’m probably restless and bored so often these days because I miss all the fun. I can’t remember the last time I joined in a firefight. I haven’t directly killed anyone in several years. I always have someone else do it. I always saw beauty in taking someone else’s life. I remember my first bare handed strangulation. Barely twenty years old, I had to take out some nosey police detective for my boss. It felt like poetry in motion. He struggled against me, but my strength overpowered him. I’m the strongest man in the world. I would have used Trisha, but the boss wanted this to be quiet. Every time he struggled, I’d slam his head on the floor with my hands around his neck. Time froze in this moment. I watched as the gleam in his eyes faded away. They became glazed over and dull. After that day, I always stared into the eyes of the lifeless bodies of my enemies. I see beauty in how the body changes.

I’ll be there when the light fades from this vigilante’s eyes. I consider it a guilty pleasure; a treat I give myself for a job well done. I never treat myself anymore. I’m just growing impatient. Where the hell is that doctor? And why hasn’t this guy woken up yet? I don’t think they hit him that hard. Maybe I’ll read a little more of this book.

“Massive genocide, man was crazy, blah, blah, blah.”

Bored again. I’ll just flip through a few pages, so others think I’m progressing. Does anyone read anymore? You can learn everything you need from television. Does anyone watch television? I just want to go home and feel Trisha in my hands and maybe watch a movie; something with explosions. I haven’t been around any good explosions lately.

Finally, the doctor arrives. I’ll start the conversation. I quickly assert my dominance by starting the conversation.

“Hello doctor. I’m looking forward to seeing your work.”

He’s a short, older man with a full head of grey hair. I hate him already. He moves slowly like a turtle; a skinny, wrinkly turtle with no shell. He moves slowly, but with purpose. His real hair is mocking my toupee. No one knows I have a hair piece. Anyone who found out lost their job before they told anyone. He hasn’t said a word. I’ve only heard wheezing noises. I’ll try again.

“I’m told you are the best in your area of study. I only work with the best.”

“You’ve never been around for this kind of interrogation. It is not a business luncheon. Save the small talk. I despise it.” The doctor says.

He speaks with a high shrill voice. He speaks his words carefully and slowly just as he walks. What a strange little man.

“Very well. How long before this pile of stool tells me what we need to know?”

“Most break within four hours. I’ll start when he wakes.” The doctor says.

This immediately makes me impatient. I have things to do. Doesn’t he know how important I am?

“I don’t have time to wait for him to wake. Is there anything you can do?”

The doctor smirks. Now I really hate him.

“I have a sedative I can give him. It will wake him, but I must wait a few minutes to make sure he is fully awake before I begin my work. It would be best if I was left alone. This is tedious work and I don’t like distractions. Shall I prepare the sedative?”

“Yes, please. Do it.”

It feels so painful listening to him speak. A sloth could beat him in a race. He pulls things from his bag one at a time. Just pull it all out, dump it. He mocks me with how slow he moves. I should remember to have him killed once we’re done with him.

“It doesn’t seem like you have enough tools there for an interrogation of this kind.”     

“This is only my medical bag. I have a briefcase outside with all my toys. The sedative will be ready in a moment.” The doctor says.

He putts gloves on. How long does this take? I’ll die of old age before he ever has this stuff ready. He pulls from the bag a needle in plastic wrap, three little bottles of clear liquid, one empty bottle, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, and a bag of cotton balls. Why does he need so much for one sedative?

He mixes the three liquids into the empty bottle. No, don’t go back into the bag. It’ll take him twenty minutes to finish this. Why does he have a popsicle stick? Oh, he stirs the liquids. Dear Lord, I’m watching the most boring activity in existence. Now he unwraps the syringe. He fills it with the liquid. How long does this take? I’ll fall asleep before he finishes. Why does he flick the needle with his finger? I’ve never understood why people do that.

Don’t put the needle down! Okay, he putts rubbing alcohol on a cotton ball. Oh, thank Heavens, he picked up the needle. Yes, he walks over. He cleans the neck; almost done. He even puts the needle in super slowly. The needle sits there. Is he done yet?


“Patience, Mr. Teagun. He’ll awake in about five minutes. I will wait outside until you are ready for me.” The doctor says.

He putts everything back into his medical bag one at a time; even the trash. It feels like time itself has slowed down since he got here. He finally leaves, but this guy still sleeps.

“Mr. Johnson.”

Yes, Mr. Teagun.”

“What’s this guy’s name again?”

“His real name is Brent White. His alias is Al Hafiz; or the Guardian, Sir.”

“Thank you, that’ll be all.”

“Yes, Sir.”

So now I just sit here and wait? I’m bored. I hate everything about this. Did he just moan? He stirs. I better get my book ready. Maybe if I hold it this way. No, I’ll sit like this with the book on my knee. Yeah that looks great.

“Oh! He awakes.”

His brown eyes have a fire behind them. He doesn’t look happy. I will have a lot of fun with this guy.

“You’ve been very busy interrupting all of my good deeds for this country, Mr. White.”

He looks surprised that I know his name. That gives me power.

“Oh, yes we know your real name Brent. May I call you, Brent?”

An excerpt from the novella The Tommy Gun.

Fiction Friday: The Ghosts Inside

An old man and a little girl were walking along a dirty street. Usually called the bad side of town but with how hard it was raining no one wanted to be outside. The old man struggled to hold his umbrella while the little girl grippe his hand. They turned down an alley with nothing but trash and an overflowing dumpster.

“Where are we going?” the little girl said.

“You’ll see soon enough. It’s a place where I go to feel better.”

“Will I feel better?”

“Oh, I think you will; I’ll make sure of that. Now be quiet; no one can know we’re here. It’s a secret.”

“Okay.” The girl said.

The old man opened a door near the end of the alley to an abandoned building. The little girl was getting more frightened with each step. Down the end of the hall was a door with a dim light shining through the cracks. The old man opened the door to reveal a room with candles and pieces of cloth all over the floor. Mountains of stuffed animals filled the room. Each one was something different, but they all looked similar. An animal smiling, looking pleasant. 

“Everyone looks so happy here, don’t they?” The old man said. 

She nodded. 

“Well, let me show you something.” 

The old man picked up and took the outside of the animal off to reveal a white ghost version of the animal with a frown. 

“They’re sad. They pretend to be happy on the outside because they’re scared to tell anyone how sad they are. Do you know what that’s like?” 

The little girl nodded again as she wiped the tears from her eyes. 

“Would you like to help all the animals not be sad anymore?” 

She nodded and got very excited. 

“If you help my friends here than I can help you not be sad. Would you like that?” 

The old man held the little girl’s chin as she smiled in agreement. 

“I don’t want to be sad anymore.” The little girl said.

“Well, to help our friends, we have to let their ghosts out. We have to set them free so they can’t get hurt anymore. There is only one way to let the Ghost inside out; to kill it.” 

The old man took a knife and offered it to the little girl. She was reluctant.

“Isn’t killing wrong?” 

The old man thought for a moment and then smiled. 

“Killing is terrible, but if we don’t take their life then they’ll go back home to their daddy. A daddy that hurts them and touches them when their mommy’s not around.” 

The little girl cried again. 

“They don’t want to go back to their daddy.” 

She sat down on her knees and continued to weep. 

The old man kneeled down next to her. 

“Everything will be all right my child.” 

He picked her head up and cut her throat with one fast swipe. 

“No one can hurt you anymore. I’ve saved you.”

Despite the heavy rain, the next day was sunny and clear. The old man walked for quite a while. He smiled at everyone he passed. He made small talk with comments like “Beautiful day!” or “Trying to stay active.” No one knew his true purpose. He walked past schools and parks, looking for the one child off away from the other children.

He saw one in a school playground. The other children were making fun of the little girl. She looked at the old man. He smiled through the fence and told the little girl, “Don’t listen to them. They’re only jealous because you’re so pretty.” 

The little girl gave him a dirty look and ran inside. A little disappointed, he returned to his walk.

His next stop, a few blocks later, was a small park. These children were much younger than children usually spoke with; the ones too young to be in school. He saw a young boy poking at the ground with a stick. He was older than the other children. Remaining by the fence, the old man called to him.

“Young man? You there, young man?” 

The little boy looked up at him confused. The old man continued.

“Hello. Shouldn’t you be in school?” 

The little boy shook his head still looking confused.

“Oh! Well you’re almost a man; I thought you’d be in school.”

“I was but my mommy didn’t like me being in the special classes. She said I don’t need special classes because I’m like all the other kids.” 

The child seemed unhappy with his mother’s claim.

“Well, I agree you look special.”


The old man thought this was a strange reply. 

“Hey mister? Why do you walk funny?”

“Oh, that’s from an old injury I had many years ago.”


The little boy’s mother called him. 

“There you are. Have you been behind this tree the whole time? I’m sorry; I hope he wasn’t bothering you.”

“Not at all, he was asking about why I limp.” 

The old man smiled.

“Come one sweetie, it’s time to go home.”


The little boy looked disinterested.

The old man walked slower watching the mom and the little boy. He saw them get into a dark green sedan and memorized the license plate number. He was curious about the boy. He differed from the other children.

The old man was clever. With a description of the green sedan and the license plate number, all he needed to do was ask around. He developed the ruse that the little boy had left a stuffed animal at the park and wished to return it. With a reputation as a polite old man, everyone was happy to help him. It did not take long before he knew where the boy lived. He learned the boy’s name and the mother’s name. He even heard about the dispute the mother had with the local school.

He made his way to the boy’s home to verify it was the correct place. As he passed, he heard raised voices. The boy seemed to shout, and the mother was trying to quiet him. The front door opened, and the boy shouted back inside.

“I’m playing outside; I’ll stay in the front yard.” 

 He slammed the door and sat on the porch, holding his head in his hands.

“How strange.” 

He watched the boy for a moment. He looked in the window and saw the mother standing with a blank expression. There was a phone ring, and the mother went to answer. The old man took his opportunity.

“Hello young man.”

The boy looked up. The old man waved at him.


The boy looked confused.

“You forgot something at the park.”


The old man revealed a stuffed animal. It was a platypus.

“This is Paul.” The old man said.


The boy looked disinterested.

“Well, you can have him. Do you want him?”

“My mommy won’t let me keep him. She won’t let me have things I want.”

“You’ll like him. Let me show you something.” 

The old man pulled material off the platypus. The inside was white, and the face was dark and sad. It was a ghostly-looking platypus.

“You see? Paul’s sad too.”

“Why is he sad?” The boy said.

“Paul’s mother doesn’t love him, and he has no friends. Would you like to be his friend?”

The boy looked at Paul for a moment. He glanced back at his house to see if his mother was watching.

“You don’t have to tell your mom about him. Then you can keep him as long as you want, okay?”


The old man covered up the platypus and handed it to the boy.

“You take good care of him now and I’ll come and see you tomorrow, okay?”


The boy hid the stuffed toy under his shirt and ran back inside. The mother was still on the phone as the old man made his way down the sidewalk whistling a cheerful tune.

The old man was patient. He observed his prey from across the street, hiding in the bushes. He felt accustomed to this. Watching and waiting several days for the right opportunity. He did not expect the opportunity to come too soon.

He watched the boy go out into the yard. The boy sulked and dragged his feet. He was unhappy about something and the old man wondered what was bothering him. The mother walked out with her purse on her shoulder and keys in her hand. The old man listened.

“Make sure you pick up all your toys in the yard and wash up for dinner. I’ll be back in about ten minutes; I need to pick up butter from the store.”

“Yes, mommy.”

The mother stroked the little boy’s hair, but he pulled away. She held her hand in the air for a moment and took a deep breath. She turned towards the car.

“I’ll be right back, sweetie.”

“Okay, mommy.”

The old man had moved out of the bushes by now, acting as if he were walking down the sidewalk. He knew no one would think it was unusual for him to be walking two streets down from his own. He waved to the mother as she waved back. He wondered if she remembered seeing him in the park. As the green sedan turned the corner, the old man crossed the street to the little boy.

“Would you like help with that, young man?”

The little boy continued his task and did not look up to answer. 

“No, thank you.”

“Well, you got a lot of toys to pick up. You and your friends must’ve had fun.”

“I have no friends.” The little boy said.

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Well, you still have Paul, don’t you? Isn’t he your friend?”

“My mom took him away.”

“Why’d she do that?”

“She was mad at me.”

“Why was she mad?”

The boy shrugged his shoulders. He had stopped picking up toys.

“Would you like to go on a walk with me? I thought we could be friends.”

“My mom would get mad again.”

“I’ll speak to your mom when she comes back. It’ll be okay.”

The boy stared for a moment. 


The old man considered reaching to hold the boy’s hand but thought it best not to. The boy walked alongside him with his hands in his pockets. He watched his feet as they trampled over the discolored wet leaves on the sidewalk.

“What’s your name, young man?” 

The old man tried to remain causal and friendly. It was too soon to enact his true desires.

“Jason. What’s your name?”

“You can call me Mr. Noone. Jason’s a good name. I had a nephew named Jason.”

“Had? You mean he died.”

“Yes, a long time ago. He drowned in his family’s swimming pool. It was a tough time for everyone. He was about your age. And like you, he didn’t get along with his parents. I gave him a stuffed bear the day before he died. I’m sorry; I’d rather not talk about this.”

“What do you want to talk about?”

“Well, what sort of things do you like to talk about?”

“I don’t know. I don’t talk much.” Jason said.

“It seems like you have lots of things to say.”

“Yeah but many people don’t listen because I’m only a kid.”

“Nonsense. I’m listening right now.”


Jason’s response confused Mr. Noone. What an unusual child. He saw a bus rattling down the street. This was the right time.

“Would you like to go to my shop and pick out another toy? I have too many. You can have as many as you want. You can even get one for your mom.” 

The old man was anxious. He did not want to miss the bus.


Jason’s response sounded melancholy, but he did not hesitate to get on the bus with Mr. Noone.

“If we leave now, we can go where we want and get you back home in time for supper.”

“What’s supper?” Jason said.

“I suppose you call it dinner.”


The bus ride seemed longer than it was. After only fifteen minutes, they had arrived where Mr. Noone looked out the window and sat back down. He didn’t want to get off the bus.

“Shouldn’t be much longer now.” Mr. Noone said.

Read More. Read the ending or the extended version in the eBook Dollar Tales from the Morbid Museum: The Ghosts Inside. Download Free on Amazon Kindle July 26 Only. Read the extended version in The Morbid Museum eBook and Paperback coming September 17, 2019.

New Book Coming in September

I have a new book on the way, releasing on September 17 of this year. The Morbid Museum is a collection of short horror fiction. The prevailing theme is death. Curated by Siris Grim who may or may not be an immortal being, but he knows his museum stuff and his death stuff.

The collection includes 19 stories presented as exhibits in a museum. They are all framed around the story of the museum itself. It will release in both eBook and Paperback. You can pre-order the eBook now. It will deliver to the device of your choosing on September 17.

This is my first full-length collection of short fiction. Some of these stories I wrote many years ago and I’ve tweaked and edited them over time. A trained eye will notice which stories I’ve written more recently as they are better written. Some stories I wrote over 10 years ago. Others I started writing 10 years ago and only recently completed.

I’ve begun development on my next collection of short fiction. It won’t be a sequel to this book but it will have similar themes. I hope you enjoy this collection and look forward to my future works. If you enjoy these stories, I hope you’ll consider my other works. Thank you and enjoy.

Visitors to the Morbid Museum seek the dark and twisted corners of the world. They are both terrified and intrigued by the unknown. Tales of killers, monsters, and madmen curated by the Master of Death, Mr. Siris Grim. Mr. Grim collects the darkness that everyone attempts to hide. He displays it within the corridors of his gruesome gallery. Who will be next to buy a ticket and walk the halls of the Morbid Museum?