Mail Order Massacre by Hunter Shea

Author:Hunter Shea
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lyrical Underground
Published: 2018-01-18T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

Brian was the first to notice the cut near his ear when he sat down to dinner.

“I think you need a Band-Aid, Dad.”

“Nah, it’s nothing. I banged my head on my locker. No biggie.”

Andrea placed his plate of spaghetti and meatballs in front of him and inspected the wound. “Brian’s right. I’m sure you didn’t clean it either.”

He so wanted to tell them to just leave it the hell alone, but he wasn’t in the mood to argue. The image of Stacy Michaels was still buzzing in his brain and he wanted to savor it.

“Eyah! Are you crazy?”

Andrea, cotton ball in hand, eyed him like he was a recalcitrant child. “That cut needs peroxide. When did you get your last tetanus shot?”

He jammed half a meatball in his mouth. “What does that matter?”

“Because I don’t need you getting lockjaw. Now hold still.”

The next couple of dabs hurt much less. She finished the job with a round bandage, the kind they used to cover corns.

“There. All better.”

Crisis averted, Brian talked nonstop about his first day back at school and all of the homework he had to catch up on and who got detention last week for peeing on Matt Winters in the boys’ room and which teacher let out a fart when she was at the blackboard, pretending it never happened despite the class breaking into uncontrollable laughter. The kid talked so rapid-fire without seeming to take a breath, Blackstone wondered if he had a hidden blowhole on the top of his head.

“Oh, and Noel was out sick today. You think I should call him later? Maybe he got my chicken pox.”

“Leave him be,” Blackstone said. “Probably has a cold and is eating soup in bed, getting waited on hand and foot.”

“You can call him,” Andrea said, nudging him under the table.

Brian’s face brightened and he finally stopped talking, tucking into his spaghetti.

By the time Blackstone was done, he had a whopper of a headache. “Think I’m gonna lie down.”

“You look pale. How hard did you hit your head? I hope you don’t have a concussion.”

“I don’t have a damn concussion,” he snapped. “My head just glanced off the edge of the locker door. Work was a bitch today and I’m just tired.”

He got up from the table, the overhead light feeling like daggers stabbing into his eyes.

“Don’t take a nap this late, or you’ll never get to sleep,” Andrea said, bringing his plate to the sink. There was a sharp edge to her tone. She didn’t appreciate his reaction, but so what? She’d live.

“I just need some aspirin.”

“Hey Dad, you want me to get your drink and stuff when WKRP in Cincinnati comes on?”

“We’ll see.”

Blackstone lumbered up the stairs, chewed two aspirin and slumped onto his bed.

Nothing comes for free, he thought, lying in the dark. You didn’t think you could see Stacy Michaels nude as the day she was born and not have the universe find a way to make you suffer, did you?

No matter. It had been worth it.

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