BLOOD BY JOHN BRUNI IS NOW AVAILABLE

In case you haven't heard, I have a new book out called BLOOD. You could buy it here at Amazon, which I'd greatly appreciate, but you also have another option. I just got copies of it, myself, and I'm totally willing to personally sell them to you. If this sounds like something you would be interested in, let me know. $10 a copy. $2 for shipping, unless you live within driving distance of me, and I can physically deliver a copy to you. Signed and personalized, if you would like. Hit me up if you want to do this.

THE JOHN BRUNI MUSEUM OF MEDIOCRE (AT BEST) SHIT #59: HOMELAND SECURITY

[This was written during W's first term, which was a few years after I got out of college. To say I was displeased with the direction our government was moving in would be an understatement. This was written from a place of anger, and I've said it here before, but just to remind you, if I write something from anger, it never turns out well. It's always ham-fisted, like the story you're about to read. Also, one of my influences sticks out a little too far on this one. This one is pretty easy, but let's see if you can figure it out.]

     I live in your neighborhood.

     My family works for Homeland Security.  We are paid to look like you, to act like you, to be just like you.  What we really do is, we keep an eye on you, just to Make Sure.

     I’ve played with your dog.

     There’s a family like ours in every neighborhood in every city and town in America.  Mostly, all we do is watch and report, but occasionally something happens.  The Muslim that just moved in turns out to be a terrorist.  Your son starts making bombs from instructions on the Internet and starts taking pictures of a federal building.  Or, God forbid, Al Qaeda stages a guerilla assault on Small Town, USA.  We’re there.  We’re trained snipers.  We will protect you.  We are ready.

     I’ve asked about your kids while shaking your hand at the end of church services.

     We weren’t always Homeland Security.  Before 9/11, we were agents of the D.O.D.  Just like my father, just like his father, et cetera.  I remember when I was a boy in the 1960’s, living with Mom and Dad and Sis, we always watched for anyone who might be a Communist.  The Russians were hard to detect, because they were mostly white, like us, but believe me, when we saw an Asian, we kept on our toes.  Dad said to look in their eyes; you could always tell a godless Commie by the dead gaze in the windows to their souls.

     You’ve borrowed my lawnmower.

     Our position is hereditary.  Upon my death, my son is supposed to take over.

     Our marriages are arranged by the government.  My daughter is supposed to be paired up with a young man just like me, and she is supposed to bear him two children:  a boy and a girl.  They are supposed to have as many abortions as it takes to ensure it works out this way.

     You have no idea who we are, but you know us well.  My daughter has babysat your little ones.  My son plays in Little League with your son.  My wife has worked with your wife on bake sales.  I helped you figure out how to change the oil in your car.  You and I are close friends.

     We have to keep you close.  Our job is to uphold the laws of the United States of America, and to Make Sure you do the same.

     A Middle-Eastern family just moved in across the street.  We keep a close watch on them.  As far as we can tell, they’re okay, but Uncle Sam pays us well to Make Sure.

     Your high school-age son has been mouthing off against President Bush, calling him a fascist, a chicken hawk, an oil monger, and a lot of other unpleasant names.  Freedom of speech is a fine thing, but my daughter is dating your son to keep an eye on him, to Make Sure it’s just talk.  Terrorism doesn’t just grow on trees, you know.  John Walker’s parents were American.

     We’ve talked sports over your grill.  We’ve eaten meals together.  We’ve had a few beers on your porch as dusk slowly oils over into night.

     I was painting my garage door when the idea came to me.  No, I hadn’t been thinking about it at all, it didn’t slowly occur to me, and nothing happened to prompt the notion.  It simply came out of the blue.  It was a revelation.

     I wasn’t being vigilant enough.  I wasn’t protecting all of America’s laws.  If I was, then all of you would be dead.

     I’ve seen how most of you just glide through that stop sign at the end of the block.  Stop means stop, not hesitate.

     I’ve seen how most of you speed down the street, well over the posted twenty-five miles per hour limit.

     I’ve seen how some of you procrastinate on your yard work, as if you wouldn’t be happy until all our property values were down.

     I’ve seen how you copy DVDs you rent from Blockbuster.  I’ve heard the songs you’ve stolen off the Internet.  Did you know that recording television shows is a copyright violation?

     You don’t use turn signals.  You smoke weed.  You curse in public.  You spit on the sidewalk.  You play your radio too loud.  You don’t return your books to the library on time.  You walk your dog without a leash, and you don’t clean up after it.

     And you continue to do these things and more because no one is stopping you.  Because I’m not stopping you.

     You are all terrible Americans.  I am a terrible agent.  Don’t rules mean anything anymore?

     It was then that I knew I had to kill you all, and I knew exactly how to do it.

     When I brought it up to my family, they were appalled.  They thought I was kidding, and when I assured them I wasn’t, they decided I was crazy.  They thought you were in violation of crimes so small they were no threat to our Homeland.  I could not deter them from these views, not even when I explained that we have these rules for a reason, that we couldn’t survive as a country if all American citizens were criminals.

     I wasn’t prepared for this opposition from my loved ones, so I told them I was just philosophizing.  This put them at ease, and when they went to bed, I screwed a silencer onto my .38, and I executed them for treason.

     I’ve hosted our neighborhood Cub Scout den meetings.  I am a concerned member of our school district’s P.T.A.

     Two days later, with my family stashed away in our nuclear bomb shelter, I watched all of you put up roadblocks for our annual block party.  The tables and chairs came out, the food was grilled, the kids were busy in the giant bouncy castle.  The teenagers talked on their half of the table, mostly of video games, music, and celebrities, while adults gathered on their side of the table, discussing the weather, sports, Oprah, and politics.  Ask me if I’m surprised that you think the President is doing a bad job.

     Some of you were upset when I got in my car and pulled out of my driveway.  The sawhorses were there for a reason, you thought.  I saw the disgusted looks on your faces as you got ready to move everything to let me out.

     None of you expected me to plow into your tables.  No one expected to die under their good neighbor’s wheels.  How could such a nice, bright-n-shiny day end with broken bones, blood, and death?

     When you tried to run, I shot you down from my car.  When you made it into your houses, I threw hand grenades through your windows.  A teenage boy threw a rock at me and missed.  I couldn’t help but think about how this new generation was too soft.  Did I mention how easy it is to fluster your kids?  He nervously tripped when he tried to run.  Part of him is still stuck in between my tire treads.

     I didn’t stop until I’d executed you all for treason, but I refused to put down the children, as they were too young to think for themselves and therefore couldn’t betray our country.  I guess you could say I saved their lives.  Orphanages are good at raising moral children.

     I was disappointed that our government didn’t congratulate me.  Instead of being decorated, I was painted as a domestic terrorist, something I completely despise.  It took a while to come to terms with this in my cell at Guantanamo Bay, but in the end, I realized it was necessary.  If they told the world the truth, all those Homeland Security agents disguised in the field would be compromised.

     I’m a good American.  I keep my mouth shut.

     I lived in your neighborhood.  Now, someone else has taken my place.  Someone with the same training.  Someone who is not afraid to do whatever it takes to serve his country.

     If you’re smart, you’ll be a good citizen.

     God bless America.

THE JOHN BRUNI MUSEUM OF MEDIOCRE (AT BEST) SHIT #58: THE WILD WEST SHOW

[I'll always have a soft spot in my heart for this story. I love it, flaws and all. I grew up going to a wild west town out in Union, IL. I loved that place. I had a lot of fun there. It's mostly geared toward kids, but I'm still tempted to go back there and just hang out. Maybe pan for fool's gold. I don't remember if I was still in college when I wrote this. I suspect it was just after I graduated. Some of this story is even true. Not the ending, though. The ending was something my grandmother always worried about. How do you know know that the guy with a gun strapped to his hip is one of the actors? Can you know? Really?]

1

When Harry got up that morning, he had no idea that it would be the worst day of his life. His only thought was to wonder how much time there was before he could pick up his son.

Little Charlie was one of the few reasons he continued to live. At ten years of age and already five-nine, he was the light of Harry’s dark life. Well, he supposed his life hadn’t been all that dark; he had been born to parents who were pretty well off, he had gone to good schools, he had won awards for his athleticism in college. He had even been working at a good job. It’s just that recently, his life was a dark moat crawling with tragic ordeals.

Everything started going bad when Harry’s parents and brother, who had been on their way to a wedding., had gotten into a car crash. His mother and brother died instantly, but his father, minus both arms and legs, managed to hold on for a day longer. Harry started going with his older brother, Max, to bars, where they would spend their nights getting drunk and remembering their childhood.

When Max finally got his grief out of his system, he moved on, leaving Harry to drink alone. Harry, not one to go drinking in public alone, gave up the bars and started bringing bottles of whiskey home. He usually sat in his study, drinking at least a fifth a night.

Eventually he lost his job because the quality of his work went down. Some days he even came to work drunk. Other days he didn’t bother to show up at all. His wife Carla covered for him for a while, calling him in sick, but when he lost his job, she started losing sympathy for her husband. She started confronting him about his illness, quoting books she read on alcoholism.

Harry shrugged it all off, but one night Carla told him that he was setting a bad example for Charlie. For some reason (he could never figure out why despite the sleepless nights he spent thinking about it), that angered him more than the rest of Carla’s babbling, and he did something he never thought he’d do. He struck his wife with not an open hand but a fist. She reeled back, her cheek puffy and red, and he instantly regretted what he had done. But no matter how many pleas and I’m-sorrys that spewed from his mouth, Carla remained adamant in taking Charlie and leaving.

A week later she filed for divorce. Harry signed all the papers willingly, but he cried the whole time. And it wasn’t just because Carla got the house, the new car, and just about everything else (including Charlie), but also because all of it was his fault. It could have been avoided if he had just listened to his wife, but oh no. He was too busy with his close friend, Jack. Or Jim, if money was tight.

Harry “vacated the premises” (which was how Carla’s lawyer referred to Harry’s exit) and rented an apartment. He started going to AA, one of the stipulations of the visitation rights granted by the judge.

Now he managed to get another job (not as much pay as before, but it was still enough to get by), and he hadn’t had a drink in three months. The pain from his dead parents and brother was as dulled as it would get, and for the first time in a long time he felt optimistic.

There was nothing that he loved to do more than spend a Saturday with Charlie.

When he arrived at his wife’s house, Harry was greeted at the door by Bob, Carla’s boyfriend.

“How you doing, Bob?” Harry asked.

“Fine, fine,” Bob said, running a hand over his perfectly sculpted Ken-doll hair. “I’ll get Charlie.”

Harry waited on the porch that once was his. He never entered the house anymore. Too many memories. Besides, he was content to look at the potted plants by either side of the door.

“Daddy!”

Harry looked into the foyer as Charlie bounded toward him. They embraced, and Harry thought back to the old days, when Charlie used to jump into his arms. Now Charlie was getting too big (not to mention Harry was getting too old) for that type of thing. Harry was only six feet himself, and he knew that in a few years, Charlie would be taller than his old man.

“How ya’ doin’ there, li’l pilgrim?” Harry drawled in his best John Wayne imitation. Charlie, who had just recently discovered the Duke, was ecstatic. They released each other.

“Are we gonna’ watch a John Wayne movie tonight?” Charlie asked.

“Maybe later,” Harry said. “For now, I got an even better treat.”

“What?”

“You’ll see.” Harry winked.

“Where are you two going today?”

Harry looked around Charlie and saw Carla standing between the plants, her arms crossed. Harry didn’t think Carla would ever forgive him, and he knew Bob would never accept him, so he usually hurried to get out of there.

He leaned in close to Carla, who backed up slightly. He was going to whisper in her ear so Charlie couldn’t hear, but he decided that might not be a good idea. “I’m taking him to the Wild West Show,” he said.

Charlie cheered and ran inside the house, whooping like a drunken cowhand.

“Where’s that?” Carla asked.

“It’s maybe an hour west,” Harry said. “Out by Loester.”

“That far?”

“Yeah, but Charlie’ll love it. I know I did, when I was his age.”

“Just make sure he doesn’t eat too much,” she said.

Harry nodded, and Charlie reappeared, still whooping, but now he was dressed like a cowboy, complete with plastic spurs, a white hat, and a holster with two cap guns in it.

“You ready?” Harry asked.

“Yet bet!” Charlie let loose with a “YEE-HAWWWWWWW!”

“Did you eat yet?”

“No, he didn’t,” Carla said.

“We’ll stop at McDonald’s first, okay?”

As Charlie nodded with vigorous approval, Harry reached into his shirt pocket and took out the child support check. She handed it to Carla, who examined it before pocketing it.

“Say goodbye to your mother,” Harry said.

“Goodbye to your mother!” Charlie chirped and laughed.

2

They stopped at McDonald’s, where Charlie had a cheeseburger Happy Meal, and Harry had a Big Mac. Harry asked Charlie about school, a subject the fifth-grader wasn’t too keen on. He did well (straight B’s with the occasional A or C), but he didn’t make many friends. His fellow students made fun of his tall, gaunt shape. Not that he was fed poorly. Charlie reminded Harry of Jughead from the Archie comics; he could eat like a king and still remain thin as a pauper. Carla’s mother was fond of saying he should eat more and “put some meat on those scrawny bones.” Charlie didn’t mind, though. He thought he looked like John Carradine in Stagecoach.

The day before, however, Charlie got in trouble for trying to recreate the mud fight in McClintock!, which wounded two third graders and ruined about fifteen sets of clothes, one of which belonged to the principal.

Harry gave the usual reprimands (“you should be more careful,” “that was a stupid thing to do,” and, of course, the classic, “promise me you’ll never do that again”), but he found himself trying not to laugh during Charlie’s description. Besides, it was not all that different from something Harry had tried himself when he was Charlie’s age. He had taken his father’s archery set to school, and dressed as a Native American, he shot a bunch of arrows in the gymnasium, howling like what his gym teacher called “a Injun.”

Aside from getting in trouble, Charlie was also supposed to do a state project, meaning he had to pick a state and do a report on it. When Harry asked which state, Charlie said, “Vermont, because the guy who wrote those Soup books lives there.”

When they were finished eating, they hit the road to the Wild West Show, listening to the radio and talking about Westerns. An hour and a half later, they were pulling into the Wild West Show’s parking lot.

“It looks like a town in the West,” Charlie said reverently as he took off his seat belt and slid out of the car. Harry joined him, and they headed for the gate, where Harry coughed up ten dollars for admission.

The day went rather smoothly, Harry thought, until the pony ride. The first thing they did was go through a gift shop, where Charlie begged for Harry to buy him a vast number of things. While Harry nixed the pleas for replica guns, Western clothes, and the like, he did give in on buying a marshal’s badge, a couple of wooden nickels (“Didn’t yer pappy never tell ya not ta’ take no wooden nickels?” the clerk asked when he rang them up), a piece of petrified wood, and a packet of replica Confederate money. After that, Charlie took roping lessons from a guy dressed up like a cowboy. The same guy also tried to give Charlie hatchet-throwing lessons, at which he failed miserably, eliciting a series of horsey laughs from Charlie.

Then they went for a ride on a miniature train, after which they stopped in a saloon for a couple of Cokes. Then it was on to Charlie’s favorite part: the shootout. Five actors took guns that fired stage blanks and ran about, acting out a ten-minute play. Before they began, the actor that played the marshal gave a speech about how you should always be careful with guns, even ones loaded with blanks. He illustrated this last point by shooting at a soda can from close range with a blank. The can ended up with a small hole in one side and a frighteningly big hole on the other.

After the show came the pony ride, where the nice day went to hell. Charlie stood in a line of children, all smaller than he. When it got to be his turn, the cowgirl eyed him carefully.

“Yer too tall fer this ride,” she said. “Sorry, pilgrim.”

“But I wanna’ ride the pony,” Charlie said, his voice raising an octave.

“Sorry,” the cowgirl said again. “Yer too tall.”

Charlie looked to his father, his lips quivering. Harry said, “He’s only ten years old.”

The cowgirl didn’t look like she believed him, but she said, “That may be, but he’s still too tall.”

Harry sighed. “Come on, Charlie. Let’s go pan for gold.”

Charlie started crying, and Harry put an arm around his son’s shoulder, leading him away so the next in line could have his turn.

“It’s all right, Charlie. Let’s go get some fool’s gold.”

Still, Charlie cried on. Then, out of the Marshal’s Office ambled a tall (maybe six-three or -four), well-built man with a more than passing resemblance to Sam Elliott. He wore a tin star and the usual cowboy attire. As soon as Marshal Sam saw Charlie, he stopped in front of the boy.

“What’s ailin’ the li’l pilgrim?” he drawled.

“They wouldn’t let him on the pony,” Harry said.

The marshal (not the same one from the shootout) put his hands on his knees and lowered himself slightly so he could look Charlie in the eyes. “Ya know, we don’t allow cryin’ in my town,” he said with a gentle smile. “Dry those eyes, li’l pilgrim, ‘fore some lynch mob sees ya.”

Charlie sniffed. “Lynch mob? Like in Young Guns 2?”

“Yep,” the marshal said.

“I don’t see no lynch mobs.”

The marshal straightened up. “Then I guess I’ll have ta’ take ya myself.” His hand drifted down to the butt of his gun.

Charlie’s face broke out into a smile, and he imitated the marshal’s hand. “Make your move, lawman.”

Harry would have worried about the marshal’s gun, except he remembered the other marshal talking about how the guns everyone wore outside the shootout stage couldn’t fire at all, not even blanks.

The marshal pulled his gun, but Charlie was faster. He fired off a bunch of caps before the marshal could even clear his holster. The marshal grimaced, grabbed his chest, and fell down. Charlie laughed as he twirled his cap gun on his finger, then holstered it.

“Ya . . . no good . . . varmint!” the marshal gasped from on the ground. He lifted his gun, pointing it at Charlie.

Charlie went for his gun again, but this time the marshal pulled his trigger first. There was a loud crack, and Harry jerked, his heart rabid in his chest. It was too loud to be a cap, so at first he thought the marshal had fired a blank. When he saw his son collapse with blood squirting out of his head as if he was a water fountain, Harry thought, No way. This is a dream. A damn nightmare.

The marshal fired twice more, and Charlie’s body jumped with each shot. That struck it home. Harry knew this was real.

“Charlie!” he screamed, and he ran to his son. Harry knelt down next to Charlie and pulled him into his arms, turning him over to see his face. He looked into his son’s eyes, but it was like examining a pair of blank television screens. There was a third eye in his forehead, like something out of a sci-fi movie, except this eye was red, and it was crying.

“No,” Harry croaked. “Please no. God no. Wake up, Charlie. Please wake up.”

A shadow fell over Charlie’s body like a shroud, and Harry knew without looking up that it was the marshal. “Quick pilgrim,” he said. “Not all that smart, though.”

Each word stabbed into Harry’s heart, burned his eyes, flayed his mind. He heard something crunching in his head and realized he was grinding his teeth.

He killed Charlie. He killed Charlie. Hekilledcharlie!

The mobius thought charged through his mind as he gently placed Charlie’s head down and looked at the marshal, who was looking down at the corpse of his victim with a gaze akin to one trying to figure out whether a painting was art or not.

Harry roared and jumped at the marshal, tackling him to the ground. His hands went for the marshal’s throat, and he began to squeeze as hard as he could, which wasn’t much. His stint as an alcoholic had taken much of his strength away.

The marshal struggled under him, but all Harry cared about was squeezing the fetid black soul from this murderer’s body. He felt his fingers sinking into flesh like dough, not even aware of the yell pouring from his own mouth in a perpetual biblical flood.

He felt something press against his belly, but he paid it no mind; he was too busy with the pulsing skin in his palms.

There was a crack, and he felt pain, but he would never relinquish his grasp on the marshal’s throat. Not if he could help it.

He heard two more shots, and he began to worry that he might not be able to hold on long enough. The world was lopsided and fading. His hands no longer felt strong, and the next thing he knew the world vanished into darkness.

3

Charles Harold Fleming was pronounced dead at 4:30 pm by a paramedic. The ambulance packed Harry in the back and headed for the hospital, where the bleeding was stopped. Harry was stitched up, but the doctors knew he would never walk again. Still, they said, Harry was lucky. He did, after all, survive.

Harry didn’t look at it that way. Upon waking up, he remembered that Charlie was dead, gunned down by a maniac dressed as an Old West marshal. The news that he was paralyzed from the waist down didn’t help matters, either.

The worst part, though, was when Carla and Bob came into his room. Carla was bawling her eyes out, and Bob was playing the role of the comforting boyfriend. The first thing out of her mouth wasn’t hello. It wasn’t how-are-you-I’m-really-sorry. It was:

“How could you let our son die?!”

Bob gently tried to shush her, but it was no use. She just kept on shouting curses and questions at Harry, who could do nothing buy cry.

The detective that took his statement told him that the marshal was really a man called Wesley William Johnson, and he didn’t even work at the Wild West Show. Johnson had been a patient at a mental institution who thought he was living a Western. Unfortunately, he had no insurance, and the shrinks had to let him go. Besides, they thought he was harmless.

Johnson ended up killing a couple more people (one of them being the real marshal from the shootout play) before he was gunned down by the police.

Carla’s lawyer was busily preparing a case against the institution, the Wild West Show, and Harry Fleming, but Harry didn’t pay much attention.

He was too drunk for that.