I was starting to enjoy this.
“Those lyrics,” he continued. “Printed out by the record company, with the band’s permission, is a true and solid fact, proving once and for all, and without a shadow of a doubt, that John Lennon sings ‘goo goo g’joob,’ and not, as you so ignorantly put it, ‘koo-koo-katchoo!’”
I thought about that for a moment. I used all the skills in my possession to truly look as if I were weighing what he had told me with the respect he felt his argument was due. I scratched at my head, scratched at my chin, and even said “Hmmmm” for a moment or two as I gazed into the air above me. Finally, in the end, I had to give the brute an answer.
“Liner notes?” I said.
At this, the Walrus broke. He’d had enough. He bellowed in rage and flung me to the kitchen floor. He reached out and lifted my refrigerator up over his head. Thank God for high ceilings.
“Enough of this foolishness!” the Walrus roared. “Now you die!”
The Walrus stood over me, the fridge held high over his head. From my vantage point, I had only a moment to strike, and one perfect target before me. I kicked out with all my strength. And, as my foot connected with that area where the two legs join, I said myself a little prayer that the scientists who had created the creature before me had made sure he was anatomically correct.
Then, as the Walrus made a little “irk” sound, and his eyes crossed in a comical fashion, I knew that my prayer had been answered. I crab-walked back out of the way as a massive tear formed in one of his eyes. Then he collapsed, the fridge dropping atop his head and knocking him unconscious.
I rose, brushed myself off and grabbed a roll of duct tape from the junk drawer by the sink. I’d just bought the roll recently and had yet to even pull off the plastic wrap. I pushed the fridge off of him and then used the entire roll of tape on his arms and legs, hoping that it would be enough to keep him restrained if he woke up before the authorities arrived.
Next, I called the Eudora Police Department and asked that they send a couple of boys around.
After that, I went to my stereo and flipped through my records. I found my copy of Magical Mystery Tour and took a quick glance through the liner notes and read through the lyrics to ‘I Am the Walrus’.
“Well crap,” I said aloud, and turned to look at the Walrus. “I guess you were right.”
ACT NATURALLY
WAITING FOR THE POLICE with a walrus unconscious in your kitchen is an exercise in patience. I could only stare at the thing for so long before my eyes grew heavy.
I tugged on the tape that bound his arms and legs and felt fairly confident that they would hold, but I wasn’t prepared to take too many chances. So I jogged back into the bedroom at the other end of the hall. On the bed were my clothes for the day along with a pair of Colt Peacemakers, revolvers of a bygone era when the West was wild and untamed.
The Peacemakers were custom built and given to me by Sam Colt himself and I’d grown quite accustom to them. Sure, nowadays there’s a literal smorgasbord of shooting irons to choose from. But I like to stick with what I know. Besides, I like old things.
When I’m out in public, I have to keep them concealed—I have a permit to carry, but I just can’t be flashing them about—so I use a shoulder rig that tucks each one in under each arm. This was lying next to the revolvers. I passed it up however, and opened the trunk at the foot of the bed. I pulled out a belt with a pair of holsters and strapped it around my waist over the robe. The guns would hang low on each hip, ready for a quick draw. This was how I preferred to wear them.
I’m sure I looked every inch the dashing hero in my robe, but I didn’t want to be caught with my pants down when the authorities arrived, so I ignored the clothes for now.
Once back in the kitchen I realized that the Walrus had begun to smell, or maybe there had been a stench to him the entire time and it just took me leaving the room for a moment to notice. Either way, I decided to wait for the police on the front porch with a glass of water and a comic book.
I’d have preferred coffee over water, but considering the pot lay in sharp little pieces all over my kitchen, I’d have to make due with whatever else I had on hand. Which was water.
I felt the loss of the coffee deep within my soul; you might even say I went through the five stages of grief as I stood there at the kitchen sink filling a glass from the tap. The logical side of my brain fought back, telling me that coffee wasn’t out of my life for good, I could always make a run into the Quick Shop and purchase a cup. Heck, I had a coffee maker in the office in town. That shone a little brightness into my soul. Once the Walrus was carted off, I’d head on in to the office and partake. Until then, tap water would have to do. The comic would help.
Feeling a little better about the whole affair—going about heeled sure helped—I took my water and comic book and headed out to the porch. I sat in an old rocker and took in the morning: the smell of the dew on the grass, and the sound of the birds in the trees. Once in a while a car would wind lazily down the gravel road past the house. I sipped my water, frowning at the lack of heat and bitterness, and I read my comic book.
A squirrel hopped up onto the porch from the grass below and stood on its hind legs looking at me with its head cocked slightly to the side in the way that animals do, like they’d just asked you a question.
“You the back up?” I asked the squirrel. “You here to finish me off since your pard ain’t up to the task?”
It just cocked its head to the other side and continued to stare at me, its nose twitching.
"Well?" I said. “You got something to say, then say it. Otherwise, get.”
The squirrel remained. Its little nose flicked up and down. It didn’t talk, and it didn’t move. It just stared at me. I don’t know that I actually expected it to start speaking, but after arguing with a walrus, nothing would have surprised me.
"If you ain’t got nothing to say then get!" I snarled.
I tried to ignore the squirrel, but it wouldn’t stop staring. I raised the comic book, blocking the squirrel from my sight, but after about five minutes, I found myself skimming through the comic instead of actually reading it. I kept looking over the top at the squirrel. The squirrel met my eye every time.
“You best get if you know what’s good for you,” I said.
The squirrel didn’t move.
I sighed and went back to the comic.
I’d actually read three full pages before glancing over the top of the book again. The squirrel was still there, only he’d moved six or so inches closer.
“Get!” I yelled and then I tossed the glass of water at it.
The squirrel stood its ground as the glass sailed uselessly over the thing’s head. It continued to stare.
"Dang it!" I stood. "Quick staring at me you dern tree rat!" I tried to kick the fluffy little rodent, but it hopped nimbly to one side, so I missed and fell off the porch.
I rolled about a bit in the grass, the dew soaking my bathrobe.
That’s when the rage took over. I’m not an easy man to anger, but once I am, watch out. It’s not a quality I’m proud of, but it’s there all the same.
I jumped back up to the porch and did my best to stomp the squirrel into the wood grain. It just danced back and forth, dodging each stomp as I cursed and fumed.
“Stupid tree rat!”
-STOMP-
“Get off my dern porch!”
-STOMP-
“Don’t make me kill you!”
-STOMP-
The squirrel remained. I had but one choice left.
I drew both pistols, thumbing back the hammers as I cleared leather.
The squirrel blinked.
I smiled.
"Norman?" a voice said from behind me.
I turned in surprise. A woman in a Stetson hat and the khaki uniform of a Eudora Police Officer stood at the bottom of the three steps leading up to the porch. She was looking up at me, her face painted with worry and concern.
“Hey, Pat,” I said, trying to catch my breath. I released the hammers slowly and holstered the guns. “Dang squirrel went and got my dander up. Won’t get off the dern porch. Just keeps staring at me.”
Patricia McCrea had been Sheriff of Eudora throughout the last five Presidential administrations. We go back a ways, Pat and I. I don’t have many friends, I used to, but they grew old and died. Pat was someone who was there for me when I needed her, and for that alone she will always have my trust and respect, while I will always have her back.
I glanced over at the squirrel in time to see it bound off the porch and run up a tree, disappearing within its foliage. It was all I could do not to put a few rounds into the tree.
I turned back to Pat, a sheepish smile on my face.
“You okay, Norman?” Pat said, stepping up onto the porch.
I must have been quite the sight standing there in my undies, gun belt strapped around my bathrobe.
“Why wouldn’t I be okay, Pat?” I said.
“Well, good Lord, Norman,” she said. “Look at you. I mean, I get a call that a walrus broke into your house and tried to kill you, and now I find you throwing down with a squirrel. I’ve already gone gray, Norman, I don’t need you adding to my stress.”
“Heck,” I said, smiling. “You’re still the prettiest thing within fifty miles.”
“Only fifty?” she said, redness rising in her cheeks.
“A hundred,” I said. “Two hundred. Heck, it if weren’t for that husband of yours, I’da swooped you up long ago.”
“You’d have done nothing of the sort, Norman Oklahoma. You had your chance but chose not to take it.”
“There were extenuating circumstances, Pat,” I said. “That goblin infestation kept me a mite busy for a couple years.”
“Goblins,” she said. “It’s always something with you, Norman.”
“Ain’t no goblins around now,” I said, smiling and putting an arm around her. “Nor husbands, neither.”
“Knock it off,” she elbowed me in the ribs.
I jerked my arm back and yelped.
“One of these days Jim may take issue with your incessant flirting,” she said.
“Aw, Jim don’t mind,” I said, pretending to comfort what should have been sore ribs. “He won, I lost. He and I both know it.”
“Well, I mind,” she said. But then she smiled to show that she didn’t really mean it.
“Did you come out here all by yourself?” I asked, looking beyond her and seeing no other vehicle in the drive but her old Bronco. “You’re gonna need at least two other guys when the Walrus wakes up.”
“Oh yes, this walrus you called about.”
Pat knows what I do for a living, in theory. She’s never come face to face with a monster.
“Come inside and see for yourself,” I said.
As Pat entered the house, I took one last look around the porch, and just as I thought, the squirrel was back.
“You and me ain’t done,” I said, pointing a finger at the bushy tailed monster.
The squirrel continued to look up at me, and for a moment, I could have sworn that it smiled. I sighed and followed Pat into the house.
I found her standing in the kitchen, frozen in place, staring down at the walrus. She tried to look like she wasn’t about to question everything she’d known about life, but I could see the shock peeking out from within her hard shell.
“You know—” she cleared her throat and began again. “You know, I’d heard rumors about a hit man that went by the name ‘Walrus,’ but I’d always assumed it was just some stupid nickname.”
“It is a stupid nickname,” I said. “It just happens to be apt in this instance.”
“Well,” Pat scratched at her head a moment. “I guess I need to call in a couple of the boys to haul this thing away.”
“That’s what I was saying,” I said. “I’d offer you something to drink, but my fridge and coffee maker are both on the fritz at the time being.”
“That’s okay,” she said, still staring down at the Walrus, a finger on her chin. “You think that tape is going to hold him?”
“No idea. He threw my table over there like it was nothing.”
“I’d been wondering about that,” she said, looking over at the table that now sat upside down over the couch in the adjoining living room.
“I’d hoped some of your troopers would show up before he came to and slap some leg irons on him or something.”
“I’ll make a call; see to it that they bring in something sturdy to hold him.”
“Nothing can hold me,” the Walrus spoke, sitting up and smiling.
I drew both pistols and thumbed back the hammers, the barrels pointing at the Walrus, one for each eye.
“Nothing, huh?” I said. “How about a bullet or two?”
The Walrus didn’t reply, instead he struggled against the tape at his wrists.
“Stop that,” I said.
He didn’t.
“I’ll shoot you,” I said. “Don’t know if it’ll put you down, but I bet it’ll hurt something awful.”
The veins in his neck stood out as he pulled against the tape. The tape itself began to stretch. It would only be a matter of minutes, possibly seconds, before he was free.
And that’s when Pat turned around, and ran out the front door, leaving me alone with the Walrus.
HAPPINESS IS A WARM GUN
I HAVE ONLY EVER had to fire a gun in my house twice.
The first time was back in 1967. There was a Bigfoot involved. It was this whole thing. I’m not prepared to get into it just now.
The second was in 1982 when I shot and killed a werewolf in my bathroom. I don’t recommend it. They bleed a lot. I went through a lot of towels that day. In the end I wound up redoing the entire bathroom; floors, paint, the whole nine yards.
I didn’t really feel like shooting anyone today. I don’t like killing things. I won’t hesitate to do it if it needs to be done, and with some of these monsters it’s your only real option. But I take no joy in it.
Well, that’s not entirely true. Taking out a vampire can often make me smile. The thought of putting a bullet into Abner Lemonzeo warmed my heart as well.
But the Walrus, well, he was just doing what he’d been paid to do. I’d rather see him in chains. Besides, I couldn’t afford to redo the kitchen like I’d done with the bathroom.
“You keep working that tape and I’ll have to put you down, son,” I said, my pistols zeroing in on his face.
He ignored me.
I took a quick glance behind me at the front door where Pat had fled just moments before. It wasn’t like her to run from a fight, and that had me concerned. Turning back to the Walrus I struggled to try and explain to myself just what Pat had done. Surely she hadn’t run. She must have gone for back up. That was the only logical explanation.
Meanwhile, the thick layer of tape that surrounded the Walrus’s wrists looked to be reaching their breaking point.
“I’m warning you,” I said, then reversed the pistol in my right hand so that I held it by the barrel. I leaned in close to the smelly beast and rapped him a smart one across the top of his head with the butt of the revolver.
If I’d hurt him, he was good at hiding the pain. Instead of groaning or shouting he just swiped at me with his hands. Lashed together as they were, they made one big fist, which took me fully in the shoulder. My arm went numb. I didn’t notice this right away, my attention had instead been drawn to the fact that I was flying through the air.
I landed on my back in the middle of the upturned table that lay in my living room, but I still held on to my guns, and that’s what really matters. It took me a moment to get up, and as I stood, a sharp pain lancing into my spine, the front door flew open and Pat walked in.
In one hand she held a pump-action shot gun. In the other was a small battering ram with a shoulder sling. They’re employed by police forces the world over to knock in doors.
“Catch,” she said
, and tossed the shot gun my way.
I holstered my pistols and caught the shot gun in its downward trajectory. Pat, in the meantime, had taken the ram by the two flexible handles that looped out of its side.
The ram was about forty inches long and weighed fifty pounds. Pat swung it like a pro. As the tape around the Walrus’s wrists began to tear, the ram connected with the side of his head. The sound of the impact was thick and meaty, like hitting a side of beef with a sledgehammer, if you can imagine.
The Walrus dropped. His eyes rolled into the back of his head, he let out a little sigh of pain, and then fell back like a sack of bricks.
“I thought you’d run out on me,” I said.
She just laughed. “Cover him with that scatter gun while I call this in,” she said, pulling a phone from her pocket. “He should be out for a while, but I’d like to get a couple deputies out here as soon as possible.”
I pumped a round into the chamber and stood watch over the Walrus while Pat called in to the station. I noticed that blood trickled from a small cut on his temple where the ram had hit it. The blood was a dark gray, almost black. The fridge impacting with the top of his head had only left a lump. I wanted to find that curious, but frankly I just couldn’t make myself care that much. I just wanted him out of my house so I could get dressed and have my morning coffee.
“Everyone but Tim and Lyle are on their way,” Pat said as she pocketed her phone.
“So two guys then?” I said.
“No, three.”
“You hired a new officer?”
“I did,” Pat said. “She just started today.”
“She’s going to have quite the initiation then,” I said and smiled.
“Here,” she held out her hand. “I’ll take the shot gun. You go put some pants on.”
In the bedroom I pulled on a dark gray suit and tie, adjusting the tie carefully in the mirror. I figured I’d need to pay a visit to Lemonzeo. I can’t have people just sending folks out to kill me without some form of retribution. He needs to know that doing something like that just ain’t in his best interest. But that could wait until I’ve had my coffee.
The Walrus of Death: A Short Story Page 2