Henry ate only two kinds of breakfast cereal, Cheerios
and Rice Chex. Over the years he had tried to simplify
his life; routines were a defense against bad thoughts.
That's why he always watched the Weather Channel when he
ate Cheerios. He liked the satellite pictures of storms
sweeping across the country because he thought that was
what weather must look like to God. He didn't understand
how people could think weather was boring; obviously
they hadn't seen it get loose.
After breakfast he tried to slip past the shrine and out
the front door, but he couldn't. The monster was
stirring even though he had chosen the white shirt. He
dug the key out of his pocket, opened the shrine and
turned on the light. He was in the apartment's only
closet, seven feet by four. Henry bolted the door behind
him.
The walls were shaggy with pictures he'd ripped out of
magazines but he didn't look at them. Not yet. He
pressed the play button on the boom box and the Rolling
Stones bongoed into "Sympathy for the Devil." He knelt
at the oak chest which served as the altar. Inside was a
plastic box. Inside the box, cradled in pink velvet, was
the Beretta.
He had bought the 92SB because of its honest lines. A
little bulky in the grip, the salesman had said, but
only because inside was a fifteen shot double-column
magazine. It was cool as a snake to the touch,
thirty-five hard ounces of steel, anodized aluminum and
black plastic. He wrapped his right hand around the grip
and felt the gentle bite of the serrations on the front
and rear of the frame. He stood, supported his right
hand with his left, extended his arms and howled along
with Jagger. "Ow!"
Schwartzenegger trembled in his sights; even cyborgs
feared the thing lurking inside Henry West. "Now!" The
pistol had a thrilling heft; it was more real than he
was. "Wham!" he cried, then let his arms drop. Manson
gave him a shaggy grimace of approval. Madonna shook her
tits. The monster was stretching; its claw slid up his
throat.
He spun then and ruined Robert Englund, wham, David
Duke, wham, and Mike Tyson, wham, wham, wham. Metallica
gave him sweaty glares. Imelda Marcos simpered. Henry
let a black rain of bad thoughts drench him. He'd give
in and let it loose on the Market Street bus or in the
First Savings where that twisty young teller never
looked at him when she cashed his paycheck. He'd blaze
into Rudy's Lunch Bucket like that guy in Texas and keep
slapping magazines into the Beretta until he had the
mass murder record. Only not when Stefan was behind the
