Wednesday, December 11, 2013

Flash Fiction Challenge, Part 3

So as the holidays descend upon us in full force, I'm taking time to play some non-reindeer games. Writing fun with +Chuck Wendig!

So, here we go, with week 3 of Chuck Wendig's flash fiction challenge.  Each week for 5 weeks, a group of Chuck Wendig readers are adding on to stories begun by other followers.

For week one, I put out this starter, which I had left untitled. It was picked up by +Mildred Achoch and she continued it here, titling it "Alina and the Boy." I'm hoping someone continues it for week three.

Meanwhile, I continued a story by Wanderer that she had titled Easy Street.

That bring us to now.  I've chosen a whole new story to play with this week: The Mos-Gun by Levi Stribling, Paul Feeney, and me.

* * * 

Mosquitoes suck. Fact. I’m not just talking about their physical abilities, but more of how, well, how sucky they are. I cannot stand the little flying dicks. But I can’t be the only one who feels this way. In fact, I’m going to make sure that I’m not the only one who feels this way. Because as much as I hate mosquitoes, I hate large groups of people even more. That’s why the mosquito gun is the perfect invention, and I promise, the one I have in the basement is the only one around.

The concept is pretty simple. I’m using something I hate to piss off another something I hate. In this way I can have two things that I hate hating each other at the same time, thereby bringing me joy.

The process itself has taken me long enough – a few years at least; I don’t know, really. I lost count. But I’ve basically just collected a shit-ton of mosquitoes, frozen them and threw them all into this huge vat. Then I load them all up into these tubes, full, I mean chock full – almost like a European mosquito soccer match. They’re all pinned in there, trying to fly around. All they want is to get out. They’re pissed – just how I want them.

* * * 

So, I'm out on the street now, and I'm ready to start using my gun.
My first target wobbles into view. It's that fat obnoxious prick that manages the local supermarket. I've had more than a few run-ins with him. Payback time, now. I level my Mos-Gun and let rip. One fat mosquito squeezes out of the barrel and goes racing towards him. He bats it away at first, but it turns out that thing is pissed!
It zips up and down, darts in and out and pretty soon, blood is seeping from hundreds of little bites and the fat prick is screaming. I feel an excited tightness in my chest and squeeze off more rounds. They surround him in a cloud and soon, his body slumps to the ground.
Fuck me, it works! I wander down the street, indiscriminately loosing more and more mosquitoes at my enemies. People run screaming, banging into walls, cars, falling over in the's wonderful.
Then, on the horizon, a figure appears, the sun at his back. He pauses on the horizon, his fingers twitching over something at his side. My stomach drops as I realise it's a huge can of RAID.

* * * 
(Now part 3, by me)

It had to be Stuart. That fucking weasel is always trying to undermine my plans and schemes. Ever since the time with that girl at the corner pub. She hadn't gone home with me either, but somehow he was convinced that it was my fault she hadn't bought his "come and see my laboratory" schtick. I admit that I had taken some pleasure in watching her dump her beer into his lap, but I hadn't done anything to orchestrate that particular fiasco.

Seeing him standing there with the giant can of RAID that could ruin my carefully laid plans for mayhem and revenge, I boiled with rage. How could he even have known about my plans? I had told no one, posted no blogs, tweeted no hints. But somehow, he knew what I was making? And that today was the day I'd be trying it out?

The shithead had to be spying on me. My hand still on the trigger of my magnificent new creation, I stared down the street at Stuart. If he thought he could stop me this easily, though, he had another think coming, a stinging, itchy, biting think. Gripping the Mos-Gun with both hands, I began to run towards him. At first he stood his ground, trying to look confident, but the closer I got, the more uncertain he looked . . .

To be continued? Let's hope!

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