Surprise Coming To You: Or The Five Minute Freewrite That Grew.

It is odd, what enters our minds, isn't it...?!?!? - A friend.

"Congratulations! Your entry was selected by our sponsors to receive an amazing gift." Crazy Carl's voice boomed. "Please wait to be connected so we can get your address for delivery." A little rainbow to piss happiness is just what he needs. The shit of the day kept piling up with the constant parade of skirts and files with their, 'can you's? could you possibly's', to which he only wanted to say, "Can you fuck off?"

He hates his job and loathes the gaseous guy he has to share the small office with. He had asked him once if he was dying because his ass biscuits smelled like rotting corpses. Bob laughed, his fat face already red with rosacea turning even more crimson, and blamed his wife's cooking.
"Well, maybe you should just say no." Dave said, mocking the first lady's Just Say No campaign that the White House recently launched.

"Hey, man," the seasoned DJ rasped on the other side of the line, "you got a real surprise coming to you! What's your address so we can get it out to you before the PO closes today." He rattled off his info, ending the call with a gleeful, "WNED, the only rock station that gives you what you need."
He spent the next three hours ignoring the toxic fumes emanating from Bob's ass, and stared out the window while the words, 'surprise coming to you,' echoed in his head.

Dave woke the next morning, lit the remains of the joint from the night before, and fed what was left of his turkey TV dinner to the feral cat that hangs out in the bushes in front of his apartment.
"We've got a surprise coming to us, Catshole. Don't bite the mailman." he said as he scraped the turkey, stuffing, and congealed gravy onto the paper plate that doubled as the tabby's dish. The grey cat just stared back, waiting for Dave to disappear so it could eat. It didn't give two shits about the mailman or the surprise.

When the package finally arrived, Dave tore it open to find a wad of paper and a note:

It can't be, but it is. A Smith & Wesson Model 29 revolver. Just like Dirty Harry. He had imagined himself killing Bob with this very gun every time he filled the air with powdered poop, and here it was in his hands.
"Go ahead, Bob....BOOM!" he growled at himself in the full length bathroom mirror.
"Squeakier than usual today, Bob.....BOOM!"
"That was a real barn burner, Bob...BOOM!" The scenario played itself out differently each time until Dave finally tired of playing and thought about doing it for real.
"Monday, Bob. I hope you thank the wife for the gut-busting garbage she feeds you and kiss her before you leave. You got a surprise coming to you. It's a real gas."

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Original Photo:Pixabay
Resized and edited using Canva.

I went back and forth about whether or not to even post this piece. I thought that maybe the violent theme of it would be too unlike me to post, and then I talked about it with a few of my steemit friends. Do it. So, I did.
I imagine that I will bang out the rest on Monday.

BOOM!

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x x
Mo