Take a break from the hectic news of Hollywood with our weekly look into the world of "what if". Fresh fan fiction happens weekly here at Cinema Blend on Short Story Saturday. This is our latest short story entry... "Honey, I Murdered The Soccer Team".
Final warning: None of what follows is real. This is a work of fiction. Don't take it too seriously.
Dear Jim,
What you’re about to read is a confession. I’m telling you for three reasons. First, I know you represent some other clients with mob ties. I’m sure you’ve heard some sick shit from them that has prepared you for the sick shit you’re about to read here in this letter. Second, as my lawyer, I know you’re forbidden from repeating my horror story, and third and most importantly, you’re my friend and I’ve kept this inside for way too long. It needs to come out. So, read this letter once and then burn it in your fireplace. I’m serious. Fucking burn it. Other people who find this shit will ask questions and be allowed to testify against me.
Last summer, I murdered five people. I watched them bleed out. I cut their bodies up in the bathtub, put the different parts in foil wrap, carried them out to my car and dropped ‘em in the ocean alongside various machine parts Dexter style. No one has ever asked any questions, and moving forward, no one ever will. But it eats away inside me, Jim. It tears me apart, and it’s my fault. That’s another reason I can’t tell anyone. They would blame that movie, and that’s the last thing I want.
My entire life, I’ve gotten pissed off about those whiny mothers screeching on television about how violent video games and sex comedies are creating generations of murderers and pregnant teenagers. It’s such horseshit. Yes, movies can plant an idea in your head. They can leave a little something in there that gnaws away at you for years and years. I know that more than anyone else, but if you follow through on it, that’s still on you, Jim. And these bodies, these are on me. But in order for you to understand what happened, I do need to talk about the movie, which I am NOT blaming.
When I was kid, my mother and I used to go to the video store every Saturday and leave with three movies. They had a special 3 for $3 thing. Anyway, I was about seven at the time, and one weekend, I came back with Honey, I Shrunk The Kids. About halfway through the movie, I knew I wanted to be a scientist. That’s all I could think about. I’ve always been a really short kid. Even now I’m only about five feet, five inches. So, I had this fantasy of building a giant ray gun and zapping myself up like six inches. Just enough so I didn’t feel weird about my height.
A few weeks after watching HISTK for the first time, I learned to keep this Enlarge-O-Ray idea to myself because every time I opened my mouth about it, I got laughed at. Deep down, though, it’s been there ever since. It’s never left. Even when I went to college, worked on my masters and later got my doctorate, the idea of getting bigger obsessed my thoughts. Still does. I just want to be like everyone else. I don’t want to look up to girls when I’m talking to them.
A few years ago, I finally started making enough money to buy the materials needed to work on my project. I put in about sixty-five hours a week over at LNG Labs working on the cholesterol drug; so, this side pursuit didn’t dominate my time. I’d estimate I played around about ten hours a week for three years or so at the house before I started experimenting on animals. Flies mostly. See, research is more of a game of guess and check than anything else. You try something, modify and try again. You just want to see forward progress, and these fly experiments were showing definite forward progress, but the problem was I kept using too much power so they’d grow and grow and grow until their bodies exploded all over my basement carpet.
It was pretty gross, but it was coming along. Everything was getting better almost by the week until I fucking missed. I still have no idea why I didn’t take longer to aim the machine that day, but I’d done it so many times at that point I didn’t actively think about the power I wielded in my hands anymore. It was old hat, and when I aimed and shot at the fly, I jerked the trigger a bit and hit the middle section of my foosball table. The row of men grew immediately. Within about 30 seconds, they were of normal size and God only knows how, were yapping away about the greatest goals they’d ever scored.
There were five of them, and each of their feet were tied together to form a giant, megafoot. I rushed over and undid the binding, too dumbfounded to even process what the hell was happening. They thanked me profusely and began moving about the house, clumsily because a giant pole ran through each of their midsections, linking them together. They must have broken thirty things in my house that first hour, but it didn’t matter. They were happy to be alive, just a little annoyed they had to do everything as a team—like piss.
Before I tell you what I did next, I need you to understand I wasn’t thinking. I was so euphoric and hopped up on the thrill of creating fucking life that the laws of science no longer seemed to matter. I was God in that moment, and I could do anything I wanted. So, I told the men to line up, count to three, and I yanked the pole out. The poor bastards began losing blood immediately.
This is my burden, Jim. I don’t want you to have to carry it too. I needed to tell someone, though, and I couldn’t risk choosing someone who might blame Rick fucking Moranis.
Regards,
William
