“Dennis, I hate to tell you this Dr. Hatchet said, “Now that you’re on full disability for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, you’re going to have to give up your guns.”
“Why? I’m not homicidal. I only have them for protection.”
“I’m sorry,” Dr. Hatchet replied, “It’s the law. Besides, I’d be liable if something happens. What if something triggers you?”
“O.K.,” Dennis sighed, “I’ll give them to my son.”
“Honey, it’s for you,” Veronica handed her husband the phone.
Brandon’s face became pale, and the phone slid out of his hands.
“Honey, are you all right?”
Brandon went into the basement, and locked the door. Several hours later, he joined his wife in bed.
“Honey, who was on the phone?” Veronica inquired. “I’m worried about you. You’re acting kind of strange.”
“It was my dad, O.K. We haven’t spoken in ten years, and all of a sudden, he calls out of the blue. I don’t know how he found me.”
“What did he say?”
“He wants me to come to some stupid picnic.”
“That’s nice. Are you going to go?”
“Probably not. My dad’s been in, and out of my life, and I’m tired of his damn head games!”
“What if I come with you for moral support?” his wife suggested. “Who knows, you might have fun.”
Brandon felt a knot in his stomach as he pulled into the parking lot of Mongoose Lake.
He was approached by a frail-looking, elderly man in a ball cap. “Dad? How did you know where to find me?”
“I hired a private detective,” Dennis replied. He motioned toward his car. “Son, I’ve got something for you in the backseat.”
Brandon was puzzled. He hesitated briefly, and followed his father to the car.
On the backseat were two AR 15’s covered up by a blanket. “These are yours,” Dennis grinned. “We’ll go the shooting range together if you’d like. Just don’t tell anybody.” His eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry I haven’t been much of a father to you. Vietnam really screwed me up, and I’ve been in, and out of the hospital for Post-Traumatic Stress…”
The emotional reunion was interrupted as Veronica approached them.
Dennis, and Brandon bonded with each other as they feasted on hamburgers, and hotdogs. Then they rented a pontoon boat, and went fishing.
“My idiot doctor will be glad to know that I got rid of my guns,” Dennis thought to himself as he called the PTSD clinic.
He became frustrated. He’d been calling the PTSD clinic for days, and he kept getting the voice mail. “What am I supposed to do when I run out of medication?” he wondered.
After a couple weeks went by, he noticed that the number to the clinic had become disconnected.
“I’ve been out of medication for days. I’ve got to do something,” Dennis thought to himself.
He drove up to the clinic. The building appeared to be empty. As he approached the parking lot, he noticed there was a foul smell coming from the building.
Dennis stifled a scream as he entered the building. There was blood everywhere. Dismembered bodies were leaned up against the waiting room seats in various stages of decomposition.
The words, “Weapons! Barricades! Weapons!” were smeared in blood all over the walls.
Dennis heard a voice down the hallway. He investigated the source. “Sure, I may be ex-military, but I’m not sure what the hell I’m supposed to do without a gun,” he thought to himself.
Dr. Hatchet was pacing the hallway. He was wearing his navy uniform, and carrying a bloody axe. “Weapons! Barricades! Weapons!” he shouted as he burst into fits of maniacal laughter.
Dennis barely escaped with his life, but he was never the same.
He roams the hallways of his apartment building wearing his old military uniform, and carrying a small hatchet.
The Homeless Poet 