Free Horror Business by Ryan Craig Bradford Page B

Every moment is littered with “holy shit” or a “goddamn,” and soon we’re fighting to hold the gun.
    “Here, give it to me.” I shake the box of blanks in front of him.
    Steve relinquishes the gun and I fumble the box open. Suddenly, I’m very nervous with the toy, letting thoughts enter my mind like what if it’s not fake?
    “How did that dude from The Crow die?” Steve asks, as if reading my thoughts. “Was it a blank gun?” He stops to consider the question. “Yeah, Brandon Lee. He was killed on-set. A fake gun was loaded with real bullets. Something like that.”
    “I don’t think you can do that,” I say, looking down at the magazine in one hand and a blank in the other. “Fake guns can’t shoot real bullets.” I hope .
    “Remember that guy who died on The Twilight Zone Movie ?” Steve continues. “That was fucked up.”
    “Yeah, but that was a helicopter. Chopped the guy’s head clean off.” I emphasize this point by striking an invisible line through my neck. “Killed two kids too. People say John Landis has never been the same.”
    I snap one of the blanks into the magazine. It seems too easy, which makes me uneasy. I snap two more in.
    “John who?” Steve asks.
    “John Landis. That guy who did American Werewolf in London. He was the guy directing when the helicopter went down.”
    “Who says that he hasn’t been the same?”
    “You know. People.”
    “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    I slide the loaded magazine into the handle. Steve goes on about the nature of people dying on film.
    “Shut up,” I say. “I’m loaded.”
    He stops talking and fear returns to his face. Again, I’m uncomfortable with the gun in my hands.
    “Is it going to be loud?” Steve asks.
    “I don’t know.” My heart races. I pull the slide back and see the blank pop into place. “You ready?”
    I aim the gun off in the other direction, just in case the bullets are real. Gun phrases from movies rush through my mind, but “ don’t pull the trigger, squeeze ” is the one that sticks. I can’t remember what movie it’s from.
    I squeeze the trigger. Thunder.
    The shell flies out and lands, smoking, at my feet. I’m short of breath and sweaty, but I also feel immensely light. Behind me, Steve stands, mouth agape, still covering his ears.
    “Holy shit,” Steve says. “That was awesome.”
    “That’s right,” I say, giddy with power. “Don’t fuck with me.” I squeeze off the other two blanks. Before we retreat back to our houses, I throw the blank cases into the drainage pipe.

Bully (remake)
     
     
    I walk home in the afternoon haze, and I try to think of a better ending to the movie. So far, nothing I’ve come up with is very good. It’s either too predictable or not gory enough. The leaves on the street crunch nicely under my feet, and I make squishing sounds with my mouth every time I step down. I imagine the leaves as little bodies breaking underneath me. I turn down the music in my headphones so I can hear the crunching better.
    A flock of kids run past me. Their maniacal screaming echoes in my head. I pass a telephone pole with a fluorescent-colored MISSING CHILD poster. Greg Mackie. His badly photocopied face longs for discovery.
    I turn on to my street and notice the plainness of the neighborhood—how all the houses look the same. It’s something that you don’t notice until horrible things begin to happen in your community. I’m too busy thinking of the contrast to notice Colt Stribal sitting on my lawn.
    My first inclination is to turn around and run, despite how childish that would appear to Ally if she happened to be watching from her window.
    He looks at me and then turns away with passing indifference. He cradles his arm and talks to himself, slightly rocking back and forth. I remain frozen. Fear weighs down my feet. Oh shit, I think, you haven’t come up with a part for him in your movie yet.
    Then I notice the blood.
    The hand that he’s cradling