Free The Walrus of Death: A Short Story by Steeven R. Orr Page B

of the world’s great thinkers. I have no patience for studying a situation, for looking at the problem from every angle to arrive at a viable solution. I prefer instead to just start shooting and then figure it all out once the smoke clears. In the end I tend to just make it all up as I go along.
    “Well then,” I said, my hand still clutching the handle on the coffee pot. It was about three quarters of the way full now. “Koo-koo-katchoo, Fatboy.”
    I threw the pot with all of my might, chucking it across the table like a big league pitcher throwing a fast ball. I could only hope that my aim was true and that a pot of coffee was enough to stop a walrus.

 
    HELP!
     
    THE GLASS POT struck the Walrus in the face with such force that it broke apart on impact. The pot exploded and showered both the Walrus and the surrounding area with glass and coffee. Any normal person would be screaming in pain right about now, but not the Walrus.
    Nope. Instead, he fumed. Heck, based on the look he threw my way, I wasn’t sure if the steam coming off him was from the coffee, or his rage.
    Regardless, my plan hadn’t quite worked. It looked like I was in for a scrape after all. I just hoped I could get to my guns before the big fella broke me in half.
    That meant turning around and sprinting down the hall to the bedroom. I’d already set out my clothes for the day along with the tools of my trade: One Winchester Model 1866 Lever-Action Repeating Rifle, and a pair of antique custom-built Colt Peacemakers. Based on the size of this guy, and the table between us, I should be armed and ready to roll before he rounded the table.
    At least I hoped.
    But before I could so much as twitch, the Walrus roared, picked up my oak dining table in one hand, and then tossed it casually into the adjoining living room.
    Now, believe it or not, there’s no standard procedure for a fella to follow when a murderous, rampaging, mutant walrus-man breaks into your home. They don’t air public service announcements that deal with such situations. No one has put the forethought into printing up a pamphlet detailing exactly how one should act or what one should say. They don’t drill for it in schools. And there certainly ain’t never been an after school special in which someone happened to find themselves in a similar predicament. So the average Joe, that would be me, when faced with such danger, would just have to trust his most basic of instincts.
    It’s the whole fight or flight thing. There are some of us who would stand and fight while others would flee. Heck, most sane individuals would run screaming like a little girl. Standard operating procedure for me was to stand my ground and fight, and savage walrus or not, I wasn’t one to stray from protocol. Once I actually gave it some serious thought however, I landed on the conclusion that running and screaming might be my best option.
    But before I could even shift my stance, the Walrus had moved like the wings of a humming bird and had my neck in a fist the size of a Christmas ham. He lifted me off the ground and slammed me back against the fridge.
    “What did you say?” The Walrus hissed, his rank breath blowing into my face.
    “What?” I gasped. “When?”
    “Just then, when you threw the coffee?”
    “‘Fatboy?’” The sausage-like fingers at my throat were seriously starting to restrict my breathing.
    “No,” he said. “Before that.”
    “‘Koo-koo-katchoo?’”
    “Yes,” he said. “Yes, ‘Koo-koo-katchoo.’ Was that supposed to mean something?”
    “I Am . . .” I choked “. . . The Walrus.”
    “What?”
    “The . . .” spots appeared before my eyes “. . . Beatles.”
    “Yes, I know it was the Beatles, but I’m failing to understand the correlation between this ‘koo-koo-katchoo’ nonsense and ‘I Am the Walrus.’” Then he chuckled. “Unless of course, you think that ‘koo-koo-katchoo’ is what he’s singing during the chorus?” He was laughing now, the