Bring Me My Shotgun

Will stands by the entrance and fucks his luck. Why me, he thinks, and inhales deeply before entering the large office. The radio is stuck mid-station and static reverberates off the mahogany furniture and ripples across his skin. The office chair is turned around towards the window and the dim light from the desk lamp sends shadows skulking into corners. Will looks around and feels smaller still, his tiny Elfian body compressed and consumed by the brooding artefacts within the aged walls. Dust begins to settle around him and he can feel the tiny fibres and dead cells invading his nasal mucosa, his sinus’ pulsing and preparing to incite a brain burn. He rubs his nose and moves towards the desk, the floor creaking beneath him, his presence accordingly pronounced.

‘Santa…’ Will steps closer and waits. ‘Er…Santa.’


‘We have a problem.’

The chair slowly spins round and Will attempts a smile, unsure of whether his lips are listening.

‘What is it?’ Santa removes an electronic cigarette from his mouth and blows the smoke out into the stale air. He throws it into the bin and strokes his beard, looking across the table at the little man and his wide-eyed complexion.

‘Bobski the Builder has gone rogue.’


‘He’s gone rogue.’

‘What do you mean he’s gone rogue?’

‘He’s killed twenty seven people.’

‘Hmmm.’ Santa tops up his tumbler and stares at the dark liquid. ‘Twenty seven, you say.’

‘And counting.’

‘How did this happen?’

‘The chip inside his face fucked up.’

‘His face fucked up?’

‘No, the chip in his face fucked up.’

‘Now that is strange.’ Santa raises his hand and feels his worn and wrinkled face. ‘My face fucked up a long time ago. That’s why I wear this beard.’

Uncertain how to respond, Will nods and indicates an understanding he lacks. ‘What shall we do?’

‘Grow a beard.’

‘No, I mean about Bobski the Builder.’

‘Ah, yes. Let me think.’ He removes a packet of cigarettes from his desk drawer and taps it gently against his open palm . ‘You know, I never understood why we didn’t put the chip up his bum.’ He lights a cigarette and shakes his head. ‘Why is that?’

‘He didn’t have a bum.’

‘Well why not?’

‘Why would he need one?’

‘To poop.’

‘He’s a toy.’

‘Toys poop. Like those baby dolls. They poop everywhere. They don’t stop pooping. I even found some in my eyebrow. Right here.’ He points at his left eyebrow. ‘It was there for three days. I thought I had cataracts.’

‘Yes, but they’re meant to poop.’

‘Maybe Bobski was too. Maybe that’s why he went mental.’

‘Maybe it is.’

‘I couldn’t poop for three days once. Nearly exploded.’

Will stands there and remembers the time he couldn’t stop pooping. It was after the Christmas gift run in Peru. Once the last present had been delivered they set the slay down and he’d taken a stroll among the locals, mingling with the mortals and their wine soaked wishes for merrier mornings. He bought a hot dog from a hairy street vendor and suffered the shits for three solid weeks. There was nothing solid about it.

His stomach convulses and he knows the conversation requires a return to the matter at hand. ‘What shall we do?’

‘Send in Paul the Butcher.’

‘We can’t.’


‘He’s had a crisis of confidence.’

Santa finishes his drink and slams the empty tumbler onto the messy table top. ‘What are you talking about man?’

‘Paul. He’s troubled.’

‘That’s absurd.’ He begins to rummage around in the scattered lists of Christmas longings that litter his desk. ‘If anyone’s troubled round here, it’s me.’ Locating a crumpled packet of crisps he pours the contents into his mouth and frowns at the uninspiring nourishment. ‘Look at me.’

Will looks at the red faced man and waits for further instructions.

‘What do you see?’

‘Santa Claus.’


‘What do you mean?’

‘I see the same thing every day. Same beard. Same hair. Same hat. Same clothes. Same shit. Day after day. I can’t get a haircut even if I want to.’

‘Why not?’

‘Coca-Cola. They’ve got me by the balls.’ Santa pours himself another whiskey and leans back in his creaking chair. ‘And if it’s not them, it’s Mrs Claus. She hates me more than I do.’

‘I don’t believe that.’

‘We haven’t had sex in 127 years.’

Will tries to think of something to say, but falls short, once again. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s not your fault…unless…’ Santa sits up in his chair and leans over the desk towards Will, his eyes fierce and swiftly focused. ‘Unless it is.’

‘No. Of course not. Never.’


Beyond the window snow begins to fall.

A deafening silence spills into the room and Will and Santa stare at each other, unsure of how the conversation careered from mountain tops into qualm and carnage. The clock beside the door indicates the expanding emptiness and neither man moves to fill the burden of banality.

Will contemplates the accusation and Santa considers it compulsory despite the long lost need of love. They remember the wedding. The best man standing beside the groom, crying. They remember the increasing visits and whispered words and smiles and secrets. The long lonely hours and cold dinners and empty beds. Loyalty and former friendship.  Betrayal.

Will shifts on his feet and fears the old man’s smile.

Santa sets his glass down and leans forward. ‘I have an idea.’

‘Yes?’ Will replies, suspicious of the teeth he hasn’t seen since childhood.

‘I know what to do. But first, let us drink.’ Santa pours himself another glass and fills a second for Will. He hands it over to the little man and sits back in his seat. ‘Cheers.’

They clink and drink, slowly, soberly.

‘Now bring me my shotgun.’


The soundtrack for ‘Bring Me My Shotgun’ is Trouble with Templeton’s ‘Bleeders.’




Send Her Away



‘Send her away.’


‘Send her away.’

I look around. ‘Who?’


We’re alone. ‘There’s no one here.’

‘Of course there is.’

I check. ‘No…there’s no one here.’

‘You’re here.’


‘Send you away.’




‘Why not?’

‘Because I like it here.’

‘I don’t.’

‘So why don’t you go away?’

‘I can’t.’


‘Because you’re here.’

He fidgets.

I look at the clock. ‘What time is it?’

‘It’s time to go.’


‘I don’t know.’

The minute hand stutters back and forth.

I watch it twitch.

‘Can you hear that?’



I listen.


‘I can’t hear anything.’

‘I can.’

‘What is it?’

‘It’s an elephant.’





‘In this room?’


‘There’s an elephant in this room?’


I scan the room.

‘I can’t see it.’

‘See what?’

‘The elephant.’

He looks around the room.

I look around the room.

‘Send him away.’

‘He’s already gone.’


He coughs.

I yawn.

‘What time is it?’

I check the clock.

‘It’s broken.’

‘I knew it.’

My eyes hurt.

‘What number are you?’

‘Twenty three. You?’

He rummages in his pockets.



‘I’ve lost my ticket.’

I found a ticket.

‘Did you hear me?’


I think about it.

‘Maybe the elephant took it.’

‘Maybe you took it.’

‘Why would I take your ticket?’

‘Why would the elephant take my ticket?’

‘I didn’t take it.’

‘Neither did he.’

He tries to get up but can’t.

‘My legs don’t work.’

‘What’s wrong with them?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Try again.’

He tries again.

‘They still don’t work.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I’m not.’

The telephone rings.

We wait.

Nothing happens.

‘Are you going to answer it?’

‘I wasn’t planning to.’

‘Maybe you should.’

‘Maybe you should.’

‘I can’t move.’

He’s right. He can’t.

I walk towards the phone.

I pick it up.



‘Whose this?’

‘Whose this?’

I pause to consider the question.


I hang up.

‘Who was that?’

‘Wrong number.’

‘What number did they want?’

‘A different one.’

‘Is that what they said?’

‘They didn’t have to.’

‘So how do you know?’

‘I know.’


The phone rings again.

‘Maybe it’s them?’



Maybe it is.

I pick up the phone.



‘Is it you?’

‘It is me.’

I nod at him. ‘It’s them.’

‘We have your elephant.’

‘They have your elephant.’


He thinks about it.

I think about it.

He sighs.

‘Send them away.’

‘Are you sure?’


‘Go away.’

I hang up.

The numbers change.

I check my ticket.

‘Number twenty three.’

‘That’s me.’

‘Do you have a ticket?’


I sit back down.

The walls are cracked.

The paint is peeling.

I remember when I was twelve years old. It was during the summer when school was out and days were long and life was optimistic. Mum and dad were at work and I was supposed to go to go to Nan’s for lunch, but I had other plans. I left the house and decided to take a detour, so I walked down Sunnyside Lane and along the gravel path towards the canal. It was a warm day so I took my jumper off and tied it around my waist. I picked up a stick and continued walking, the ducks swimming in the dark and dirty water beside me. Not far down the path there was a clearing where I knew rabbits roamed, so I stepped over the crumbling wooden gate and carefully moved through the long grass. I waited and waited but nothing happened. The rabbits were hiding so I began walking along the edge of the clearing beside the bushes, picking blackberries as I moved along. There was a noise from within the bramble and I tried to look through the branches to see if it was a rabbit, but my view was limited so I pushed my way into the foliage. Dusting off my dress and picking leaves from my long hair, I heard the noise again, this time closer. I stood there listening, still, waiting. Twigs snapped behind me. I turned around. There he was, a metre away. I could smell the alcohol and sweat seeping out from his skin beneath his torn and tarnished clothes. I tightened my grip on the stick as my tiny knuckles whitened and waited for my command. Neither of us moved. We just stood there, staring at each other. His lips parted to reveal his uneven teeth. I think it was a smile but I wasn’t sure. The cars continued to pass on the motorway, the relentless whine of exhausts the only sound between us. My eyes began to hurt. He moved closer. Slowly his hands began to rise towards his torso. I inched backwards. He started laughing. I didn’t. Suddenly he stopped and stared at me, his eyes dark and cast in shadow from the trees above. I waited, unsure of what to do, what he might do. Then it happened.

The light above flickers.

The numbers change.

‘Number twenty three.’

I check my ticket.

He looks at me.

I look at him.

We sit in silence.

I remember things.

Dead Rabbits.

Broken dolls.

Melting plastic.

Blunt knives.

Fresh blood.

White jackets.

Grey clipboards.

Padded rooms.

Plastic cups.

Tiny tablets.





Cold nights.







No answers.


No answers.

No one.

The phone rings.

We stare at it.

I answer it.



‘The elephant’s gone.’

‘Thank you.’

I hang up.

‘The elephant’s gone.’

‘I know.’


‘He’s here.’



‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Why didn’t you ask me?’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I’m sorry.’

The clock twitches.

The numbers change.

We look at the elephant.

It’s too late.


The soundtrack for Send Her Away is Ben Sollee’s – ‘Dear Companion’