CHUCK VS. BUCK
by Matthew Sanborn Smith
Chuck thought it would be cool to convert the guitars so they shot bullets. Now we were on the run after a show where he tried to get fancy with a G minor chord and some improvised harmonics.
"That dog would be alive right now if we'd gotten flame throwers like I'd wanted," I complained between puffs. Our boots slapped against the white gravel of the railroad tracks.
"I'm an artist, Zip," he said. "I find pyrotechnics gauche."
We were a trio until about two hours ago. Marty had hopped on his chopper when we bolted (He was playing the house's drum kit). When he started his bike the thing shot him. I told Chuck if he wanted to try a solo act, all he had to do was tell us.
"Marty's fine," he said. "He just won't be playing double bass for a while."
Now he said, "You know, I bet I could make these railroad tracks fire a .22."
"What are you, fucking MacGuyver or something? This is almost a sickness with you! You should give up music and go work for the CIA! They'd snap you up in a heartbeat."
"Hold it, hold it," Chuck hissed, coming to a stop.
"What?" I whispered. He pointed into the woods. There, in the moonlight was an eight point buck (I found out later it was a ten point, but hey, moonlight, remember?).
"I don't know about you, Zip, but I'm starving."
"Oh, man, you're not kidding. I could really go for some venison." I watched to see what he was going to shoot the thing with. His shoe? A toothbrush? Instead, he grabbed me, spun me around and gave me a bear hug from behind. The bullet rattled my bones as it flew out of my chest and caught the buck right in the neck. I hadn't even felt the conversion.
God damn, that guy was gifted.