Latest Flash

The Inner Me

It can be good to look inside yourself.
But in the gutter, sometimes it's too dark to see.

The Inner Me by Todd Morr



When Dennis decided to become Denise, he told everybody Denise was who he really was inside.  The man we all saw was just a mask he used to hide his true self.   Sure, his transformation from dad to mom was tough on his kids, as was his conversion from son to daughter tough on his parents, but his inner self had spoken. Apparently, listening to the inner self is very important, certainly more important than the feelings of his friends and family. Everyone, for the most part, recognized the authority of the inner self and came around to support the decision.
The same line of reasoning was not working out near as well for me.  I had explained the way the inner me felt. I laid out how important letting the inner me do some blow off the tits of prostitute was for my long term mental health, but my wife was still standing in the doorway of my room at the Las Vegas Motel 6 pointing my own gun at me.
Apparently my inner me’s long desire for a long weekend binging on cocaine, strippers, Tequila, and blackjack was not ‘valid.’
Explaining the dull loser who worked forty hours a week and took the kids to school was just a mask I wore did not get the sympathetic head nods and long hugs Dennis got. Instead, she pulled the trigger.
Lack of proper gun care never paid off so well.  Turns out if one does not oil and clean the things once in a while, they tend to jam.
I was not the type of guy who would ever hit a woman, or at least I had always thought so, but it turns out that may have been a mask too.  The inner me felt the bitch deserved it, and the outer me agreed.
One of the big differences between a man and woman is after men get dropped by a single punch they tend to quit running their mouths. It is just common sense. Even with her half her fat face caved in she would not shut the fuck up.  Later I thought I should visit Denise, test out how well the transformation went and punch her in the mouth, see if she keeps talking.
The wife did not shut up until I had bounced her face off the bathroom sink about twelve times, actually I think she may have quit talking after the third time, but the inner me felt compelled to keep slamming her.
She was alive, but I thought I could see some brain showing through her crappy dye job. I was pretty sure the inner her did not want to live the rest of her life as A retard or a vegetable, so I drowned her in the toilet. I flushed first, this was the mother of my children after all.
I went ahead and gave the gun a good cleaning. The oil and everything was in the case I kept it in, and my deceased wife had been thoughtful enough to bring it along.
My mask suggested suicide, but fuck him.  The inner me saw a better use for the gun.  The bank accounts, what was left of them, were frozen, but the real me needed some more cash to continue living the way I was supposed to.
When I walked into the gas station waving the gun around, I got the distinct feeling the inner self of the dude behind the counter really wanted to shoot someone with the pistol he had under the counter. I had never really thought about it, probably because I was too busy cultivating my mask, but I really wanted to shoot someone too.
Since I already had my freshly oiled pistol handy, I got my wish.  Turns out it was not near as satisfying as drowning somebody, but watching the blood from the exit wounds decorate the broken liquor bottles behind the counter and seeing him fall back into the same bottles before slumping lifelessly to the ground was pretty cool.
While I was taking all the cash from the register I saw the patrol car pull into the parking lot.  I grabbed the young lady by the slot machines and walked out using her as a shield.  He was reluctant to open fire and hit the girl.  I shot him four times while he was telling me to drop the gun.
The girl covered her head, fell to her knees, and started crying.  She had done such a nice job helping me with the cop I gave her twenty bucks from my haul.
I made my way to a casino, one of the crappy ones off the strip.  I washed down a shot of Patron with a beer and set up at a blackjack table.  I could see the cops surrounding the table as the sparse gamblers in the place ran for the exits.  I put all my chips on the next hand and the dealer gave me an ace and a king.  Instead of paying me my money he ducked under the table.
I went for my gun, but these cops were not bothering to tell me anything before they opened fire.
I bled out on the cheap green felt thinking the inner me was kind of an asshole.

Todd Morr is the author of Mr. Chips Must Die, If You're Not One Percent, Captain Cooker and Jesus Saves, Satan Invests. He has also had work appear in Out of the Gutter, Shotgun Honey and The Big Adios. He lives in Central California.