Critique (standard:Satire, 1497 words)
Author: Gavin J. Carr	Added: Mar 10 2005	Views/Reads: 4026/2292	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A man, a gun, a class room full of hostages - we've seen it all before.

“You want to know something?” asked Budgie.  “You people make me sick. 
I'm not talking metaphorically here, I mean really sick.”  He reached 
into the back pocket of his jeans and fished out something black and 
compact, something sinister looking and deadly.  “I guess I've just had 
enough of you telling me what I can and can't do.  Of what's best, of 
what works and what doesn't,” he strolled over to Matt - friction taped 
to a sturdy wooden chair - and slapped his bald head hard to the beat 
of his words. 

“Of.” 

- Slap. 

“Your”. 

- Slap. 

“Endless.” 

- Slap. 

“Fucking”. 

- Slap. 

“Criticism.” 

Matt, sobbing quietly for the past half-hour started to blub loudly like
no man should.  A thin stream of urine ran down his right leg, giving 
form to a dark, wet blossom on his khaki pants. 

Budgie shook his head in disgust and took a step back to avoid the
puddle.  “You're pathetic Matt.  I hope you realise that.” Matt did not 
reply, only blub, blub, blubbed, continuously, like a faulty outboard 
motor. 

He went to the window and took a peek through the crack in the curtain. 
It was a hot July day and the sun thumped remorselessly, melting tarmac 
and discarded blobs of chewing gum.  At the end of the deserted street, 
a skinny mongrel sat panting in the shade.  After a moment it began to 
lick its balls; the perfect counterpoint to his day. 

Budgie's feet kicked up dust bunnies as he walked back to the desk at
the head of the room.  Behind him, scrawled on an ancient blackboard, 
were the words:  “Adult Education” and below in slightly smaller 
letters:  “Creative Writing Workshop”.  He took a seat and put his feet 
up on the desk, next to his father's old service revolver. 

He surveyed the scene - five chairs and their occupants in a loose
semi-circle around the desk; long table at the centre of the room, 
piled with manuscripts and notepads; notice board, announcements and 
tattered fragments of poetry pinned to it; a single, neat bullet-hole 
in the ceiling – his way of grabbing their attention.  He wondered how 
long he had until the cops arrived and put an end to his little 
diatribe. 

“Does anyone know what this is?” he asked, holding up the thing that he
had taken from his pocket.  “Anyone?  Anyone? – No?” he pressed a 
button and a silver blade snicked into existence like black magic.  “I 
call it the editor,” he said, “I may have to make a few corrections and 
improvements, but it's for your own good.  You'll thank me for it in 
the end.” 

“You've lost your fucking mind, Budgie!” MacLellan shouted.  “This isn't
one of your stories you know – we're not a bunch of two-dimensional 
characters in some cheap fucking sci-fi book.  You can't toy with us, 
make-us dance like puppets!” 

He looked at MacLellan, straining against the tape, rattling the chair -
all neatly trimmed beard and manly squinting eyes.  A cut-price 
Hemmingway, he thought.  The only one of the group who had ever been 
published; a collection of short stories set locally, that even the 
locals wouldn't read.  Still, the bastard was brave, the others were 
looking at him as though he were God.  Albeit a suicidal one. 



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