Sunday, March 20, 2005

Scott Peterson Story Contest

Example

A few months ago I advertised for a phony Scott Peterson story contest. I only got two submissions but I enjoyed reading them both. The following was submitted by Chris Miller. His stories can be found in the archives of Thieves Jargon and I posted a link below the story so you should stop being an asshole and take a look and don't limit yourself to the snobby mags like McSweeney's that only publish smug stories that feature Dakota Fanning as the main character and the writers can't get over how clever and sarcastic they are.

Scott Peterson Story Submission by Chris Miller:

If people would only leave me alone I'd probably have a pretty good
life,
yet people inist on interferring with my life for some reason. When I
decide, for instance, that I want to stay at home alone drinking beer
and
smoking cigarettes some fucker comes along and sabotages my plan. They
come
over uninvited, start telling me their problems as if I care and, worst
of
all, they help themselves to my beer in the mini-fridge in my bedroom.
Or
they keep calling until I pick up the phone. Or I take five minutes to
let
the cat out and there they are standing in my driveway asking for a
meal or
advice about something. I despise these people. None of them seem to
understand that if I really wanted to see them, or talk to them, or
share my
beer with them, I'd let them know. They cannot comprehend that I need
my
solitude. Those fuckers won't stay away from my home. I don't ask for
very
much, and they won't even give me that.

Take last night, for instance. Thelma called me. She said that she wa
coming
over with a friend. I didn't know who this "friend" was, nor did I
care, but
since I hated to turn people away, I agreed that they could come over
and
have a drink or two.

I waited. When I got the call, I'd already had a few drinks, maybe six,
maybe more. I was drinking gin and tonic. Its effects were kicking in.
I
waited some more for Thelma and her friend to arrive. An hour went by.
Nobody showed.

Then I heard a knock at the door. By this time, I was in bed reading a
book:
Crime and Punishment. It was a good one, but not as good as The Idiot.
I'd
had another three drinks and wanted to kill whoever came through the
door. I
went downstairs. Drunk, I stumbled towards my destination. I finally
got to
the front door. I had a baseball bat in my hand. The bat just appeared
there, as if it were meant to be there. I didn't question why.

The door opened. Thelma was there. Scott Peterson was there with her. I
was
not a very good hitter in the summer, but this was winter and I
connected
solidly on this particular night. The barrel of the bat hit Scott
square in
the face ... a direct hit. With the force of my swing, the guy's skull
disconnected from the rest of his body, sending his ugly head over my
snow-covered bushes and into the neighbour's yard. I didn't like my
neighbour either. He deserved to have Scott's ugly face as a lawn
ornament.

"Home run!" I hollered, raising my arms in jubilation, and then
slamming the
door in Thelma's face. I went back upstairs to bed with my gin and
tonic,
and finished another chapter of Dostoyevsky before drifting off into a
well-deseved sleep.











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