Chekhov’s Fly Gun

Chris sat in the driveway to his house, his phone in his lap. He was doing the “daily tasks” for the game that he couldn’t really remember starting but hadn’t felt compelled to stop playing either. It was just something he did every day when he got home from work.

With that out of the way, he exited the black Tahoe and walked up the perfectly manicured lawn. The doorbell camera chirped its hello to him, and he placed his thumb on the biometric lock. The whirring mechanism spun within the door, let out an angry buzz, blinked red twice, and when Chris tried the door, it was still locked.

Chris took a deep breath and then placed his thumb on the pad, more firm and precise this time. It buzzed and complained and did not work a second time. Sucking on his teeth, Chris fumbled his house key out and stuck it into the manual lock, giving it a good twist and then pushed through the doorway.

The door swung open heavily, and Chris’s first hurried steps were met with the scrabbling resistance of his black cat, who had been lounging on the front walkway rug. The cat yowled with indignation, scampering away. In his haste he pulled up half the rug, scrunching the black and white hand-knotted wool up on itself.

“God- stinkin- mother-” every excited exclamation tripped over the other, half finishing and half forcing the one before it. Chris sucked in another deep breath and straightened the rug out with his foot. The rug came out crooked, no longer in perfect parallel with the walls. He moved it again with his foot, more careful. It was off the other way now, and he stooped low to adjust it with his hands.

His considerable bulk rolled forward, making the blood rush to his head and making his forehead feel like it was going to pop. He maneuvered the rug back into place, and then stood erect again, stretching his back.

At the hallway console table, he dropped off his daily carrying items, keys, wallet, a multi-tool he hadn’t used in several years. He kicked off his work shoes under the table and strolled the rest of the way into the living room. He dropped off more stuff on his way through, coat on the back of his easy chair, laptop bag on the coffee table. He scooped the remote up and flicked on the tv, switching it to a YouTube channel he favored and let it run in the background.

Chris stepped into the kitchen, and on his way to the fridge he spotted a black and green piece of plastic hanging from the wall. He recognized it as the salt gun his mother had bought him several years ago. When was the last time he used it? Had he ever fired the thing? What a terrible existence. Hung on the wall, never to be fired. He glanced down at the outlet underneath the spot where it hung and looked at the blacklight glow of the electric bug killer. He stooped down and pulled the contraption off the wall and inspected the sticky side that the light attracted the bugs to. It was caked with bug corpses, so many winged and hard carapaces stuck together. Images of the little creatures stuck and struggling, ripping themselves apart on the sticky adhesive rushed through his mind. Chris returned the electric bug eradicator to the wall and stepped away from the kitchen, a ripple of nausea gripping his stomach.

The cat had returned, rubbing his body on Chris’s leg, purring loudly. When Chris sat down on his easy chair, the cat yowled and ran to the pantry.

“Alright, alright!” Chris yelled. “You’re lucky I hadn’t reclined yet.”

Back in the kitchen but avoiding looking at the violent glow of the Bug Genocider 3000, Chris opened the pantry and pulled down the plastic bin that contained his cat’s expensive food. The bin lifted much too easily, and when he popped the lid open, he groaned. Empty.

He scanned the pantry for the fresh bag, finding it at the bottom and groaned again. This time, he pulled the bottom of his pants up and squatted down, feeling his knees creaking. His gut rolled over his waist uncomfortably, but he avoided the pressure from leaning straight over. He snatched the bag from the floor and brought it to the counter. It had a perforated slit for easily opening the bag, and between thumb and forefinger Chris peeled the plastic away. It slipped up halfway through, scratching his fingers and leaving the bag unopened. Chris stared at the top piece of plastic and then turned his gaze down to his black tom cat beneath him.

“You’re a bastard. You know that? There’s ten different cats in this neighborhood who could be your father.” The cat simply looked up at him, and he sighed as he retrieved the scissors. He sliced away the top of the bag, too low down and half the contents slid down onto the counter and onto the floor.

Chris felt a primal surge of rage shiver up his body. His hands tingled with the desire to destroy something. Then he took a shuddering breath and scooped some of the food up using the cat’s bowl and set it in the usual spot. The cat was already crunching away at his feet, but he ignored the cat and spilt food and walked to the living room. With a heavy plop, Chris set himself into his chair with a sigh.

With his eyes closed he sat for a long time. Then finally he reclined his chair, looking at the TV. A prolific streamer played a video game that Chris was too scared to play himself, but he enjoyed the complexity of the gameplay. The competitive nature, the speed and the high stakes player vs player combat. It was all too much for him to play, but to watch, he could do that.

The black cat made his way into Chris’s lap, perched primly into a loaf and purring deeply. Chris scratched under the cat’s chin and said, “You’re not a bastard, buddy, I know who your dad was. He was the only other black cat in the neighborhood.”

A black speck made its way up the wall on his left, but Chris pretended not to see it. Up and up the wall it went. While Chris pretended it didn’t exist, his black monster of a kitty did not. The animal made a noise in the depths of its throat, one he didn’t think the animal had ever made before, and scrambled across Chris in great raking motions, tearing flesh in his wake, and launched towards the black spider on the wall.

The black cat was airborne longer than he should have been, then crashed into the wall underneath the bug and slid down in a furry flailing heap.

Chris sighed deeply and pinched the ridge of his nose. He could feel a headache coming on. The black cat growled underneath its escaped prey, so Chris finally looked at the spider, and saw it for the beast that it was. Roughly the size of a silver dollar, the thing was massive.

When it was apparent the cat wouldn’t leave it alone, Chris stood from his chair. His fists were clenched as he made his way to the kitchen. He pulled the black and green plastic salt gun off the wall. No bigger than a toy, he gripped the handle and rotated the thing in his hands. He couldn’t remember ever having shot it, but he must have because it was full of salt. He pulled the slide back, loading it and shooting it into the void of the pantry. It gave a loud pop, scattering salt with little tinkling noises.

Chris marched up to the spider. The thing was huge, and in the back of his mind he wondered at that. Wasn’t this thing meant for flies? He stuffed the barrel toward the spider and pulled the trigger.

The salt gun popped and the spider was shot off of the wall. A black cloud of small specks went flying in every direction. The cloud bloomed outward, cascading down and out. Chris saw little black specks all over his hands and arms, crawling on the barrel of the gun.

With a furrowed brow Chris inspected his arm. Dozens of tiny baby spiders—hundreds of them—frantically crawled up his arm, disappearing into the sleeve of his polo shirt.

The gun clattered to the ground. Chris felt a crawling sensation on his face, but screamed through closed lips, for fear that they’d go into his mouth.