Thread: 03/22/09 - Put The Hammer Down

Hello, Dear Writers, and welcome to your next LM. Your challenge this round is:

Put The Hammer Down
In no more than 500 words (not including the title), write a story based on the phrase “Put The Hammer Down.”
Thank you to The Backward Ox for the prompt.

Submissions may only be posted in this thread or in the thread provided in the Writers' Workshop (you must provide a link to your submission in this thread if you opt to use the Writers' Workshop). Everyone is welcome to participate. Note: Judges are welcome to participate, but their entries cannot receive a score.

Submissions will be accepted until midnight my time, April 5th (2 weeks)
Judging period: April 6th - April 12th
Results will be posted on or before April 13th

Good luck to everyone!

Your judges for this round are:
eggo
SevenWritez
silverwriter
Myself

EDIT: Judge Entry.

My girlfriend who seconds ago had made me very angry cried, "Put the hammer down!"

I obliged and in its stead picked up a chainsaw.

Then I killed her with it.

The End

She said her name was Dawn, and that sunsets made her cry. Meaning her whole damn night was ruined till the sun rose again to cheer her up. That was a pretty depressing form of insomnia.

She said she was sixteen, so he figured she was fourteen. She had a snub nose and the kind of freckles that failed to be cute. Her hair was sort of orange, and dirty, like her clothes. She was flat chested and hipless. The short skirt and halter top she wore mainly just accentuated her lack of a body and painful looking sunburn.

His name was Ben and he found himself attracted to her despite all that. He was a moron, he figured. At sunset on this very day, 6:15pm to be precise, he would leave the land of his thirties and enter the cold, bleak wasteland of his forties. Talk about a depressing sunset.



They were sitting on a bench outside a bus station in Flat Grange, New Mexico. They were surrounded by desert and dry air and the old lady who stared from the bus station counter, beady eyes broadcasting that she had a gun in her hand and really wanted to use it.

Dawn had a filthy, tattered backpack. Ben had a fading green suitcase and a toolbox. If you carry around a toolbox, he’d discovered, people think you have a job,. He figured that was why Dawn turned to him, suddenly, and offered to suck him off if he’d buy her a bus ticket.

“Nah.” He replied. “Not my thing.”

“Bummer.” Dawn said, probably dreading sunset even more.

“I don’t have a ticket either.” He admitted. “I just sat here because there was a bench. This tool box is fucking heavy.” He stared down the highway, watching a car approach. “I’m just waiting.”

“For what?” she asked.

“This.” He said, and the car pulled up to the bus station.

It was a 82 Jaguar, the gray pallor of a hung-over morning. A fat man emerged.

“One second.” Ben said, and retrieved a hammer from his box. He strolled over to the driver, who was buffing the side mirror.

“Nice car.” Ben told him, raising the hammer high.

The fat man turned. “She’s a beauty, ain’t…” he saw the hammer and cringed. “Aw fuck, man! Put the hammer down!”

So he did. Pretty hard.



Ben and Dawn were cruising west in the Jag. The sun was bloating on the horizon, ready to sink.

“Fucking sunsets.” Dawn muttered. “Hey. You sure you don’t want me to suck you off?”

“Nah.” Ben said. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings. “Maybe later, though.”

“If I start crying, just ignore me.” She said. “Hey. Will this thing go any faster?”

It came to Ben that the way to beat a sunset, or a birthday, was to race on through to the other side. To get past the day and make a sunrise chase them.

“Probably.” He said, and put the hammer down.

A Multiplicity Of Hammers

(with apologies to C.W.McCall)

500 words


I was enjoying my afternoon off, with a good thriller.

The squad knew my habits and reading preferences; last Christmas they’d given me a boxed set of Mickey Spillane’s best. His hero Mike Hammer was my hero too.




Then the phone rang. This usually meant trouble.

“Inspector, it’s Len. We need you. PsychoBilly’s escaped.”

“You guys. Can’t you manage anything? I’m reading.”

“Come on, boss. Put the Hammer down. We need you here.”

I relented.




Seven minutes later I pulled up at the isolated address Len had provided.

As he walked across I said, “Ok, where’s our boy?”

“He’s locked himself in a shed down the back.”

“I’ll talk to him.”

I saw the escapee through a closed window, holding a hammer.

“Billy, this’s Inspector Smurf. You’re not achieving anything. Let me help.”

“Fuck you, copper.”

“Billy, just put the hammer down, and we’ll talk.”

He dropped the hammer, but it was a trick, and fooled us. We hadn’t seen the rear window. With a single bound he was gone. We swore and scrambled after him.

. . . . .

PsychoBilly scuttled up the embankment and plunged into the woods. Being agile, he moved quickly. The sounds of the chase soon faded.

He came to a clearing where a man wearing a deerstalker aimed a single-shot scattergun at something under the trees.

Approaching from behind, PsychoBilly threw an arm around his neck and jabbed a finger into his ribs.

“Just do as I say, and no one gets hurt. Put the hammer down on your shotgun, s-l-o-w-l-y, nice and easy, then drop the gun on the ground.”

The terrified hunter complied.

PsychoBilly grinned, felled him with a blow behind the ear, hefted the gun, and moved off.




On the outskirts of town he came across a red Toyota in a driveway. From inside an adjacent house he heard noises that sounded like a stringed instrument being murdered.

He stormed in to discover a man with one arm inside the body of a piano.(Note to self: rewrite this sentence)

“Hey,” yelled PsychoBilly, waving the scattergun. “What’s that you’ve got there? What’re you doing?”

“It’s my tuning hammer. I’m tuning the piano.”




“That noise bugs me. Put the hammer down before I blow you apart.”

“Yessir.”

“Right. Now we’re going for a little ride in your car.”

. . . . .

I felt irritated, losing that loony.

I trudged back to my car. The police radio crackled.

“Code One Zero Four, stolen red Toyota, X-ray Oscar, four, eight, three, escaped mental patient and hostage. Believed travelling south, Highway 101.”



I was on Highway 101.

Hey, what was that, speeding past?

A red Toyota.

Its number? XO-something.



Damn. My car refused to start.

I ran out on the road, flagged down an approaching thirty-four-wheeler.

I jumped in, waving my warrant card.

“Follow that car.”

The trucker was old, had an Elvis haircut, chewed gum, wore loud clothing.

“That’s a 10-4, good buddy. Mercy sakes alive, it looks like we got us a chase, and ah’m about t’ put the hammer down!”

Ordinary Matters?

(497 words)

Mark was a remarkable carpenter, and on rare occasions, he’d craft something of godly distinctiveness. No piece of furniture would leave his workshop in anything but a perfect condition. From cupboards to desks to chairs, he did the lot with unquestionable dedication. But, despite the quality of his work, he’d recently built up a need to go one step further.

“It needs more work,” he’d say, “because it isn’t worthy yet – it’s all still too ordinary.”

Every night, while lying in bed, he would take his favorite hammer – the one used almost exclusively for his best furniture – and knock himself on the head until he fell asleep. At the same time, he would converse with his wife over, what he saw as, trivial matters.

“You’re going to damage your brain if you carry on like that,” his wife said.

knock…

“It lets me sleep, honey. You want me to sleep, don’t you?”

“…Yes dear, I do, but please put the hammer down.”

knock…

“You know it helps take the ordinary away, honey.”

She looked over at her husband, curious as to why he persisted in his ways.

“I love you,” she said.

“Love you too, honey…"

knock…

*

“Did you see the psychologist today?”

“Yes, honey”

“Did you solve anything?”

“She said that information is confidential.”

“She’s a women?”

knock…

“Yes honey, that’s what the word ‘she’ implies.”

knock…

“I love you,” she said.

“I know, honey.”

knock…

*

It was Friday night, and Mark emerged from his workshop with a smile slapped on his face - a smile that defied his character.
He collapsed on his bed and looked over at his wife, whom looked somewhat concerned.

“The neighbors found a dead raccoon in the trash this morning.”

knock…

“Hmm. Did it look ordinary?” Mark asked, staring at the ceiling.

“No, Susan said it looked like someone had beaten it with a bat – she got the fright of her life when she saw it.”

knock…

“Aw, that’s horrific, honey. At least it didn’t happen to a person.”

“…I love you Mark.”

knock…

*

“Apparently Susan’s husband is in hospital tonight. He allegedly got attacked by a black man.”

knock…

“How severe are his injuries?”

“They’re terrible. The doctors said he was beaten by a heavy, blunt object. Police said the attack was very out of the ordinary.”

knock…

“What’s happening to our society today, hey, honey?"

“I don’t know, Mark. I really don’t know.”

knock...

*

It was Friday night and Mark was notably uneasy.

“Thank god it’s just been an ordinary week. I was starting to get quite paranoid after all these incidents, you know?”

“Yes, honey.”

“…How’s your therapy going?”

“I already told you that it’s confidential, honey, but if you must know, it’s not going too well.”

knock…

“…Honey?” Mark continued, turning over to his wife.

A cool breeze of silence impregnated the air.

“I can’t put the hammer down.”

“I know.”

“…I love you, honey.”

“Love you too, Mark.”

Meanungless Verdict (466 words)

These rows of dirty looks are stabbing my self-esteem. Since pulling the trigger I've received a serious reality check. Support was rock bottom and my fate had rested in the hands of the law. Society can be a cruel place indeed.

The prosecutor had a smug on her face. She's truly vile slut; I can almost saw her ass in the testimony. Her hair curled round her finger and her eyes relaxing to my lawyer. Well I have to admit, my lawyer is pretty charming. He's done good regardless of that tart's flirting. The evidence was stacked against me, so claiming it was self-defense may have been a life-saver.

Whatever the verdict, it would make no difference. The world has abandoned me and prison wouldn't be any different. I had to put the hammer down on the guy's skull; he deserved it. The man was a traitor, in every sense of the word. He had a list of lies that was as long as my arm. Nobody had the guts to, so I did it in their place.

The result would arrive soon. I don't want everyone to see how nervous I am, it's not easy trying to remain calm in this crazy situation. Even though I felt nothing mattered anymore, I still tasted fear. I don't want to taste anymore; it's already sour.

We lifted our feet up for the jugde. The plumb man marched quickly to his desk with the mallet glued to his hand. Everyone sits apart from me and a member of the jury. On the stand with no barriers, I was on my own, defenseless.

"Members of the jury have you reached a verdict?" his honor asked.

"Yes, we have!" The guy in the navy suit looked determined. My heartbeats were sudden pounds. A fearful emotion pumping took control of my nerves.

"For the murder of Roberto James Bewbster," the judge announced, "do you find the defendant, Alice Jayne Bewbster, guilty or not guilty?"

"Not guilty!"

My body chucked out the fear, dumping it elsewhere. My sister-in-law in the audience gasped in horror. Anger wrinkled her face with her arms pointing at me. Megan always did have a loud mouth, and despised me since college. I don't blame her though; I did use her to sleep with her brother. “I WANT JUSTICE!” Megan screeched. Her cream fringe dangled on her forehead hitting her cheek. “You haven't gotten away with this Alison.”

“Silence!” The jugde demanded. “Alison Jayne Bewbster, you have been found not guilty, you are free to go. This case is now dismissed.”

"IT'S NOT OVER YET, ALISON!" No wonder Megan gets sore throats, shouting like that could strain anyone's voice. At least I won't get bored.

With the mallet down, I walk out a free woman, while my late husband remains are leftovers from a maggot's feast.

Oops, sorry.

Sharon pressed the ice-filled towel against my eye. "You'll be okay Bobby," she offered in a soothing, almost condescending tone.


I was still shaking from rage. I jerked away only to bang my head against the door of the truck. "I hate that sonofabitch," tears filled my eyes. "Why’d he even come here?"

Putin Down was the town thug. His reputation for pounding his adversaries into the ground earned him the nickname "The Hammer". When he announced that he was going to get someone, which he loved to do, they would go into hiding. After allowing them time to come to terms with their cowardice, he would inevitably nail his target.

That’s why we always partied in these remote settings like the river landing.

"How’d he even know we were here?" I pushed Sharon’s arm away and jumped out of my dad’s rusting work truck. "Why me? I never done nothin’ to him."

I reached into the toolbox in the bed of the truck. Sharon scrambled out of the passenger side and raced around the truck.

I looked at the panic in her eyes. "He ain’t gettin’ away with this." I pulled a straight-clawed hammer out of the box. "He can fight me, but he ain’t gonna push you around."

"You put that hammer down now," she pleaded, "right now! I mean it Bobby. It’s over… just let it go."

I heard her desperation, "But he can’t do…"

"He’ll hurt you bad if you go back there," she interrupted. "I don’t want no more trouble. Pleeeease… let’s just go." Sharon began crying

I tossed the hammer in the box. "Okay, we’ll go."

We climbed in the truck. She kissed my cheek. "I love you." She curled up on my shoulder. We sat in silence staring toward the fire where everyone was still gathered.

Then we saw an approaching shadow. It had Putin’s swagger. A little closer. It was him.

"Let’s go Bobby," Sharon screamed, "let’s go right now."

I started the truck.

Putin grabbed up a handful of gravel and tossed it at the truck. "You goin’ home with wussy, Sherriekins?"

He stood there defiantly. My knuckles grew white from my grip on the wheel.

I revved the motor.

"Ya ain’t got the balls," he smirked.

"I hate him," I whispered. I hated him because he was right.

Sharon shoved the truck in gear and stomped on my foot. "I’ll put the hammer down you bastard."

I tried to pull up the accelerator. Putin tried to move.

There was a sickening thud as he rolled under the truck.

The crowd of onlookers began applauding.

"What an awful accident," someone rejoiced.
__________________

She’d pay.

Oh, how she’d pay.

The little angel on my right shoulder whispered about how it wasn’t her fault, how I was away from home all the time and I’d had little ‘mistakes’ while I was away, so how could I blame her for the same? Put the hammer down, John, it whispered. Let her explain, give her a chance.

It’s different, hissed the devil on my left shoulder. It’s different to be unfaithful in your own house, in the bed you share with your husband. I was in Maine, on the other side of the country, in a blizzard. It just…happened. She brought this other man into my house – she thought about it, planned it – how long has this been going on, for God’s sake?

And what about the time in Colorado, John? You and that eighteen-year-old both knew what would happen when you first laid eyes on each other, and you got to the point as quickly and as often as you could. It was no accident then.

It’s different, the devil insisted.

I had heard them in our bedroom as soon as I came in. And I’d come in so quietly, so carefully, not wanting to wake her – to be greeted in such a way. The hammer was on the counter with some other tools, next to the broken-down refrigerator. The screwdriver looked promising, but the hammer was closer.

And when you spent the night in Texas, John – cruising around looking for whores doesn’t sound ‘planned’ to you?

Shut up.

I stalked silently down the hall. I had built this house with my own two hands. I knew where every creak and groan was, and where they weren’t.

But maybe you could be forgiven for what happened in Las Vegas. Though, when you walked into a strip club, one must wonder what your intentions were if not to be unfaithful. But you’re a man, right, John? And when a man’s far away from his woman, well, he still has the same needs.

Shut up!

Christ, they hadn’t even closed the door. With the nursery, and our twin baby boys, right across the hall. Or were the boys even mine? I’d never trust her again. I’d never have to.

We can’t forget that hot young housewife in Florida. Come to think of it John, you and she went at it in her marriage bed, didn’t you? Why, but that’s different isn’t it? Because that was her fault; she seduced you, or at least that’s what you told your little housewife. And that was all you told her, too – out of all the times you cheated on her, that was the only time you felt guilty enough to rat yourself out.

SHUT UP!

They didn’t even hear the tiny creak of the floor. The hammer raised –

There’s no self-righteous indignation to be had here, John.

– and the hammer came down.

The Simpkins Gallery Exhibit
(500 Words)


Working at the Simpkins Gallery was not a dream job but it supported me well enough to continue my quest for artistic success and Misty Simpkins even let me display a canvas or two of my own every now and then when there was a bit too much empty space about. Misty didn’t know a thing about art. This is not to say that she hadn’t put in some effort to learn as her office was crammed with the many books that she had purchased. She had read a few of these volumes, but only bits and pieces of most as it just wasn’t in her to grasp even the simplest concepts of artistic expression. Before each exhibit, usually showcasing a grossly untalented artist of her choosing, she would covertly pick my brain for a quote about each work that she could use to impress the patrons. I caught on to this tactic pretty quick and, devious as I am, I baited her with a few idiotic remarks. I stopped doing this to her after awhile though as I soon found out that she could easily embarrass herself without my help.

On the eve of one particular show, I had completed the layout despite the whiny input of Josef, the so-called genius who was Misty’s new discovery. His work, in my opinion, represented a childish chaos of nothingness. And he was short on pieces too, the lazy poser, delivering only twelve of the twenty he had promised. After spacing these throughout the room, overly generous amounts of blank wall remained but even that emptiness probably would create more interest than this artist’s shoddy work would.

This lack of substance was a lucky break for me though. There are two well-traveled corridors extending from the room and I decided to take advantage of these to display several of my paintings and was just hanging the last when Misty and Josef walked in. When Josef saw what I was doing, he immediately turned and ran from the building. Misty followed and, after a few minutes, returned alone.

"Put the hammer down," she ordered as I was driving the last nail.

"Why?" I asked as I continued my work. "Josef afraid of the competition?"

"Yes," she replied simply.

"Why did you give him a show? Even you know that his stuff is crap."

"Because I love him."

"What?" I was astonished at her frank revelation. "Is that what it takes to have a show? Become your lover?"

"No. To be my son, even if he doesn’t know it."

"You bought this gallery so your son could have a show?"

"Yes."

"Okay, I quit." I laid down my tool and began gathering up my canvases. "If you ever want a real artist to showcase, give me a call."

"I never gave you a show because you’re good." she said. "Success would have taken you away."

"And you’d have lost your little flunky," I responded.

"No, I would have lost my other son," she said.

Come on people, where're those entries?

The spammers are taking over!!!

My girl’s enormous denim covered butt bounced up and down on the seat covers like some Bramer heifer in estrus.

“Put the hammer down, baby”, she moaned.

So I straddled the yellow strip in the middle of the soft asphalt and shoved my size thirteen shoe all the way through the Marlboro butt littered floor. I thought she’d cream all over herself, right there on my genuine imitation snake-skin seat covers but she screamed instead.

“Faster, baby, faster.”

I’m going to take this story out of gear and let it idle for just a minute ‘cause I need to explain this wild child. I’ve known some wooly women in my days but Jesus, Becky Sue was a take home and chain in the closet kind of girl. The type you’d want beside you on a cold rainy day in Georgia, or a hot muggy night in Tucumcari. I’m not normally a breast man; anything over a 44 DD is a waste of energy in my opinion but Becky Sue changed my attitude that day.

I met her at the George Wallace Memorial Sack and Save Beer and Bait and All You Can Eat Hog Intestines Fine Dinning and Pool Hall. A little fast food shack outside Selma, Alabama – surprisingly, smaller than the sign in front. She’d heard my Chevy’s fiberglass packs roaring from ten miles out and was waiting on the curb when I pulled up; sweat gushing out of every pore in her body like precious juices from a passion fruit. Two hundred and odd pounds of love and lust held together in size four halter top.

I fell in love, forgot my appetite for hog organs and we took off for parts unknown.

By the time I’d shifted into third, cruising easy through a kindergarten zone; the first words came out of her mouth.

“You on the way to a funeral or are you carrying nitroglycerin in the trunk?”

I knew I had a real woman right then and there and blew through the next twelve traffic lights.

When I reached State Highway 66, I’d lost most of the trailing cops except one real hard case that I knew would chase me to hell and back. Becky Sue rolled down her window, dropped her Levis and mooned the last pursuer. I hoped he didn’t have a family.

A man’s only a man so I put my Chevy on auto cruise and Becky Sue and I got busy. We were on our way to Heaven and Albuquerque and two cheese enchilada dinners, doing a hundred and change when the piston let go. I coasted to the side of the road, looked at Becky Sue for sympathy but she suddenly turned as cold as an Eskimo’s turd .

“It’s nothing personal, baby,” she said as she flagged down a Porsche and kissed me farewell.

“I’ve got needs and there’s no reason to waste time on a man who can’t satisfy a girl.”

A twitch, a swing, a silence of envy. Her head lay still; cracked like a nursery rhyme. Blood and hair clumped togethor
Spread around the room like leaves in the wind.
A face still with emotion, holding its last image... blunt force trauma.

Lips oozed malice; the grey cloak hiding eyes that surly satan himself would become green for.
sin and lust walked hand in hand around the room. Singing, skipping and all but weeping. Her hourglass shattered
the sand now spilled. No more memories for innocence incarnate.

A boot Smashes down upon her skull, the silent rememberance shattered into sounds audible to demon presence.
Lips become moist as skull becomes candy. A hammer in hand, a blade in mind.

Taking a knee to better see the prize. A hand gently brushes hair out of face. If face, mearly described now as front of head.

"Put the hammer down!" Comes a cry of horror.

The scene, with its now red feature walls. its blended carpet of evil. Introduces a man in uniform to its cage. Whimpering
is hidden behind a shiny badge.

"come to join the romance?" A whisper holds naught but creativity on his voice.

A stammer of incoherant noise and words dribble from the mans mouth, as the room begins to invite him with love and comfort.
Red, a colour defined by all scenses, now openly feasts on the mute witness.

"please, come in" His leather hand slowly slithers into an eye socket, gouging the last of entertainment from his victim.

One...Two...Three. a Step closer into Red's sanity. Four...Five...Six.

"please" He sighs with a smile. "shut the door behind you"

Chainsaw II - (2 words)

Who Dead?

The end

I stole that line from King Lear. Shakespeare was speaking street before street became hip. Man's a genius.