Meatloaf by Mike McHone

from Nails in the Coffin: a Pistol Jim Press series

Meatloaf by Mike McHone

“Honey, I’m home,” Harry said as he closed the door behind him.

“In here,” Marge called from the kitchen.

Harry walked into the kitchen. The warm smell of something cooking in the oven teased his nostrils. He sat his briefcase on the table. Marge stirred a pot of baked beans on the stove. “How was your day?” she asked.

“Ah, it could’ve been better,” he said. “Mr. Clawson was being an ass.”

“Why?”

“He dressed me down for being five minutes late getting back from lunch. I told him there was a lot of gosh-darned traffic, but he didn’t want to listen.”

“Some people are like that.”

Harry nodded. “Bob and Frank kept ribbing me about it, too, making fun of me the whole dang afternoon.”

“Oh, I’m sure they didn’t mean you no ill will.”

“Yeah, probably.” He thought of them, saw their stupid faces in his mind, heard their laughter.

“Could you get the butter out of the fridge?”

He did and handed it to her. “You want me to set the table?”

“If you don’t mind.”

He went to the cupboard and pulled out two plates. “What are we having?” Please, don’t say meatloaf, he thought. Please, don’t say—

“Meatloaf,” she said, stirring the pot.

Darn it to heck.

Truth be told, he would fall over himself complimenting her whenever she made anything else. Chicken, spaghetti, lasagna, steak, anything. He always tried to drop subtle hints when she made the meatloaf (not finishing his plate, suggesting she try a new recipe, etc.). She had to know he didn’t care for it, right?

Right?

Harry finished setting the table and went to his briefcase.

“Honey,” Marge said, “could you get some napkins out of the pantry? I forgot to—”

A bullet punctuated the sentence. Blood sprayed the wall behind the oven. Brain matter and bits of skull fell into the beans. Marge crumbled to the ground.

Harry aimed his .45 and shot his wife again. Just in case. Just to be sure.

Just like Mr. Clawson. Just like Bob. Just like Frank. Just like Lori the office secretary. Just like the UPS delivery driver. Just like the random old lady in the parking lot.

Harry watched his wife’s blood seep out onto the floor and fan out until it resembled a Rorschach ink blot, much like the kind Harry’s psychiatrist would show him when he went to his appointments on Tuesday evenings from six to seven in the afternoon.

But it was just after five-thirty on a Monday.

Life’s funny sometimes, Harry thought, as he dug the box of ammo out of his briefcase and reloaded the gun.

Ha ha.

Feeling his stomach growl, Harry made himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, which he ate while standing naked on the front porch while shooting at pedestrians.

It took the SWAT team almost an hour to take him out. By then the meatloaf had burned to a crisp.

Bio

Mike McHone’s work has appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Dark Yonder, Playboy, the AV Club, and numerous other outlets. He is the recipient of the Derringer Award, the Mystery Writers of America’s Hugh Holton Award, and was cited on the Distinguished List in 2024’s Best American Mystery and Suspense anthology. He currently lives in Detroit. Visit him online at www.mikemchone.com