Let’s Kill Harry Potter
By: Antwan Crump
Everyone admired The Boy Who Lived. James knew the truth. That “boy” was a man, and that man was full of shit—a false prophet, whom openly accepted praise from the Neanderthal infested populous, that too many deemed a functioning society.
It sickened him. He cracked open his shotgun and let the bullets fall into his hand. He loved to roll the shells around in his palm. Soon enough they’d pierce the wizard’s skin—he thought it best to leave as many clues as possible. Chaos needs a face.
“James!” He heard cry to him from the top of the steps, “Dinner’s almost ready. Are you hungry?”
“Yeah. I’ll be there in a minute, Ma.” She had no idea what he’d been planning. Whenever asked about what her thirty-year-old son was doing with his life; she’d either make up a story about his “creative indifference” or imply that he’d had some undiagnosed mental disorder. Recently, she’d more often relied on the latter excuse. His self-imposed social exile was more difficult to explain with every passing birthday on the road to forty. He knew about it. She’d told him. His solution was simple…kill a god.
He shoved the shells back into the barrel, snapped the weapon closed, and slid it under his bed—with the rest of his equally lethal stash. He’d been planning his attack for a while. Now, that the “asshole” had finally been where he could get to him, he intended to strike, once given the “right” opportunity—even though he hated Broadway.
He pulled a dart from out of his wall—where he’d hung an old picture of Daniel Radcliffe— and tapped his index finger on its point. “Soon motherfucker,” he mumbled to himself, “Soon,” and lodged the dart into the center of his lightning-bolted forehead. His eye’s welted as they reddened and swelled his lids to a squint. He trembled, digging the dart deeper into the photo than he ever had before. “Soon, they’ll know.”
“James!” His mother called.
She’d made pot-roast and potatoes. It was his favorite.
“So, I’m thinking that maybe you could get a job with the city.” His mother said, looking down at her plate—avoiding eye-contact. She hated having the conversation, it’d always led to an argument about truth and conspiracy. “I think that it’ll be good for us, ya’ know. Get a little extra money in the house. Get you out of that damn basement. Maybe your own place. A girlfriend, boyfriend, whatever. You know…life.”
James sat quietly across the kitchen table. His usual strategy was to drown out his mother’s nagging with the volume of the television. She’d been on to his game. The kitchen t.v. was off, and the remote was nowhere to be found. Fuck it all, he thought as he contemplated skipping the meal—but warriors needed to feast. His beer belly wouldn’t maintain itself.
His mother continued, “You know, I was talking to Barbara, and she said that Ronny, just graduated from the academy. He’s a court officer now. From what I hear, it’s good money.” Her encouragement was never convincing. He hurried to finish his meal. “Just think about it Jamesey-boy, your own place, where Momma can’t nag you, and you can do and say whatever you want.”
“Are you really using yourself, as a negative attribute of living here? You realize that proves that your annoyance of me is premeditated, right?” James said, and tossed a large chunk of meat into his mouth. “That’s fucked up, Ma” he continued—his words, muffled by his free meal.
“I don’t give a damn if it is. Is it working? That’s all I want to know.” She’d been planning this confrontation for some time. His mother was far too timid to ever assume the role of the aggressor without a game plan. James listened, although he didn’t want to, “James, your thirty-goddamned-years-old. You’ve got a Bachelor’s degree, why the fuck, are you still in my house?”
“Hmph…” James scoffed. “I never thought that I’d have to see the day that my own mother, would fall victim to the patriarchy. I thought you were woke, Linda.”
“Don’t you fucking call me that, you little shit! It’s Mom.”
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