The Antiquarium of Sinister Happenings - Lot 015: Fizzy Piss Grape Sh*t

Episode Date: October 12, 2023

A 2 liter soda bottle from a Gas’n’Go at the end of the world.Written by Rees SavidisPerformed and narrated by Conan FreemanFeaturing Stephen Knowles as the Antique DealerTheme music by The Newton BrothersAddition sound fx by: AV ProductionsAdditional music:Conambience by Conan FreemanDo YOU have an object with disturbing origins or attached to bizarre and unsettling occurrences that you wish to drop off at our establishment? Email it’s story to [e-mail] Sanctum by Kevin MacLeodFree download:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PJEIlqNZLYoLicensed under CC BY 3.0Aftermath by Kevin MacLeodFree download:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zJApqlWZTHoLicensed under CC BY 3.0Aprehension by Kevin MacLeodhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DhA0fAx-PNYLicensed under CC BY 3.0Anxiety by Kevin MacLeodFree download: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mroAwovey9A&list=PLMT1u81EaOi1NUR_xGW2oWVAmwR_xJwC0&index=3Licensed under CC BY 3.0Quinn’s Song:First Night by Kevin MacLeodFree download:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2bRGVDUUvwwLicensed under CC BY 3.0Penumbra by Kevin MacLeodFree download:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WaMe-FNLjkcLicensed under CC BY 3.0Night Break by Kevin MacLeodFree download:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nwg9MXomPzELicensed under CC BY 3.0CO.AG ([e-mail]) Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

Well, look who we have here. Come on in. Did you ever pick the right time to stop by? We are having a contest today. The 13th customer wins an indelible prize. It just so happens that you walk through that door just now. Everyone who passes through that door, whether their journey ends in a purchase or not,

instantly and automatically agrees. to the silent and binding contract that governs my store. My property, my rules. And my rules state it is my responsibility to treat everyone within these four walls equally and with exceptional service. So you see, whether you intended to take something home with you or not, you coming into my place of business makes you my customer. of which, coincidentally, I have had nearly a dozen by the shop today.

Scratch that. Almost certainly a dozen. Now that I think about it, a dozen exactly. Which means you are lucky customer. Thirteen. According to the parameters of the contest currently running at this very moment, that would dictate that you are entitled to this prize. Hope you're thirsty

Here before you is a two-liter bottle of soda Of some kind I haven't tried this brand myself But I hear there's nothing quite like it Came from a gas and go at the end of the world Sit with me And let's share a glass Of a story I call

Fizzy Piss Grape Shit Welcome To the Antiquarium of Sinister Happenings Happenings and odd goings on. Atomic City, Idaho, but I can hear the men with guns outside the back door trying to jimmy the lock. It wasn't me that locked it, but I can tell it's that way because of how long it's taken them to come in. And muffled voices are hurried, laced with panic and excitement. Let's me know things outside are still bad.

Me and three others came here a few days ago, I think. Can't remember exactly. We tend to stick in a straight line for navigation. So we weren't so much as looking for the place as it just sort of got in our way. A gas and go on Route 26. At least it was a gas and go, till some law pertaining to its underground gas tanks having to be removed fucked them out of most of the reason anyone bothered to stop in.

That's what the handwritten sign near the register said anyways. I don't know why I read it when I first stopped in, but I remember it. Now the place just deals in junk food and rubbers for the bar crowd next door. It's a place to hide for a while. Maybe get some food. Get away from the guns. I don't know the other's by name. Don't talk to them much.

We found each other on the road someplace in Washington State after the world took its big shit. We started traveling. together. It was unspoken. But we felt better sticking together. Safety in numbers. Maybe. Thought the gas and go might offer some respite from the men with guns. Like the ones trying to jimmy the lock off the back door now. We'd come in the front way on account of that being the direction we were heading. Door was swung wide open then. Probably still is. Unless one of the other three shut it. I know I didn't. I wonder why the ones work the lock off the back door didn't swing around front first.

Check that door. Maybe there's too much action out that way. Maybe they'd come from that way and saw the door was open. Yawning black and thought, Fuck that. Looks too good. Probably worried that someone was waiting for him on the other side. And we are.

We being me. Plaid shirt. Mall chick. And weird-looking old fucker. You feel like this is our place now. Finders keepers. Firsties. That kind of thing.

We found it. Now fuck off. Especially if you're coming in with your cocks out looking to start shit. I'm closest to the back door and hear the lock bust apart before the others do. Maybe I'm the only one that hears it. I don't know. I was in the back room looking for something when I first heard him out back. What was I looking for?

Can't remember now. but it doesn't matter. Got something new to deal with. I move out of the back room to gather up the others. Where I think about it, they probably don't know the gas and go has been breached, and I need to warn them before the men with guns find them. Move out to the store proper,

take a sharp left down aisle two, aisle two of three. It's a small place, so the shelving units in the aisles are high jobs, at least seven feet tall to compensate for the lack of floor space. They're mostly bare, picked clean, but right now I'm happy with the cover they provide. Mall chick is standing in the middle of Isle 2, about 20 feet straight in front, staring at me. I try to get my arms up to signal to her that she needs to scatter and get hid, but they feel like goddamn sinterblocks.

They hardly budge. A few days without food will do that. Body starts to tell you to go and get yourself fucked. I know better, but I don't know better. decide to go to my voice, something that none of us do much more of anymore, out of fear, I think. Fear of being heard by the men with guns. My mouth feels like it's lined with cotton balls, and when I try to speak, all that comes out is a low, dry, throaty popping sound like a triplet of farts. My old chick doesn't hear me, just stands there staring, like she doesn't know who I am.

Fear does that to you, freezes you up, deer in the headlights. But that's how to you. But that's how we live. Not just now, the men with guns spilling in through the back door, but every day since the world took its big shit. If we're not moving and keep into our straight line, we're standing still as death, staring, hoping whatever it is just goes away. Shit, there's someone in there. One of them cries out. Another responds. His voice is excited and young. Fuck, yeah, there is. She's a pretty, little bitch. Check it.

Gonna nail this fucking cut. He sounds inexperienced. Probably thinks this is all just a shit-kicking good time. Probably packing a hard-on to go with the 30-odd-6 he's got sighted. He shot cracks and pings around the inside of the gas and go. Sounded like a cherry bomb

down a well. Maltich's head comes apart like a water balloon hit and paved... Spilling meat and mess all over the Tampa. bonds and rubbers. That's all that's left in aisle too now. Kuder corks and fucking rubbers. Malchick's body crumples to the floor straight down like a marionette that's got its strings cut. Shuffled back and just left enough to put myself behind an end cap soda display. Shit, did they see me? Shooter and his buddy laugh and whoop it up like kids at a midway shooting gallery.

I can hear the Carney Barker now. Hurry, step right up, little man. Just five cents. We'll get you three shots, but one's all you need. Blow the ladies' fantastic exploding pinata head. Clean off and win a prize. What's happened to us? Everything fell apart so fast that day the world took its big shit.

Reports of what was happening were too fantastic to believe. Fantastic fantasy, not fantastic good. It only took about 72 hours for it all to collapse. And the men was good. to rise up, just like that. They grabbed up their guns and their ammo, and they got their trucks and their cars and whatever else it was that got them around, and it came at me, came at us.

I should be scared, but it's not registering. Rather, I'm more aware of the absence of the feeling than anything else. This is what it's like when all you do is survive. The commotion with the men with guns and the mallchick's fantastic exploding Pinyatta ahead draws weird looking old fucker out. He's never been this proactive before. Maybe he and Malchick had something going on that me and Plad's shirt weren't aware of. This whole thing blows through though.

We should try and talk. Get to know each other a bit. He bumps as he steps past. My shoulder knocks into the soda display. There's three big two-liter bottles left on the shelf. And one of them, something like grape crush. But not called, Grape Crush, tips off the shelf and drops on to the linoleum floor like a heavy fat bomb. It's ready to explode on contact and blow fizzy purple sugar water in my cover at the same time.

For a moment, the thought of snapping out my hand to catch the bottle blinks through my mind. I see the smooth action of my arm as I grab the fat plastic 2-liter soda bomb by the cap end, inches away from kissing the linoleum. It's quite spectacular, and I feel good. Weird-looking old fucker could care less and keeps on keeping on. The fact that I've had to reveal my stunning reflexes and superhuman hand-eye coordination to the world, saving the gas and go floor from a sticky purple syrupy mess is lost on them.

Of course, none of that happens. Like it was scripted, a soda bomb hits the floor, bursts at caps in and starts spinning at my feet, Spraying fizzy, pissed grape shit over everything, making a bigger mess than Mulchick's fantastic exploding pinata hit. Makes as much noise, too. Maybe I change weird-looking old fuckers name of Dumbass. I can hear the men with guns moving down the aisle towards me, no doubt drawn to the excitement the soda bomb was caused. Of course, they'll see Dumbass before they find me tucked away behind the N-CAP.

But I can't draw any comfort in that. He fucked up. But he's one of us. We all make mistakes from time to time. Shouldn't have to take a bullet because of it. I haven't seen plaid shirts since this morning. Was that when it was? Hope he's gotten himself squared away someplace safe.

I don't know the guy from nothing, but out of the three, he's been my favorite to have around. Keeps to himself mostly. But as always, the first one to pitch in when we need to gather up food on the road. Maltzic and dumbass were always the stress. We're always the stragglers. Only come into the table after the supper bell at wrong. We'll be safe. Obie sits in the dark someplace and lets his situation blow through.

Of course, dumbass doesn't. And proves his name change both fitting and timely. Does he really think he can take these two guys on his own? He's unarmed. That's what separates us from the men with guns. They have them. We don't. We hide.

Keep out of the wall. way. It's how we keep on keeping on. But here goes dumbass, strolling down aisle two, past the tampons, rubbers, and lube. Hot for her pleasure, cold for his. Or is it the other way around.

And right into the line of fire. Shit, man. There's another fucking fucker. Yeah, I got him. You're a weird-looking old fucker, ain't you? I know that there are only two of them inside the gas and go with us. And two

was a whole bunch better than an entire raiding party. That'd be real tough to survive. I also know that they aren't the men with guns at all. They always travel in large packs. These two are on their own. Explains why they'd bother to sweat the lock on the back door. As opposed to coming in the front way, they haven't formed up with one of the militias yet.

Don't have their shit together yet. They're probably just out looking for ding-dongs and smoke. These are shit-kickers, good old boys. You're not exterminators. Not part of the brotherhood. Not yet, anyway. It gives me hope that maybe if me and Pladshirt can keep our heads down and out of the way, these two will just gather up what shit they need and hit the row.

Hit the row, Jack, and don't you come back no more, no more, no... The sound of the 30-od-6 expelling another round snaps me out of my days. This is happening more and more. more lately. My sincerest apologies for the interruption, but it appears as though there are some issues with an unhappy customer.

Tell you what? Let me go take care of things real quick, and I'll be right with you. There's an invitation included in this audio file since playback. Well, there you are. Been looking all over for you. So sorry about the minor inconvenience. Now,

where were we? Strange phantom zones of nebulous thought swallowing me up, spitting me back to the here and now. And I'm forgetting things more often, too. Simple things, like stuff I'm looking for, why I'm suddenly someplace. It worries me because it'll get me killed, like dumbass strolling down aisle too. I don't look, of course. But his grunts tell me he's been hit. Sharp, sudden barks like he's been socked in the gut, hard.

Shooter's aim must be off. Or maybe he's just fucking around. Get a taste for this killing thing. Maybe Malchik was hit first. Maybe she did something to him. Maybe he's still packing that boner he got. And he's afraid to lose it. So he wants to take his time with his killing.

Make it last. Keep his newfound manhood stiff and true as a goddamn flagpole. Whatever he's doing, the second shot seals the deal. The dumbass's sharp, sudden barks trade for the sun. sound of his body hitting the linoleum. The two good old boys whooping it up again. And say my boy, that's a heck of a shot.

Right between the fucking eyes. Go ahead and take your pick. Anything off the prize wall is yours to keep. Dumbass taking the heat for the soda bomb thing has saved my bacon. I feel bad for the guy, of course, but grateful still that it's not me lying cock up in the middle of the tampons and rubbers out

with my brains, in the floor. But I keep my cool. Stay as still as I can. Maybe these two hot doggers will just pinch whatever shit they need and keep on. Keep calm and they'll carry the fuck on. Yo, Mitch, check the rest of the place for any more squatters.

I'll grab the beers and smokes. Coolie-out, dude. Remember Millers and Decates and some slim jims too. I'm dying for some meat, man! Mitch replies. Me too. In fact, I'm starving. I don't remember the last time I ate.

But now that Mitch has mentioned it, it's all I can think of. Meat, food, fuel, the energy I need to keep on keeping on. And this dumbass, pardon me out of respect for the recently past, this asshole Mitch, goes and gets my hunger up. The thought of plaid shirt crosses my mind again. He's in a dark place, hunkered down,

and waiting for all this to blow through, I decide. You'd have shown himself by now otherwise. Glad's shirt is an alpha kind of dude. Out on the road, him and me took down plenty of game together. Mitch and his dipshit, pal, or nothing compared to the animals we've faced out in the open road. But no dice here.

He's letting this one slide, playing it smart. These two good old boys ain't worth the risk of exposing himself. I get that. So I'll do the same. Let Mitch and dipshit have their way with the place and leave. Then it'll just be me and plaid shirt like it should have always been. Malchick and dumbass were all right for the company, but they would have gotten us killed eventually.

Almost did today. If I'm going to get hit like plaid shirt, I need to do it quick. Mitch is squeaking down aisle two heading my way. At first I'm not sure of the sound. But the math comes together pretty quick. sneakers plus Malchick's brains on the floor equals squishy, squeaky footsteps on the linoleum. Good thing, too, is it gives me a gauge for how close Mitch is

and how long I have. But I can't, at least not in any direction away from Mitch's squishy, squeaky sneakers. Instead, I feel the overwhelming urge to suddenly jump out give Mitch the monster fucking scare of his young life. That set him straight. Teach him to come into a man, squat, start blowing away his traveling companions. Never been one

for urges. Never follow my gut, always my head. This one, I go with. Fuck it. At least that's what my legs are saying as they lurched me out from the safety of the end cap and right into Mitch's line of sight. His eyes go wide as dinner plates at the side of me.

Mitch tries to react, get his 30-0-6 up inside it, but his hands and his brains can't agree. He winds up fumble. in the rifle, dumping it. Actually kind of throwing it at me. I think maybe I should go for the gun now that Mitch has pretty much offered it to me,

but realized that's not going to work. Pretty sure Mitch knows this too, but he doesn't seem to take any comfort in it. He's too busy filling the back of his pants with my big reveal. Tadda! Asshole. My legs are keeping me moving the whole time this is happening,

so as Mitch is reacting and fumbling and shitting himself, I keep getting closer to him. Stay the fuck back. Stay the fuck away from me. He chokes out at me, unarmed, and with me bearing down on him, Mitch decides to do the instinctively responsible thing. Tuck tail and rabbit.

But as he plants his squishy, squeaky sneaker and turns and pushes off, his foot slips out, and his legs make like a pair of scissors being yanked wide open. Finch his balance shits the bet, and he's in the air in one instant and on his back the next. Right next to dumbass's body. When he lands, his head cracks good and it turns him stupid. He tries to blink himself back to the here and now, but his eyes just rolled too far back into a skull. His mouth opens and closes like a fish sucking air.

He looks helpless, and the amount of gore he sat himself, he lends the whole sight of Mitch with a certain pathetic slant. Staring down at Mitch's sucking air, trying to gather all his marbles back in his sack. I suddenly remember the other one. What's his name? Mitch's Pally. Dipshit?

I remember Dip shit. He went together up beers and slim jims, which is what got my hunger up. Dying for some meat, man, Mitch had said. So was I. This little ruckus and tampons, rubbers and lube, and brains and teeth and shit while we're at it

might bring Dipshit around. I should get before Dipshit sees me standing over his drinking buddy like I had something to do with him being on his back dying and a mess of shit and brains. I gave him a scare, sure, but Mitch's sloppy footwork is all his own doing.

But again, I can't move. Not the way I want to. I'm starving still. Worse than before when Mitch the fucking big mouth went and mentioned slim chimps. Why didn't I ever think of slim gyms before? I would have given a slim gem a day in court. Like Mitch a moment ago, my brain and bits can't agree on anything. Brain says, turn and run and find some dark corner to get hit and wait for the dipshit to come back and find Mitch and get spooked and piss off out of here.

Legs say, nope. Then I hear movement behind me. Feel it too. Eyes on the back of my head. Or one eye at least, peeking through a high-powered scope, making the back of my head look like a target the size of a movie screen at this distance. I'm fucked. But then nothing happens. I'm sure dipshit is there standing right behind me, but he's not fessing up to it.

Maybe he's waiting for me to turn around so he can tag me between the eyes. Probably wants to say some shit before he does it. Like when Charlie Bronson smokes some street punk in one of the Death Wish flicks, then blam-o! The back of my head will empty out, adding a third coat of brains to aisle two, tampons, rubbers, and lube, and brains and teeth and shit on my fucking friends. Thank you very much. My stomach pangs hard.

Fucker hurts. This is no time to think about food, not when I'm about to get permanently dead, but that's where my head goes to, nonetheless. Food, eat. Can't believe I haven't turned around you. What a whim. Just turn and face the music, for Christ's sake.

Get on with getting on. We'd get this hunger over with quick at any rate. I muster up what I need to look back. back over my right shoulder and face my ender. Should I smile at him? A defiant look at the end of my life that says, fuck you. Bring it on.

I'm ready to rock and roll. Yeah, I think I'll smile. But when I finally do turn my head back over my shoulder, it isn't dipshit that I see. It's plaid shirt. My buddy plaid shirt come out hiding. I want to say something to him. Tell him how good it is that he's okay.

that I was worried, hoped that he got to hide when Mitch and dipshit came through the back door. Tell him what happened to Malchick and weird-looking old fucker. How I change weird-looking old fucker's name to dumbass after the incident with the soda bomb. Tell him how goddamn hungry I was. I wanted to, but I couldn't. Couldn't say a word to him.

Not since the world took its big shit. Not since I died. Came back. plaid shirt standing there his mouth and chin and the whole front of his blue namesake covered with thick, sticky red mess when he opens his mouth to greet me

a bit of gut maybe brain spills out over his lower lip and rolls down his chin hangs there guess he found dipshit ripping beers and slim jims guess he got the hunger too zombies don't talk

but we think all much more than you know. Right now, all I can think about is getting down on my knees and tearing into Mitch, burying my face in his guts. Thank you for your patronage. Hope you enjoyed your new relic as much as I've enjoyed passing along its sordid history. It does come with our usual warning, however. Absolutely no refunds, no exchanges. And we won't be held liable for anything that may or may not occur while the object is in your possession.

Oh, you think just because you're only listening to my voice that you have nothing to be concerned about? Let me assure you that your visit to the antiquarium, whether in the flesh or in your mind's eye, is most certainly not. not in vain. You are, after all, the architect of this place. I must say you've done a hell of a job. Even the way you have given me a face and carved out the most minute details of my person in that cerebrum of yours is quite impressive indeed.

Therefore, the items you procure within these walls, even on a metaphysical level, are very, very real, and are now and forever part of your subconscious. All part of our standard bill of sale, really? Till next time, we'll be waiting for you whenever you close your eyes in the space between sleep and dream. During regular business hours, of course, or by appointment, only for you, our best customer. You have a good night now.

The Antiquarium of Sinister Happenings, Lod Zero15, Fizzy Piss Grape Shit, written by Reese Savetus. Performed and narrated by Conan Freeman, featuring Stephen Knowles as the antique dealer. Additional sound effects by AV Productions. Additional music by Conan Freeman, Coag, and Kevin McLeod. Engineering production and sound design by Trevor Shand. Theme music by the Newton Brothers. The Antiquarium of Sinister Happenings is created and curated by Trevor and Lauren Shand. Follow us on Instagram and Twitter at Antiquarium Pod.

Call the Antiquarium at 646-481-7197.