Fuck the Rules

  Fuck

  the

  Rules

  edited by david owain hughes & jonathan edward ondrashek

  Leviathan

  www.LeviathanBooks.co.uk

  First published in the UK by Leviathan,

  an imprint of Great British Horror, 2017

  Foreword © 2017 R. Perez de Pereda

  The Association © 2017 Richard Chizmar

  No Thanks © 2017 Antonio Simon, Jr.

  The Punishment Room © 2017 Suzanne Fox

  Patience © 2017 Skip Novak

  Birth of a Valkyrie © 2017 Fox Emm

  The Hanging Wood © 2017 Guy N. Smith

  Carnage © 2017 Rose Garnett

  Don’t Be A Cunt © 2017 Toneye Eyenot

  Japanese Flag © 2017 Crystal Jeans

  Suck On This, Bitch © 2017 Ty Schwamberger

  Lex Non Scripta © 2017 Adam Millard

  Cover art © 2017 Kevin Enhart

  Cover & interior layout © 2017 Great British Horror

  All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not be reproduced in whole or in part, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system now known of hereafter invented, without written permission from the publisher and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  The Association - Richard Chizmar

  No Thanks - Antonio Simon Jr

  The Punishment Room - Suzanne Fox

  Patience - Skip Novak

  Birth of a Valkyrie - Fox Emm

  The Hanging Wood - Guy N Smith

  Carnage - Rose Garnett

  Don’t Be A Cunt - Toneye Eyenot

  Japanese Flag - Crystal Jeans

  Suck On This, Bitch - Ty Schwamberger

  Lex Non Scripta - Adam Millard

  —START—

  Hey, you.

  Yes, you! Get in here quick and shut the door behind you.

  Were you followed? You'd better not be wearing a wire…

  We know why you've come. You want to stick it to “the man” as much as we do. Don't be afraid to admit it – I'm Cuban, and if there's anything I know, it's revolutions and revolutionaries. If my people didn't invent the concept of revolution they sure perfected it, as they've had an ongoing one now for over sixty years and counting. Indeed, we're so good at it, it's become the national export. And I can spot a like-minded revolutionary like you just as sure as a fish drinks water.

  I'm certain you know “the man” well enough, but indulge me in a thought experiment. Reflect for a moment on all the times you were told not to do something: no dessert before supper; no talking in class; no time off work to attend your best friend's wedding. What business was it of theirs to tell you what to do or not to do? And while you could probably come up with some sensible yet arbitrary justifications to back up those denials, it all boils down to: “the man” said no because “the man” said so.

  Ever wish you could go back and give 'em the finger? Well, you can't (this is a book, not a time-machine, Asimov), but what you can do is engage in some vicarious naughtiness with us.

  These stories are about resistance – because, let's face it, nobody ever wrote an exciting story about delightfully-behaved dandies enjoying high tea. If you like that sort of thing, you're in the wrong place – best get your petticoat on and go read Jane Eyre, and for your sake we'll disavow ever meeting you.

  Necessarily, there will be blood. I hope you're not squeamish. “The man” has told you resistance is futile, but no – resistance is brutal, and so are these stories. Don't say I didn't warn you.

  Still here? Good. I was concerned I'd have scared you off by now. The time has come to bring “the man” down to the shouts of “¡Viva la revolución!” and we're starting with his so-called rules of etiquette, decency, and – ah, what the hell, why not? – law and order.

  Take a stand.

  Raise your fist.

  Break the rules.

  Fuck ‘em all.

  —R. Perez de Pereda

  —END—

  introduction

  For Fuck the Rules, we asked writers to break a simple set of rules. This is what they were given to work with:

  1) No genre other than literary fiction.

  2) Society, rules and people will be shown in a positive light – we can’t have the masses getting any ideas and running amok!

  3) Stories should not address the subject matter of tearing down society’s norm/rules.

  4) Stories should not show any forms of anarchy or upheaval – we don’t want an uprising on our hands!

  5) Stories should not depict a shift in power (such as children revolting against their parents or a person of authority). Maintaining the status quo is a necessity.

  6) Stories should not contain violence, drug use, gun/sex crime, or any other form of illegal activity/substance. And absolutely no cursing/harsh language, sex, gore, or anything else above a G rating.

  7) We want nice stories. No zombies, killers, rapists, werewolves, vampires, David Owain Hughes-like anarchists, criminals, hackers, stalkers, thieves, pirates, bandits, ninjas or any other kind of reprobate.

  8) No pushing boundaries with fancy writing styles or ingenious ideas/tales, and don’t even try to break ages-old writing rules like eschewing conjunctions to start sentences, avoiding prepositions to end sentences, or throwing in clever adverbs as dialogue tags. This type of behaviour will not be tolerated and your MS will be deleted immediately.

  9) Stories should be less than 3,000 words or above 10,000 words – nothing in between!

  10) Send simultaneous and multiple submissions, reprints, and unoriginal works.

  11) Submissions close on June 30, 2017. Submit after that.

  12) Do not email submissions to aaaaaa[REDACTED]aaaaaa. Do not use this format for the subject line: FTR Submission – Last Name – Story Title. And for sanity’s sake, don’t include a quick introduction in the body of the email.

  13) Don’t reach out to David or Jonathan if you have questions – they could be listening and watching, and we don’t want to stir the pot!

  Their rule-breaking interpretations follow.

  Go ahead. Be brave. See what happens when you throw those middle fingers up and say, “Fuck the rules.”

  ~David Owain Hughes and Jonathan Edward Ondrashek

  The Association

  Richard Chizmar

  Harold Peterson stood at the top of his driveway, hands on his hips, staring into the open garage. He frowned. Dozens of cardboard boxes, stacked three and four high, filled every available inch of it. Several in the front row were marked: LIVING ROOM, BEDROOM #1, KITCHEN.

  “Trying to figure out a good excuse so you can get out of unpacking?”

  Harold turned to find his wife, Lily, standing behind him. He smiled and glanced up at the summer sky. “It is an awfully nice day. Think maybe I’ll play a round of golf first and get to work on this mess later.”

  Lily walked close and wrapped her arms around her husband, snuggling her face against his shoulder. “Think again, mister.”

  Harold laughed and hugged her back.

  “Besides, you don’t even play golf,” she said.

  “Can’t think of a better day to start.”

  Lily giggled and swatted him on the butt.

  They stood there in each other’s arms, not talking for a moment, just staring at their new home.

  Finally, Lily broke the silence. “I can’t be
lieve it’s ours.”

  “I can’t believe how much crap we had crammed into that two-bedroom condo.”

  Lily shrugged. “We lived there for eight years. What did you expect?”

  Harold leaned down and kissed his wife on the forehead. “I expect us to live here happily ever after.”

  *

  They carried and unpacked boxes the rest of the morning. Harold focused on the upstairs bedrooms and basement. Every time he came upon a box marked BOOKS, he whined like a teenager. Lily worked on the living room, bathrooms, and kitchen. The only time she complained was when she stubbed her toe against one of the front stairs.

  By noon, they were both drenched in sweat and starving. Harold called for lunch delivery from a local pizza shop that the realtor had recommended and they ate on the front porch.

  “I think we’re making good progress,” Lily said in between bites of her chicken pita.

  “I do, too,” Harold answered, showing her a mouthful of cheesesteak sub, a gob of melted cheese dripping onto his t-shirt.

  “Oh my God, stop it,” Lily scolded, wiping at his shirt. “What will the neighbors think?”

  They had always been this way: Lily, the earnest one, the nurturer. Harold, the mischievous joker, rarely serious, seldom acting his age, always putting a smile on everyone’s face.

  They’d met at a party during their senior year at the University of Virginia. Lily had been an English major with designs on teaching and maybe one day writing a novel or two. Harold had followed in his father’s footsteps and earned a degree in finance. A job at his family’s brokerage firm was awaiting him after graduation.

  Despite their parents’ protests and offers to help, they’d lived in an apartment the first eighteen months after their spring wedding and saved every cent they earned. They’d used the money to buy a two-bedroom condominium in the city and lived there for almost eight years before feeling secure enough to start house hunting in the suburbs.

  Two months ago, they’d found their dream house here on Hanson Road in the exclusive community of Broadview. Three days ago, they’d moved in.

  They were content and happy, excited about the future, and in the early stages of talking about starting a family.

  They were sure this was the house where they would grow old together.

  *

  “Ugh, my entire body feels like a punching bag.” Lily turned off the light in the bathroom and walked stiffly into the bedroom.

  Harold patted the empty half of the bed beside him. “Climb in and I’ll give you a massage.”

  Lily eased herself in with a groan. Harold scooted over and started rubbing her neck and shoulders.

  “Oh my God,” she moaned. “That feels so good.”

  For the next twenty minutes, Harold worked his fingers over every inch of her body, right down to the bottoms of her feet. When he was finished, Lily was rag-doll limp and nearly asleep. “Thank you,” she mumbled. A minute later, she was snoring.

  Harold watched the rise and fall of her chest for a moment, thinking how lucky he was. How lucky they both were to have found each other. Then he reached over to the nightstand for the remote control to turn off the television. It wasn’t there.

  He looked around the room and spotted the remote sitting next to his wallet on top of the dresser. Sighing, he swung his legs out of bed and quietly walked across the room. He grabbed the remote and was about to return to bed when something caught his attention outside the window. He leaned closer, careful to remain hidden behind the curtains.

  Someone was standing in the middle of the street, staring up at the house.

  Between the darkness and a tangle of overhanging tree branches, Harold couldn’t make out whether it was a man or woman. All he could see was the still figure of someone standing there, watching. He was about to go downstairs and investigate further when the shadowy figure turned and started slowly walking away.

  Harold watched the person disappear down the street and then climbed back into bed. He clicked the remote to turn off the television and lay there in the darkness, thinking about what he’d just seen. He wondered how long the person had been out there watching the house before he’d walked by the window and noticed him. Harold felt unnerved and was certain that sleep would be a long time coming, but within minutes of turning off the television, he was snoring even louder than his wife.

  *

  Despite the uneasiness he’d felt the night before, Harold was too busy the next morning to even think about the mysterious figure he’d seen standing in front of the house.

  It had been Lily’s idea to paint the third upstairs bedroom before hauling in the contents of what would become their joint office. Harold had gone along with it – mostly because she’d been so excited and he didn’t have the heart to tell her no – but now he regretted it. He was exhausted and covered in baby blue paint.

  Lily giggled and used a wet-wipe to rub at the splotches of paint streaking his cheeks and nose. “You look cute, honey.”

  “I look like a goddamn Smurf,” he grumbled.

  “Hold still and stop being such a baby.”

  “I’m not a baby, you’re a baby.”

  Lily used the corner of the wet-wipe to dab away a spot of paint from Harold’s chin and tossed it into a nearby waste-basket. “There, you big baby, I’m all finished.”

  Harold gave her a pouty look and glanced out the upstairs window. Outside, a red-and-white mail Jeep was just pulling away from the curb in front of the house. “I have an idea,” he said, looking back at her.

  “Oh, boy, here we go.”

  “No, I’m serious. We’re almost done up here. Why don’t you finish painting and I’ll go downstairs and whip us up some lunch? How does BLTs and iced tea sound?”

  Lily started to protest, but stopped herself. “Okay, it’s a deal.”

  Harold didn’t hesitate. He yanked off his paint-spattered t-shirt and headed out of the room. Before he reached the hallway, he heard from behind him, “You big baby.” Harold grinned and started downstairs.

  But instead of going to the kitchen, he hit the bottom of the stairs and headed out the front door and down the driveway. A couple of shirtless kids cruised past laughing on skateboards. A man across the street was mowing his lawn. He saw Harold and flipped him a friendly wave. Harold returned the gesture just as he reached the mailbox. He opened it and pulled out a stack of what looked like junk-mail and closed it again. He was halfway up the driveway when he noticed a thin piece of pink paper – a pink-slip – with the words FIRST WARNING printed boldly across the top.

  Harold stopped walking. He stood there in the driveway and read the notice from top to bottom, then he read it again.

  It was a form letter from the Broadview Homeowner’s Association explaining that they were in breach of contract. In a blank space near the top of the form, someone had filled in their address and near the bottom of the form, that same person had handwritten: FAILURE TO PROPERLY STORE TRASH AND REFUSE. SEE CLAUSE 14B FOR ADDITIONAL INFORMATION.

  Harold looked up at the big pile of empty cardboard boxes sitting at the top of the driveway. Were they serious?

  *

  “I didn’t even know we had a neighborhood association,” Harold said, shoveling in another bite of lasagna.

  Lily pushed her salad plate aside. “I did. We had to pay our first year’s dues at closing. Weren’t you even listening to the realtor?”

  He shrugged. “Only about where to sign all those damn papers.”

  Harold had shown Lily the warning notice during lunch that afternoon. Surprisingly, her mood had immediately darkened and she’d stewed about it the rest of the day while they’d unpacked and arranged books on the built-in shelves in the living room. It wasn’t like her to act this way. She had a temper, but she was always the reasonable one.

  “Where do they get off telling us what to do?” she asked.

  “I’m right there with you, baby, but isn’t that what homeowner’s associations do? They make
up a bunch of dumb rules for people to follow?”

  “But to give us a warning our first week here? And for a bunch of stupid cardboard boxes?”

  Harold shrugged. “I guess they’re pretty strict.”

  She put down her fork and picked up the pink-slip. “Not strict, ridiculous.”

  “Ridiculous,” he agreed, nodding.

  “Clause 14B,” she said. She’d found the homeowner’s association rules online earlier in the afternoon and looked it up. “So we should have broken down the boxes and stored them alongside the house until trash day. Big flippin’ deal. They weren’t even out there for twenty-four hours. Who in the world would have complained about that?”

  Harold thought about the dark figure standing in the street the night before and decided not to say anything to Lily. She was upset enough. He leaned over and refilled her wine glass. “It really is okay, baby. We just have to forget about it. We’ll probably never hear from the stupid homeowner’s association again.”

  *

  But he was wrong.

  Two weeks later, another pink-slip showed up in the mailbox. Lily found it when she returned home from her afternoon run, and she was livid.

  “Look at this,” she said, waving the notice in Harold’s face when he walked in the door that evening from work. “Another warning!”

  “What did we do wrong this time?” Harold took the pink-slip from her and read it standing in the foyer. “Second and final warning. Improper lawn ornament/ decoration? What in the hell are they talking about?”

  Lily snatched the notice away. “They’re talking about our bird bath, Harold.”

  “Our… You’re kidding me?”

  “I wish I was. Evidently, all plastic lawn ornaments are forbidden. Only concrete, sandstone, marble and copper are acceptable. Do you know what that means?”

  “No pink flamingoes for the front yard?”