"If you just get rid of the hat, he might just leave."
Rolling his eyes, Mort replied, "Oh, and if that's true, how do I get rid of you?" A chuckle came from the right after this was said.
"Shut up you," Mort snapped.
"I doubt very highly, Mr. Rainey, that throwing my hat away will help you." The person to Mort's right said with a country drawl.
"I've lost my ever-loving mind," Mort closed his eyes and stuck his fingers in his ears to rid himself of the voices; although, he knew that these voices were not from ordinary people, but inside of his own head. "Why don't you leave?" he asked angrily to both people that sat with him on a run-down couch.
"Well, sir, I'm quite fond of it here," a tall man, with an ugly black hat said. "I believe I will stay for a while more."
Snapping his eyes open, and then widening them, Mort turned to the tall man. "Like hell you are Shooter!"
"Just throw it in the fire." Mort heard his own voice, but it was not him who spoke.
Spinning himself around, Mort faced the other man, which was a mirror image of himself: messy, brown-blond hair, dark red glasses, and was even wearing an identical multi-colored, striped bathrobe. "Shut up. I hate you," Then he twisted around to face Shooter again. "I hate you too!" Mort then did the first thing that popped into his head: he plucked the ugly black hat from Shooter's head, and chucked it into the burning flames in the fireplace across from the moth-eaten couch.
After this deed was done, Morton Rainey ran up the stairs leading to the loft, and shouted to both his mirror image, and Shooter: "I hate you both. Go the hell away!"
Shooter gave Mort a wicked smile, and he and 'Mort' was gone.
Hours later, Morton was on his couch for a lovely nap. He was quite fond of his naps, but he knew this was when he was most at risk for Shooter to take over, but at this point, he didn't care. What is the reason for this, you might ask? If you scanned the coffee table in front of the couch, you would find your answer: an empty bottle of Jack Daniels.
Littered on the table by the bottle, there were also an empty Mountain Dew can, and a half eaten bag of Doritos.
"Nap... nappers... nap... I like naps," Mort sung to his ceiling. "Naps, naps, naps, naps, naps..." Closing his eyes, he felt quite like flying. He rocked his head slightly as if he were listening to music, and realized his teeth hurt him. "Ouches," he laughed as he rubbed his cheek.
"Damn braces," he said as he walked upstairs for medicine, all the while, stumbling a rather bit. "Ta da dee dum." He sang as he walked.
Someone needs to lay off the Jack Daniels.
"Shut up."
You're drunk, and Shooter's gonna take over, you know that, right?
Mort muttered something that sounded like 'mumble wimble'.
Dear Lord. Mort could see in his head his mirror image shaking his head.
Up in the loft, Mort rummaged around his desk for the medication his orthodontist had given him, but instead of finding a prescription bottle of pills, he discovered a box of cigarettes.
"Well," he said with a slur. "These are not mine." He shook his head. "I do not smoke. Anymore." Looking at them, he narrowed his eyes. "Oh, fuck it. I'm go to smoke. Just this once – no wait! I'm gonna smoke this and then I'm gonna buy more, and smoke the hell out of it." Believing this was a great plan, he trailed outside, forgetting his medicine.
Upon opening the front door, he found a black hat that was oddly familiar. "Oh, no..." Even though he was drunk out of his mind, he still knew that hat, and what it meant.
The hat's lip was under a large rock, and when he moved this rock, a very great spider came from under it.
"Ahhh!" he yelled and ran to the end of the porch. "Icky, icky spiders. I hates them... Yes I do." Still muttering to himself, he took the hat and scampered inside the house.
Shaking his head, Mort looked at the hat. After seeing this hat again, after he threw it in the fire, he was feeling much more sober than he was when he walked up the stairs. He ran his hand threw his hair and studied the hat.
With the most of a half hour he studied the hat to make sure it was, in fact, Shooter's. Mort put one fist under his chin to support his head while he scrutinized the hat.
"Mmm..." Mort blinked and sighed. "What the hell does this mean?"
It means I'm here to stay, Mr. Rainey.
Mort jumped, believing the voice was in person, not in his mind. Glancing around the room, he saw no one and then thought that he imagined it.
No you didn't. I'm here. Forever.
Mort, who was shaking, grabbed his pack of cigarettes, and lit one. "Go away, go away, go away, go away..." he repeated these words by not just saying it aloud, but thought it as well. But while he thought and said this, something else played in his head:
I'm not, I'm not, I'm not, I'm not, I'm not...Taking a breath, he closed his eyes and almost shouted it in his head.
Shooter wasn't giving up either.
I'M NOT LEAVING! GIVE UP! I'M HERE TO STAY, MR. RAINEY!
Mort jumped and ran to a kitchen drawer, and came back with scissors in hand. "Wait," Mort said and walked back to the drawer.
Upon returning to the kitchen table, Mort took the silver Sharpie he took from the drawer in his second trip, and wrote the word 'Bastard' all over it. When this was done, Mort grabbed the scissors and cut the hat into little pieces.
While getting bored of this quickly, Mort decided to cut little shapes out from the hat. He had had two squares, four hearts, a crooked star, and a triangle sitting by him when his hand cramped up. He gave up on the shapes, and cut the remaining piece into fourths.
Mort was unsure of what to do with the pieces of fabric that lay on his kitchen table, so he did the first thing that darted into his brain: he threw the pieces in a safe that was hidden under his bed.
When this was done, Mort knew that Shooter would know where Mort would hide the key to the small safe, so he closed his eyes, and flung it out the window above his dresser.
Mort laughed and sat down at his desk to finish off the pack of cigarettes.
Well, aren't you happy with yourself?
"Yes, I believe I am," Mort told the voice in his head. "I don't see Shooter finding that key."
I will, Mr. Rainey. The voice echoed slightly in his head, and Mort shuttered.
Two days after Mort put the pieces of Shooter's hat in the safe, he had had no trouble from him. He was very happy with himself indeed. So happy, in fact, he had yet to touch another bottle of Jack Daniels, or take a nap on his moth-eaten couch. He thought that if Shooter were going to show up, he would have done so by then.
Upon returning from a shopping trip in another town, Mort had come home to an unwanted surprise.
"Well, hello, Mr. Rainey," Shooter scared poor Mort so bad when he walked into the front door; he had dropped the grocery bags he had in his hands.
Watching the eggs explode from the bag, Shooter walked closer to Mort. "I told you I'd be back. You can't get rid of me."
"Why are you still here? I fixed the stupid story! Leave me be!" Mort ran from the person coming nearer to his person.
"I told you. I am quiet fond of it here. I aim to stay."
"And like I told you: the hell you are!" Mort darted to the stairs, and grabbed an oar from under them.
"What do you think you are doing to do with that?" Shooter laughed at poor Mort, who was about ready to jump off the cliff not far from his home.
Mort sighed. "I really don't think I know." Mort wasn't so stupid that he believed his could hit Shooter with the oar. He knew this was in his head.
"Oh, and Mr. Rainey, I found this by the key," Shooter threw something sliver at Mort, who was never good at sports, wasn't able to catch it. It crashed against the wall and Mort walked over to it. To his disbelief, it was a watch. Not any watch, but the watch he had lost over the cliff when he got caught in the wheel of the car he was driving off that cliff. He turned it over to see if his suspicions were true. Indeed, on the back, the watch said: With Love, Amy. His eyes widened and he fell to the floor.
"Wouldn't want the cops to find that little trinket in that automobile, now would we? I did you a favor, Mr. Rainey."
"Which is it? Killing all those people, or giving me the watch?"
"Both," Shooter said with a large smile.
"Bastard." Mort said under his breath.
"Excuse me?"
"Bastard!" Mort shouted as he threw the watch at Shooter. It didn't amaze Mort that the watch flew right through him.
"Call me what you will, but I'll be back." Shooter disappeared then, leaving Mort to crawl to his feet.
"Well this calls for my buddy Jack." Mort muttered as he tread to the kitchen.
No you don't! Mort heard his voice yell in his head.
"Yes, I do." Mort picked up the bottle and took a long swig.
Dammit you!
Mort hummed a small tune in his head to rid himself of 'Mort's raving, and took another mouthful of the Jack Daniels.