Fiction: “Snow White and the Seven Bastards” by Andy Rausch

As they sat drinking in Joe’s Tavern, Prince Charming couldn’t stop thinking about Snow White’s past. It had been weighing on him lately. Sure, she was beautiful, but she was also white trash. She was beneath him. They were from different stations in life, and their differences were becoming ever more apparent. Despite her claims that she’d never slept around, Prince Charming was having a difficult time taking her at her word. She had drank her fair share of tequila tonight, and the inebriated men in the bar were talking to her like they’d been intimate. The worst offender was a sloshed cowboy in a camouflaged cap who kept making remarks about her tits.

Being the gentleman he was, Prince Charming defended her honor, but it became more and more difficult to do so as horny slobs continued swarming out of the woodwork to make lascivious remarks. She was his wife, goddammit! Why didn’t these men respect that? Even if they had screwed her, why would they be so cruel as to rub it in his face? And Snow White herself was no help, as she was drunk and flirting back.

Prince Charming took a swig of his Jager and excused himself to the restroom. Inside, the urinals were nasty and overflowing, so he was forced to piss in a stall. As he stood there relieving himself, he glanced down and saw a sentence scrawled on the wall. It read: “Call Snow White for a good time.” But the word “time” had been scratched out and replaced with the word “fuck.” Her cell phone number was written beneath. It was an outdated number, but it was one he knew.

“Goddammit,” he muttered. The scrawling was down low to the ground, just at the height of a dwarf. Prince Charming’s mind began to race. She’d insisted that she’d never slept with any of the loathsome little sons of bitches, but the graffiti told a different tale. Prince Charming could feel his face turning flush with embarrassment. He stalked back to his table to find another redneck leaning over his wife. When Prince Charming reached them, the man staggered away without acknowledging him.

“Another friend?” asked Prince Charming.

“Just a guy I used to know,” said Snow White, taking a drag from her cigarette. This was another sore spot with Prince Charming—he didn’t smoke and he absolutely loathed the stench of her Pall Malls.

“It seems like you know a lot of guys here.”

She looked at him. Despite her being drunk, she understood the insinuation. “Is there somethin’ you wanna say? If there is, don’t fuck around. Just say it.”

So he did. “Are you sure you told me the truth when you said you’d only been with five guys before me?”

Snow White was visibly pissed. “I’ve never lied to you.”

“I don’t know about that,” he said.

Anger flashed in her eyes, and she stubbed out her cigarette. “Why is that?”

“You’re awfully chummy with quite a few guys here.”

“And?” she asked.

“Well, let me ask you this: just how was it that you convinced the Woodsman to release you into the woods instead of killing you?”

“What does that mean?”

He stared at her, unrelenting. “Did you fuck him?”

“No, he was atrocious.”

At this Prince Charming turned and looked at the other men at the bar. “And these guys aren’t?”

“Everyone’s got a past, Charming,” she said. “Even you.”

Prince Charming took another drink. “You’re full of shit.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that you’re a liar.”

This infuriated her. “How can you say that to me? Where do you get your balls?”

He looked at her. “Those dwarves you lived with—are you sure you didn’t fuck them?”

She threw her hands up, implying there was no talking to him. “Are we really having this conversation again?”

“Have we ever had it?”

She glared at him, fire in her eyes. “And what does that mean?”

“It means we never really had the conversation, because you put an end to it. God forbid you should have to talk about something you don’t wanna talk about.” Prince Charming took a drink. “You’re a spoiled bitch.”

Snow White lit another Pall Mall with shaking hands. “Where is this coming from? Why tonight?”

“You’re so chummy with all the guys here. Are you really gonna tell me you never screwed any of them?”

She looked at him, saying nothing.

“That’s what I thought,” he said.

“What do you want from me?” she asked, fidgeting nervously.

“I want you to be straight. I think you screwed those dwarves.”

“You would think that,” she said, taking another drag.

“There’s a message written in the bathroom. Care to guess who it’s about?”

She looked up. “What kind of message?”

“It says to call you for a good fuck. And it has your number on it! And it was written about two feet from the ground—right at dwarf-level.”

She blew out smoke. “So what?”

“I want a divorce,” he said, pulling the ring off his finger. He dropped it into his drink. He started to stand, and she reached out to stop him. “Please don’t,” she begged.        “My lawyer will be in touch, Snow White.”

He turned and walked out, leaving her sitting there with her tequila and a half-smoked Pall Mall. George Strait was singing on the jukebox, and even though he was her favorite, Snow White didn’t notice. She raised her cigarette, tears welling up in her eyes.

Prince Charming was the only thing she’d ever really wanted.

He was the only man she’d ever loved.

She sat there crying, her tears serving as man-repellent, and no one came to her aid. There were no more comments about her tits or anything else.

She reached into her purse and caressed the chrome pistol with her fingers, making sure the gun was there.

Someone was going to pay.

She stood up, George Strait sounding muted in her ears, her balance just a little off. She drank the last of her tequila and turned for the door. She had tears streaming down her face like tiny snakes slithering their way towards her neck.

She walked out, surprised to find her Camaro still parked outside. Prince Charming must have walked home. She thought this as if home was where he was headed. And for the briefest of moments, Snow White considered shooting him in his preppy fucking smug face. But she knew what she had to do, and she knew who had to pay.

She unlocked the car door, climbing inside. She turned the key, Lorrie Morgan coming to life from the speakers. She peeled out of the gravel parking lot, kicking up a cloud of dust behind. Her hands still trembling, she lit another cigarette. She stomped the gas, and the car lurched forward, speeding towards vengeance.

Minutes later she was there, parked in front of the dwarves’ trailer. She turned off the ignition and stared at the house, contemplating what she had to do. She reached into her bag and grabbed the .45, pulling it out. She climbed out of the Camaro and marched up the driveway towards the trailer. She made her way up the stairs, flicking her half-spent cigarette into the yard. She raised her right hand, the one clutching the gun, and banged on the door. She could hear Megadeath blaring inside.

No one came, so she knocked again, harder this time.

Finally the wooden door opened and Doc peered out through the tattered screen.

Let me in, goddammit,” she screamed.

Doc opened the door and let her in, her pistol raised.

Doc raised his arms to show he didn’t want trouble. She swiveled the pistol to her left, seeing Dopey snorting a line of crank from an aluminum TV tray.

“What’s the problem?” Doc asked.

She turned the pistol back towards Doc and squeezed the trigger, shooting him in the face. Dopey looked up, startled. He started to run towards the back of the trailer, but Snow White caught him with a shot to the back of his head. The bedroom door on Snow White’s right opened and Grumpy peered out. “What the fuck is going on?”

Snow White shot through the particle-board door, catching Grumpy center mass, and he fell from sight. She turned and kicked the door open, seeing Sneezy there naked and crouching on all fours, waiting for Grumpy’s return. She shot Sneezy, painting the blinds behind him with blood and brains.

Snow White turned back towards the living room, where she saw Bashful standing there with a naked dwarf woman clutched in front of him, his Glock aimed at her temple. “Shoot and she dies,” Bashful said.

“Who wrote my number in the bathroom stall?” Snow White asked, trembling with anger.

“It was Doc,” Bashful said. “I told him not to write that shit, but you know how that motherfucker is…”

Snow White squeezed the trigger, firing off a round through the female dwarf’s chest and hitting Bashful behind her. They both fell dead in a heap of flesh and bones. Snow White moved past them in search of the two remaining dwarves. She peered down the hall, and Sleepy peeked out through the doorway at the far end. Snow White fired two rounds, splintering the wall and catching him in the throat. She made her way down the hall, past the row of stockpiled Pepsi two liters. She stumbled, momentarily losing her footing, and she fell towards the floor.

She heard the gun cock behind her. She turned and saw Happy standing there, his nine-millimeter Glock trained on her. She went for her gun, which she’d dropped in the fall, and Happy fired a round through her left shoulder.

Unnnngggggg!” she cried.

“Turn around and look at me,” said Happy.

She turned to her right, twisting a bit, and looked him in his eyes. He had his pistol trained on her, but Snow White came up with the .45 and shot a bullet through his forehead. The diminutive gunman toppled back into the kitchen.

Snow White raised herself from the ground, her shoulder hurting like hell. She could hear the police sirens in the distance, getting closer by the second. She raised the .45 to her temple and squeezed the trigger.

And Snow White was no more.

andrew j rauschBio: Andy Rausch  Andy Rausch is an American film journalist, author, screenwriter, film producer, and actor.

He is the author of more than 30 books, including the novels ‘Elvis Presley, CIA Assassin,” “Mad World,” and ‘Riding Shotgun and Other American Cruelties.