What am I talking about here? Well, it’s a truly rancid little piece of putrefying prose called, The Meeting.  It seems to revolve entirely around guns, so much so, it make us wonder why the author, Elwin Estle, didn’t think about putting a bullet through the thing itself.  (It would have been a mercy killing in this case, ‘cause this monster should die!)  But let us relate some of the tacky tidbits of this tale, so you can judge for yourselves.  And after hearing them, in the name of all that is unholy, PLEASE condemn this story to the fires.  We here in the ZAP ROOM don’t believe in book burnings, but hey, in this case we’ll make an exception. Gladly!  Just trot that author on out here.  Somebody—get the torches! Oh, that’s right, we said "book" burning . . . Aw shucks!

The Meeting starts with a guy, Carmichael, having sat outside a house in his car, watching it. (The house, not the car.)  He has sat so long, that he appears to smell quite badly.  (One wonders why?  I mean, just sitting there you don’t work up much of a sweat, so could it be lack of toilet facilities we’re talking about here?)  After all, it has been three whole days! So either this guy is awfully constipated, or… (Shouldn’t have eaten those prunes!)

In any case, the occupant of the house suddenly pops up by the passenger-side window of his car, one Lainey Holloway.  She invites, or rather insists he should come into the house.  Little Stinks-alias-Carmichael rather reluctantly agrees.  She makes comments about how "ripe" he’s getting. (Yeah, well so is this story at this point!)  Anyway, Little Stinks decides to go into the home.  There, at her request, he takes a shower; she then fixes him a sandwich and a drink.  All real cozy-like, "ain’t it?"

Yeah, well then she asks him about his gun (not quite your usual topic of lunch conversation, or is it?), and they have a little gun talk about its specifications, just how big it is, and what it can do.  And yes, I’m really talking about a gun here.  Then she whips "out a Beretta fitted with a large silencer."  (YAWN! I mean, is this a horror story or a 2012 survivalist’s group meeting, or what?) Then she whips out another gun (she’s got a million of ‘em, apparently), tells him to shoot her, because if he doesn’t, she will shoot him with the second gun, or is that technically the third gun at this point?  It’s hard to keep track.

Little Stinks argues, not wanting to harm her, but given there is only a count of five before she will shoot him, it is admittedly a rather short argument.  He shoots.  She splatters.  He goes to take a pee (yeah, well, we will let this opportunity for a "comment" here slide . . .).  While doing this, he reminisces about the fact he knows she had been shot dead as a hostage in a bank holdup some years before this event. As I’ve said, you can’t keep a good girl down, or so it seems.  (There are more details, but again, YAWN!) Anyway, it seems Little Stinks is trying to figure out why she has now managed to die twice, (while we readers are busy trying to figure out how this story could have died ten times over already, and we’re still not through with it!  It’s like, "why won’t you die!?")

Then, even as he is staring into the bathroom mirror, she appears undead again, and apparently, perfectly okay, no little holes in her forehead through which the wind can whip or anything of that sort.  (Again, you just can’t keep a good girl down, sadly, because by this point—oh, we so want this story to end!)  He asks who she really is.  With a predatory, cold (monster?) look, she says:

"Someone who ya just SO do not want to go shootin' in the head without permission," said Lainey, smiling impishly. "Still hungry? Sandwiches is ruin't. I'll make some new."

(Apparently, this monster, or whatever she really is, has simply atrocious grammar, which she demonstrates repeatedly throughout this short -– yet oddly -– horribly long story.  Couldn’t she afford monster prep school, one wonders?  And there you have it, our version of "Goin’ to the Meetin’ and just for you, my little ZAPPITES.)

 Our ZAP ~ 

Now, what is wrong with this story, you ask?  Need we explain, we answer, or have all our little asides throughout the synopsis not made it clear enough for you?  This story is so bad that we’d tear it into little pieces and swallow it, if we thought it wouldn’t come back up!  Let’s see, where to start . . . hmmm . . . no sympathetic character for us to identify with, except maybe, Little Stinks.  But who can get close to him with an odor like that?  Then there is "Lainey," who must have had a prior life in some singlewide trailer deep down in some "rustic" area somewhere, going by the way she talks.

We don’t much "reckon" we care "for her none," either, if you catch our drift, so no sympathetic identification there!  But all the gun talk (fully a third of this tale) was certainly interesting—NOT!  I mean, what was all this my-gun-is-bigger-than-your-gun stuff anyway?  And who is she?  I mean, who is she????  We never know, never even get a hint.  And when Little Stinks asks who she is, she responds about bullets and sandwiches.  Oh yeah, she’s a real gun "barrel" full of laughs, "ain’t" she?  Admittedly, they make an enticing combination for us here in the ZAP ROOM, but apt to cause <burp> literary INDIGESTION, if you see our point.

Let’s see, no characters we like, a plot that goes nowhere, dialogue from some time warp of The Andy Griffith Show, no willing suspension of disbelief WHATSOEVER, and an ending dumber than "Goober" trying to clean his ears out with a sledge hammer.  Ah, well . . . Nope, sorry, we ain’t a-gonna go to this "Meetin," not now, not ever.  So, Elwin Estle of "The Meeting" story fame; you’ve been ZAPPED!  And the same goes for Little Stinks. Whew!  Would somebody please open a window . . . PLEEEAASE?  You know, I think that is New Jersey . . .