Happy holidays, #$%#^$!%#@&&si
10:45 PM. Christmas Eve.
The five of us sat around the fireplace in the living room of a suburban home, drinking, laughing and having a good time.
“Hey, Bruno, pass me the scotch, would ya?” one of the other men said.
“Sure thing, Joey,” said Bruno as he handed his friend a bottle of scotch.
“Hey,” Joey said to me. “You and Jack mind goin’ to the kitchen to grab some more snacks?”
“Not a problem,” I said as Jack and I got out of our seats. We walked upstairs into the kitchen. Jack turned his back to me as he opened the cupboards, not noticing as I reached into the knife drawer.
As he turned around to place the glasses on the counter, I swung my arm to the right in an arcing motion, knife in hand. Jack dropped the glasses and grabbed his throat, choking, blood seeping out from his neck onto his hands. The glasses shattered on the floor, and he soon followed, going limp seconds later. A holler came from downstairs.
“Somethin’ wrong up there?” asked Bruno.
“Just dropped a few glasses,” I hollered down. “Could one of you guys bring up a bandage or two? Jack’s cut himself.”
“Yeah, fine,” said Joey. I left Jack’s body where it was and hid behind a cabinet, keeping an eye on the rest of the kitchen. Joey soon walked in.
“I got the band-” he began, but stopped, dropping the bandages, as well as his jaw, when he saw Jack’s body, lying in a pool of blood and broken glass shards. He turned his head towards me as I stepped out from behind the cabinet, arm raised. I threw the knife forward, and it spun twice in the air before impaling itself in his forehead. He fell over dead, the same expression of horror remaining on his face.
“The hell’s goin’ on up there?” Bruno hollered up. The time for subtlety was lost. I hopped over the kitchen banister, landing in the living room. Bruno and Andy jumped with surprise in their chairs as they as saw me. I grabbed the bottle of scotch from the table, smashed it, and jammed the broken edges into Andy’s throat. He gargled and gagged as his throat filled with blood, and he went limp.
Bruno stood up from his chair, pistol in hand. I was faster. I grabbed his arm, twisted it until I heard a crack, and he dropped the weapon, yelling in pain. I turned him to face the fireplace, then kicked him. He stumbled, disoriented, smashing his head against the fireplace, and fell on the bed of hot coals. The force of the blow had knocked him unconscious, and he lay there silently as the flames began roasting his face.
Satisfied, I turned toward the front door, when I heard the clacking of heels upstairs.
“Wha’s goin’ on down here?” asked Cindy-Lou, Jack’s prostitute, from the top of the stairs. She was drunk.
“Nothing, Cindy,” I said. “We’re just fixing the Christmas tree, go back to bed.”
“Fine,” she said in a slurred speech, and she stumbled back down the hallway and into the bedroom she had come from.
Having resolved that conflict, I watched as the fire started to engulf the rest of Bruno’s body. Soon, the entire house would be ablaze.
I walked out the front door, into the street, disappearing into the night. My job was done.