A very Frank Miller Christmas or ..
'That Red Bastard'
You never get a second chance to make a first impression
Motherfucker.
The razor sharp needles dig in hard and a thousand shafts of pain run up my arms. Like being attacked by a sado-masochistic gardener with a serious case of the 'nail-guns'. Squeezing my eyes shut, offers little relief, as when I open them all I see is red. And green.
'You fucking dolt', I spit at myself.
A swift kick to the Xmas tree 'Happy Sacks' offers little relief as I examine the constellation that is now my forearms. You'll pay for this you fat prick.
11:53pm. Still enough time to suck down a Craven A and remember. You would think that after 36 years of trying to forget, the details would get hazy. If only. Trying to forget that night is harder than a twelve foot cock in a leather jacket waving a chainsaw.
God she was beautiful.
Hair darker than a Ninja hunting eels at night. Skin so pure, that she beckoned violent defilement with every sigh she made. Yeah she was some dame alright.
She never meant to harm me, I'm sure of that. As sure as I was of the wink that fucker gave me over her shoulder. Try as I might to pretend it never happened, there was no denying it.
I saw Mommy kissing Santa Klaus.
Motherfucker.
The Kringle cocksucker was going down quicker than a DC-10.
I barely have time to suck back the final three fingers of whiskey as the decrepit old fuck falls a story and hits the ground hard. The stench of stale cookies and piss forces me to stifle a gag.
The spry bastard is up and trying to dust of dried semen from his pants quicker than you can say,'polyphrasticontranominegalondulation'.
From the back of the tree I see his drooling visage flashing. Red. Green. Red. Green. Red. Green. That's it you Red Bastard, come closer. So close I can smell your breath. Oh, God the reek of sour milk is so bad it feels like hello kitty got gang raped in his mouth.
He fumbles with his sack as I cock the hammer back on the .45.
'He's making a list...'
Shaking more than Gary Glitter at a kindergarten, he slowly pulls out a grease stained box.
'Checking it twice...'
'Oh', he mumbles, 'for Johnny'.
'Gonna find out who's naughty or nice..'
He throws the box down and pushes, 'Ho, Ho..', through gritted teeth.
Not this time shitbag. My arm rockets through the tree, past the candy cane as I smack the Colt up against his forehead.
'..Ho Bitch'.
For a few seconds, it's beautiful. A pissed of Tanenbaum dispensing justice through a revolver at the end of a tinsel covered arm.
Seems like I wasn't the only the kid with a grudge, because the fuckers ready. He turns faster than an epileptic in an electric bumper car and spins his fun bag into my face. I jerk the trigger, but the stray shot only takes down the mistletoe hung over the door.
'Oh dear, looks like no kisses for Johnny', he hisses as he scampers out the window onto the fire escape.
'You fuck, kiss this!', I scream as I unload a clip out the window.
I have trouble reloading the clip as I'm more wired than a prisoner at Abu Ghraib. Scrambling out the window, a drop of red hit's my cheek. That's it fucker, bleed.
By the time I get to the roof, he's struggling into the sleigh while stemming the flow of 'Christmas spirit' flowing from his bloated gut. No time to think.
I take a breath, and first steady my head and then my aim on Dasher (BANG!), on Dancer (BANG!), on Prancer(BANG!), on Vixen (BANG!), on Comet(BANG!), on Cupid(BANG!), on Donder(BANG!), on Blixen (BANG!). Rudolph? Sorry, no-one wants to play your reindeer games, bitch (BANG!).
Looks like I struck a nerve in the old turd because he steels himself quicker than a schizophrenic pick-pocket.
Suddenly there's nothing but red flab and pixie dust coming at high speed. A last minute side step, has him almost over the edge, save for my grip on his sickly beard.
It's as if the Colt once again on his forehead has a telegram. Special delivery for Mr Nicholas, 'You're fucked'.
'But, what about the children?', he stammers.
'You should have through about that before you touched my..', I begin, but he makes a grab for the gun. Three rounds later there's nothing left but red spray and burnt hair.
'...Mother, Fucker.'
- Cere
You never get a second chance to make a first impression
Motherfucker.
The razor sharp needles dig in hard and a thousand shafts of pain run up my arms. Like being attacked by a sado-masochistic gardener with a serious case of the 'nail-guns'. Squeezing my eyes shut, offers little relief, as when I open them all I see is red. And green.
'You fucking dolt', I spit at myself.
A swift kick to the Xmas tree 'Happy Sacks' offers little relief as I examine the constellation that is now my forearms. You'll pay for this you fat prick.
11:53pm. Still enough time to suck down a Craven A and remember. You would think that after 36 years of trying to forget, the details would get hazy. If only. Trying to forget that night is harder than a twelve foot cock in a leather jacket waving a chainsaw.
God she was beautiful.
Hair darker than a Ninja hunting eels at night. Skin so pure, that she beckoned violent defilement with every sigh she made. Yeah she was some dame alright.
She never meant to harm me, I'm sure of that. As sure as I was of the wink that fucker gave me over her shoulder. Try as I might to pretend it never happened, there was no denying it.
I saw Mommy kissing Santa Klaus.
Motherfucker.
The Kringle cocksucker was going down quicker than a DC-10.
I barely have time to suck back the final three fingers of whiskey as the decrepit old fuck falls a story and hits the ground hard. The stench of stale cookies and piss forces me to stifle a gag.
The spry bastard is up and trying to dust of dried semen from his pants quicker than you can say,'polyphrasticontranominegalondulation'.
From the back of the tree I see his drooling visage flashing. Red. Green. Red. Green. Red. Green. That's it you Red Bastard, come closer. So close I can smell your breath. Oh, God the reek of sour milk is so bad it feels like hello kitty got gang raped in his mouth.
He fumbles with his sack as I cock the hammer back on the .45.
'He's making a list...'
Shaking more than Gary Glitter at a kindergarten, he slowly pulls out a grease stained box.
'Checking it twice...'
'Oh', he mumbles, 'for Johnny'.
'Gonna find out who's naughty or nice..'
He throws the box down and pushes, 'Ho, Ho..', through gritted teeth.
Not this time shitbag. My arm rockets through the tree, past the candy cane as I smack the Colt up against his forehead.
'..Ho Bitch'.
For a few seconds, it's beautiful. A pissed of Tanenbaum dispensing justice through a revolver at the end of a tinsel covered arm.
Seems like I wasn't the only the kid with a grudge, because the fuckers ready. He turns faster than an epileptic in an electric bumper car and spins his fun bag into my face. I jerk the trigger, but the stray shot only takes down the mistletoe hung over the door.
'Oh dear, looks like no kisses for Johnny', he hisses as he scampers out the window onto the fire escape.
'You fuck, kiss this!', I scream as I unload a clip out the window.
I have trouble reloading the clip as I'm more wired than a prisoner at Abu Ghraib. Scrambling out the window, a drop of red hit's my cheek. That's it fucker, bleed.
By the time I get to the roof, he's struggling into the sleigh while stemming the flow of 'Christmas spirit' flowing from his bloated gut. No time to think.
I take a breath, and first steady my head and then my aim on Dasher (BANG!), on Dancer (BANG!), on Prancer(BANG!), on Vixen (BANG!), on Comet(BANG!), on Cupid(BANG!), on Donder(BANG!), on Blixen (BANG!). Rudolph? Sorry, no-one wants to play your reindeer games, bitch (BANG!).
Looks like I struck a nerve in the old turd because he steels himself quicker than a schizophrenic pick-pocket.
Suddenly there's nothing but red flab and pixie dust coming at high speed. A last minute side step, has him almost over the edge, save for my grip on his sickly beard.
It's as if the Colt once again on his forehead has a telegram. Special delivery for Mr Nicholas, 'You're fucked'.
'But, what about the children?', he stammers.
'You should have through about that before you touched my..', I begin, but he makes a grab for the gun. Three rounds later there's nothing left but red spray and burnt hair.
'...Mother, Fucker.'
- Cere