12-08-2015, 01:50 PM
Rachel is no longer screaming for him to shoot the deranged intruders and the girls’ wailings had drained down to mere whimpers and wide-eyes. Their eldest son Roman had finally shuffled his way out from his ground floor bedroom to scan over the scene with a blank gaze before turning and shuffling his way right back into his room without a word. Hands that had just been filled with the slick, cool heaviness of a shotgun were empty as he stood before the Grinch. A pair of antlers were clutched in his fingers now and he can’t even help the humorless laugh that escapes his lips when the green demon finishes.
A part of him wants to spit in the monster’s face, to tell him family were the most likely of all to commit the most hateful of sins against you! He wanted to tell him of a lustful king father that had forsaken his mother, let her bleed out alone in childbirth while he lay in the embrace of another. But…that wasn’t his life, was it?
No, he had two loving parents, Konrad and Antonia Kry, who had lived at 39 Courtwood Drive, Battle Creek, MI 49015 for over forty years. His mother bred Pembroke Welsh Corgis and they had anywhere from seven to ten at any given time at their sprawling, immaculately manicured homestead. Not that any of them would have ever of been forced to sleep outside, his father probably wouldn’t have allowed it anyway. Konrad was especially proud of his perfectly cut Zoysia grass – best yard in all of Calhoun county, the burly old man would have eagerly told any who cared to turn an ear. This was his life, he had good parents, a beautiful feisty wife and young children.
He extends a calloused hand to begrudgingly tie on the antlers as the Grinch suggests that he send his family off to bed. His girls are already turning back into their bedroom and with neither a turn of her head or an utter of a word, Rachel walks past her husband with her giggling toddler. Without a single glance back she steps into the master bedroom and shuts the door, the soft click of a locking door the only sound that followed.
“Bullshit,” He growls, tying on the fucking antlers, all the while dark eyes holding the murky green of the Grinch’s, “had to come to my house, huh?:” He blusters, shouldering past the Grinch’s stank, heavy frame as he makes his way down his (now)chipped cherry wood floors. “You,” he says, bending down to pick up the shotgun that had been flung across the room and pointing it at the Grinch, “and those little fucks better fix this shit, too.” He demands, pointing the barrel at the shredded pine tree and mutant reindeer hoof shredded couches. He must have been a comical sight of sorts, a huge man with a pair of cheesy antlers, clad only in a pair of even cheesier old red candy-cane pajamas and wielding a shotgun.
With shotgun cradled under his armpit he strides across the living room to a side closet, after retrieving a dial-code lock box he stuffs a subcompact pistol into his pajama pocket. “Let’s go,” he says, slamming the closet door and shaking out a pair of a work boots that had been beneath one of the smashed windows by the front door. After pulling them on, he yanks the door wide and strides across the back yard, leaning down to peer inside of the dog house where his Bear hid and wagged his tail. Big for nothing, useless as tits on a bull – or so his father would say. Rising up hops the side fence, for some reason it didn’t feel quite right walking out the driveway to vandalize and terrorize his neighbors. So he took the creek line, a jagged stream trail that lined the back of the sizeable homes.
“Not that one,” he roars, as a couple antlered demons raced up the back edge of Randall and Julie Porter’s backyard. They were old, easily into their 80s and he was pretty fucking sure even that ornery old man would have a straight up heart attack if any of the Grinch’s minions made their way into any part of their house, let alone their beloved neighbor along with them. Many mornings, he had made his way over to old Mr. Porter’s house to fill his belly with Julie’s thick-cut bacon and black coffee, he enjoyed the old man’s war stories. Not that one.
The next house up the back side of the creek he perhaps wouldn’t feel too bad about. Also a two-story, this one had a pool with a neon Playboy bunny sign. Gerard Lowe was some kind of “entrepreneur” who was known to have very loud parties well into the morning hours – not even the fun kind. These were naked bitches having fist-fights in the upscale neighborhood, cop sirens and one time they even had one idiot wander into neighbor’s side door and fall asleep in their sunroom. “This way,” he says, not bothering to see if they were following – he knows they are. He enters the backyard easily through the latch-lock fencing the idiot hadn’t bothered to add a locking feature to. He could see the synthetic blue, twinkling tree through the large garden window that overlooked the covered pool. A quick glance through the window showed presents stacked (no doubt for his brood of random bastard children and myriad of “girlfriends”) and on the glass table were two empty bottles of Jack and a few lines of white powder smeared around an overflowing ashtray. On the couch was Gerald, clad in candy-cane slippers and most ironically, Grinch-themed boxers. His fat stomach overlapping the hat and eyes of the cartooned boxers so that only the scowl of the Seuss villain was visible. With an amused laugh he tries handle of the back paneled-glass door but finds that it is locked. Ripping off a piece of the bottom of his pajamas he wraps it around his fist and punches a hole through the glass pane that is closest to the handle. Reaching through he pulls down the handle and steps inside, within seconds an alarm is blaring and a phone is ringing somewhere in the house. “Turn it off,” he barks off to one of the reindeer, his first magical request and within a breath the alarm is silent and the only noise was that of some wailing drunk whore and a balding creep scrambling around on carpet from the couch he had just fell from.
“What the f…f…FUCK are you doing in my house?” Gerald half-screamed, half-slurred as he stumbled forward towards him, hands outstretched as if to strangle him. “GERRY IS IT THE COPS?” A woman screams from somewhere upstairs as Gerald knocks into the coffee table, splattering its contents everywhere and tumbling over it. Kratos doesn’t even bother checking on the fat old sleaze that lay sprawled out and knocked out on the floor below, nor the woman from upstairs that continued to shriek, “IS IT THE COPS?” but never bothered to actually venture down the steps. He beelines for the nearby wetbar, upturning it with a satisfying clatter of breaking glass. Next he heads into the bedroom, searching around before finding what he sought with a loud “I knew it!” before the sound of a toilet flushes. Returning from the bedroom, he now puffs on a cigar and carries a Louisville Slugger in his right hand. Between he and the demons, by the time he’s left – everything materialistic about the Lowe household is smashed into smithereens. He’s already two houses down, a host of antlered creatures in his wake and he can still hear the shrill squawk, “IS IT THE COPS?”
He passes the Vargas’ and the Cobbs before striding straight up the driveway of the Pittmans. Though the driveway is empty he knows two new luxury vehicles, neither older than a few months, sit inside. Wayne Pittman owned a used car lot nearby and was, also like Mr. Gerald Lowe, a piece of shit. His wife, Maureen, was as snooty and snobby as they come, with huge fake tits and a squeaky voice - Rachel wanted nothing to do with her. They also had twins, dreadful little assholes that were a year older than his own and had been known to torment other, smaller kids on a number of occasions. He tries the door and to his surprise, its unlocked. They step easily inside and he, at once, swings out his slugger and takes the tree down in a monstrous crash. Within a few moments he and his demons have destroyed all the stockings and gifts. Wayne had about two dozen framed pictures of himself at various stages at his used car dealership hanging around his living room – not family portraits mind you. At the moment Kratos pulls out his gun to take target practice, a growling mass is ripping into his leg. Blood rushes from the area of the shaking dogs head as he doesn’t release but continue to bite down into his leg. He yells to the demons, “get it off me!” He yells, before a shot rings out from the stairway as Mr. Pittman begins blindly shooting into the dimly lit, destroyed living room just as a pair of Christmas Elves descend from the chimney. Just fucking great.
A part of him wants to spit in the monster’s face, to tell him family were the most likely of all to commit the most hateful of sins against you! He wanted to tell him of a lustful king father that had forsaken his mother, let her bleed out alone in childbirth while he lay in the embrace of another. But…that wasn’t his life, was it?
No, he had two loving parents, Konrad and Antonia Kry, who had lived at 39 Courtwood Drive, Battle Creek, MI 49015 for over forty years. His mother bred Pembroke Welsh Corgis and they had anywhere from seven to ten at any given time at their sprawling, immaculately manicured homestead. Not that any of them would have ever of been forced to sleep outside, his father probably wouldn’t have allowed it anyway. Konrad was especially proud of his perfectly cut Zoysia grass – best yard in all of Calhoun county, the burly old man would have eagerly told any who cared to turn an ear. This was his life, he had good parents, a beautiful feisty wife and young children.
He extends a calloused hand to begrudgingly tie on the antlers as the Grinch suggests that he send his family off to bed. His girls are already turning back into their bedroom and with neither a turn of her head or an utter of a word, Rachel walks past her husband with her giggling toddler. Without a single glance back she steps into the master bedroom and shuts the door, the soft click of a locking door the only sound that followed.
“Bullshit,” He growls, tying on the fucking antlers, all the while dark eyes holding the murky green of the Grinch’s, “had to come to my house, huh?:” He blusters, shouldering past the Grinch’s stank, heavy frame as he makes his way down his (now)chipped cherry wood floors. “You,” he says, bending down to pick up the shotgun that had been flung across the room and pointing it at the Grinch, “and those little fucks better fix this shit, too.” He demands, pointing the barrel at the shredded pine tree and mutant reindeer hoof shredded couches. He must have been a comical sight of sorts, a huge man with a pair of cheesy antlers, clad only in a pair of even cheesier old red candy-cane pajamas and wielding a shotgun.
With shotgun cradled under his armpit he strides across the living room to a side closet, after retrieving a dial-code lock box he stuffs a subcompact pistol into his pajama pocket. “Let’s go,” he says, slamming the closet door and shaking out a pair of a work boots that had been beneath one of the smashed windows by the front door. After pulling them on, he yanks the door wide and strides across the back yard, leaning down to peer inside of the dog house where his Bear hid and wagged his tail. Big for nothing, useless as tits on a bull – or so his father would say. Rising up hops the side fence, for some reason it didn’t feel quite right walking out the driveway to vandalize and terrorize his neighbors. So he took the creek line, a jagged stream trail that lined the back of the sizeable homes.
“Not that one,” he roars, as a couple antlered demons raced up the back edge of Randall and Julie Porter’s backyard. They were old, easily into their 80s and he was pretty fucking sure even that ornery old man would have a straight up heart attack if any of the Grinch’s minions made their way into any part of their house, let alone their beloved neighbor along with them. Many mornings, he had made his way over to old Mr. Porter’s house to fill his belly with Julie’s thick-cut bacon and black coffee, he enjoyed the old man’s war stories. Not that one.
The next house up the back side of the creek he perhaps wouldn’t feel too bad about. Also a two-story, this one had a pool with a neon Playboy bunny sign. Gerard Lowe was some kind of “entrepreneur” who was known to have very loud parties well into the morning hours – not even the fun kind. These were naked bitches having fist-fights in the upscale neighborhood, cop sirens and one time they even had one idiot wander into neighbor’s side door and fall asleep in their sunroom. “This way,” he says, not bothering to see if they were following – he knows they are. He enters the backyard easily through the latch-lock fencing the idiot hadn’t bothered to add a locking feature to. He could see the synthetic blue, twinkling tree through the large garden window that overlooked the covered pool. A quick glance through the window showed presents stacked (no doubt for his brood of random bastard children and myriad of “girlfriends”) and on the glass table were two empty bottles of Jack and a few lines of white powder smeared around an overflowing ashtray. On the couch was Gerald, clad in candy-cane slippers and most ironically, Grinch-themed boxers. His fat stomach overlapping the hat and eyes of the cartooned boxers so that only the scowl of the Seuss villain was visible. With an amused laugh he tries handle of the back paneled-glass door but finds that it is locked. Ripping off a piece of the bottom of his pajamas he wraps it around his fist and punches a hole through the glass pane that is closest to the handle. Reaching through he pulls down the handle and steps inside, within seconds an alarm is blaring and a phone is ringing somewhere in the house. “Turn it off,” he barks off to one of the reindeer, his first magical request and within a breath the alarm is silent and the only noise was that of some wailing drunk whore and a balding creep scrambling around on carpet from the couch he had just fell from.
“What the f…f…FUCK are you doing in my house?” Gerald half-screamed, half-slurred as he stumbled forward towards him, hands outstretched as if to strangle him. “GERRY IS IT THE COPS?” A woman screams from somewhere upstairs as Gerald knocks into the coffee table, splattering its contents everywhere and tumbling over it. Kratos doesn’t even bother checking on the fat old sleaze that lay sprawled out and knocked out on the floor below, nor the woman from upstairs that continued to shriek, “IS IT THE COPS?” but never bothered to actually venture down the steps. He beelines for the nearby wetbar, upturning it with a satisfying clatter of breaking glass. Next he heads into the bedroom, searching around before finding what he sought with a loud “I knew it!” before the sound of a toilet flushes. Returning from the bedroom, he now puffs on a cigar and carries a Louisville Slugger in his right hand. Between he and the demons, by the time he’s left – everything materialistic about the Lowe household is smashed into smithereens. He’s already two houses down, a host of antlered creatures in his wake and he can still hear the shrill squawk, “IS IT THE COPS?”
He passes the Vargas’ and the Cobbs before striding straight up the driveway of the Pittmans. Though the driveway is empty he knows two new luxury vehicles, neither older than a few months, sit inside. Wayne Pittman owned a used car lot nearby and was, also like Mr. Gerald Lowe, a piece of shit. His wife, Maureen, was as snooty and snobby as they come, with huge fake tits and a squeaky voice - Rachel wanted nothing to do with her. They also had twins, dreadful little assholes that were a year older than his own and had been known to torment other, smaller kids on a number of occasions. He tries the door and to his surprise, its unlocked. They step easily inside and he, at once, swings out his slugger and takes the tree down in a monstrous crash. Within a few moments he and his demons have destroyed all the stockings and gifts. Wayne had about two dozen framed pictures of himself at various stages at his used car dealership hanging around his living room – not family portraits mind you. At the moment Kratos pulls out his gun to take target practice, a growling mass is ripping into his leg. Blood rushes from the area of the shaking dogs head as he doesn’t release but continue to bite down into his leg. He yells to the demons, “get it off me!” He yells, before a shot rings out from the stairway as Mr. Pittman begins blindly shooting into the dimly lit, destroyed living room just as a pair of Christmas Elves descend from the chimney. Just fucking great.