“Please, please don’t do this. I’m begging you, we’ve done nothing wrong!” The woman cries out as she crawls across the blood splattered carpet, her face winces every time the small shards of glass from the coffee table get embedded into the palms of her hands.
It’s always the same with these people, every singlefuckingyear.
Please don’t hurt us.
We’re innocent.
Is that my kidney?
Okay, maybe not that one every year but still, I’m getting tired of hearing it. Where’s the spice? The urge to fight back?
Stepping over who I assume is the woman’s husband, I make my way over to the wailing woman who’s still dragging herself across the floor. I’ve seen paint dry quicker than the speed that she’s moving. Fresh blood spurts from her sliced Achilles heels, staining the pristine cream carpet in a dark shade of crimson. Glass crunches under my boots and the flicker of Christmas lights illuminate the disgustingly cosy living room, it makes me sick.
Who even fucking likes Christmas?
It’s full of snobby cunts who have nothing better to do with their loaded wallets, spending millions each year to buy gifts for their in-laws who they probably don’t even like, feeding their decrepit grannies one last indulgent meal, knowing she’ll probably be dead the year after. Bullshit if you ask me.
I flex my hands inside the leather gloves and grip the back of the woman’s head, feeling her scalp pull tight as I lift her from the floor. Her hands instantly rise to find mine but her effort to alleviate the pressure is useless against my power. These people will die tonight, not through any fault of their own. It’s just because they were simply at home, and I happen to be passing by the neighbourhood. Shame really, but ask me if I give a fuck?
I dare you.
“Pl.. please.. don’t hurt us!” Globs of spit fly from her mouth as she begs for her life but it lands on deaf ears as I drag her into the connecting kitchen, leaving a thick trail of blood behind from her slashed ankles. Her husband hasn’t moved an inch and I’m starting to worry that the hammer to the face may have done more damage than I intended to.
Shit. I always get too excited.
Reign it in Cole. No one likes to end a festive party too early.
Keeping the woman in my grip, I pull a chair out from the kitchen table and plop her in it. Immediately her forehead connects with the table and I wince at the sound. Is she out cold too?
This has to be a joke. What a shit fucking Christmas party.
I leave the now unconscious woman at the table then make my way back into the living room to retrieve the husband. He remains lifeless on the carpet but I can see his chest rising and falling in a smooth rhythm as I wrap my arms under his and begin to drag him into the kitchen.
“Fucking hell man, I suggest.. you lay off the mince pies thisyear.” I grunt through bated breaths. I’m by no means a skinny guy, you need the muscle for this kind of job but christ, this dude might just kill me off before I’ve even got started. Once I’ve managed to get him into the kitchen, I plant his heavy ass into one of the chairs before going back into the living room to grab the multicoloured fairy lights that hang perfectly around the glowing fireplace.
Green and red flash in my hands as I bundle the lights together, and I silently thank the couple for using battery operated ones instead of sockets. On the way into the kitchen, I rip the ghastly gold tinsel from around the doorframe, it itches against my wrists above the gloves, making me feel all weird and nasty.
Why is tinsel even a thing? It’s gross, and no one should have that shit in their home. I said what I said.
I drop the tinsel on the table and get to work securing the overly large husband onto the chair, using the glowing lights to secure his wrists behind his back, then I move onto the wife. The scratchy gold plastic rustles as I lift her head from the table and tie her hands behind her back. The sound alone has me inwardly gagging and immediately I feel like a cat that pukes at random sounds.
What, can a guy not have sensory issues?
Once they’re both secure, I peruse around the kitchen, opening various cupboards and drawers, finding all kinds of kitchen utensils. You see, I’m not one of those serial killers who packs a bag with a checklist. Nah, I just wing it and hope for the best and so far, it’s been going great for me. Forks and spoons clatter around in the drawer as I dig out the electric turkey knife, the serrated blade gleaming under the fluorescent kitchen lights.
“Now that’s a fine piece of equipment.” I mumble to myself and press the red button on the handle. Instantly, the bladebegins to vibrate, going backwards and forwards in quick succession. Adrenaline fires through my system at the thought of slicing into the fat husband’s gut and watching his entrails splat onto the kitchen floor.
I fucking lovethiskind of Christmas and entrails make the perfect decoration.
Movement behind me has me releasing the button on the electric knife and placing it onto the unit before spinning on my heels to face the wife whose head resembles a bobbing dog, it hangs limply on her neck as she struggles to keep it upright.
“Whe.. where am I?” She murmurs softly and quickly panic sets in when she clocks her husband in front of her whose face resembles a cherry pie that’s been punched. “Oh! Oh my God, Frank!”
Her voice grates in my ears and I pinch my nose in annoyance before bonking her on the back of the head with my hand to silence her. Her head snaps forward and immediately she shuts her stupidly loud mouth as I round her side, coming to stand in between them both. The woman’s eyes widen in pure fear as she takes in my large stance, her weathered face draining of all its colour the moment her hazy eyes reach the blood splattered, plastic Santa Claus mask.
I thought the mask was a fitting touch to the festive season, and it’s breathable, which I also enjoy. A win-win in my book.
“Who-”
