It’s nice. It’s so nice to drink a six-pack of beer, especially during the Christmas season. Getting bombed isn’t a big deal for me. I’ve done it … more than once. I say a lot of shit when I’m putting the juice away at a party; I vomit after, either on the floor or a toilet; I sleep it off and wake up with an earthquake hangover, a bad taste in my mouth and no memory of what shit I said. Routine.
I decided to change it tonight.
When I grew up, my parents always told me as long as I work hard, study in school and stay out of trouble, things were going to be all right. I listened, majored in electrical engineering, got my bachelor’s and master’s degrees, did some short contractual work at some software manufacturer offices and medical centers. I also got a long term job at a jet propulsion lab. Great pay, nice apartment and a cool car. The great American dream.
Things got interesting, eight years ago. My younger brother, Jake, was an assistant at Creative Artists Agency. One of the big five, he said when he started working there, that represents the talent in Hollywood. I never gave a fuck about entertainment, really. All flash and nothing else. I prefer sports, particularly football. Anyway, I got invited to the agency’s annual party by Jake. There were a lot of high-class women, some B-grade actresses. I was out of my league, looking like a big boulder and having no chance of fucking a high-class piece of ass.
Jake, though, introduced me to Meredith Owens. She wasn’t a knockout, but a down-to-earth, girl-next-door knockout, looking like Jenna Fischer from “The Office” She worked at CAA, after trying and failing to be an actress. I hate Hollywood; it eats and spits people out if they don’t “play ball”. How the hell Jake could be part of this, I’ll never know.
Back to Meredith. Plain, sweet-as-a-button Meredith. I felt like a schoolboy, more than ready to piss and shit myself because girls didn’t like me as much as they liked Jake, a pretty boy. I was smart enough not to get shit-faced. She saw like a Greek or Roman or whatever god. We got along for two years-dinner, movies, concerts, fucking-before getting married.
If I had a clue that marriage was hell, I would’ve objected at my wedding.
Meredith gave a whole lot of shit for not being helpful enough around the house. I know my mother gave me shit, if I didn’t straighten my bed sheet or wash my hands before dinner. It’s expected. Meredith? Don’t smoke!” “Put the toilet seat down!” ”When are you coming home from the bar?” She needed me as her whipping post, the lousy twat, because she didn’t make it big and I shut her out of “Hollywood dreams”. Hey, some people’s dreams don’t come true. What the fuck am I supposed to do? Be encouraging? She was pushing thirty, and, unless God’s drinking on the job, there’s no way she was going to win an Oscar. Like sucks. Deal with it.
I should have followed my own advice. When I got home from work last year, I found my stuff outside the house that was soon-to-be the house of my soon- to-be ex-wife. The divorce proceedings weren’t fun; I think I was half-blitzed at the time. Patrick Grady, the lawyer Jake recommended to me, gave me hell and a half for it. Like I needed more than the hell I was getting already/ $5200 a month was the alimony. The car I had, the house and the joint bank account went to Meredith. I had to live with Jake at his Beverly Hills condo and sleep in the basement. It was okay for a while, but I felt like a loser high school dropout, still living with his parents, and I felt fucked by my wife with a dildo. We barely had sex when we married, and I felt fucked.
I was smart, though. Damn smart. I was going to fuck her back, but worse. From A to Z.
Three years earlier, I learned about using firearms. I had no record; getting a gun permit was like strolling and whistling in a graveyard. Automatics, semi-automatics, pump action rifles, machine rifles. I knew how to load and lock them, polish and dry them.
The gun shop I went to was Bullet Billy Gun and Ammo. Like all gun nuts, the owner, Billy Wexler, was quite the character. Skinny, wild-eyed and a gap-toothed smile, he could have been a character actor in those movies Jake works on. Billy liked me because I knew what I wanted, due to reading a lot of Soldier of Fortune and other firearm oriented magazines. One time, we had some target practice in his shooting gallery, beneath his store. The targets were made up like Osama Bin Laden. Though a life-long Republican, Billy hated Bush Jr. for being a chicken shit for not getting Bin Laden. I couldn’t disagree, but I had a bigger target.
I wasn’t stupid to have any guns at Jake’s. They, sealed in boxes, marked “books” and “magazines”, were in a storage locker park, between Los Angeles and Covina, the latter where I used to live, where I was married.
Two weeks before Christmas Eve, I rented a Santa Claus suit from a costume shop on Hollywood Boulevard. The clerk told me I was the last guy to get one because the economy was bad and every Average Joe were trying to get jobs as mall Santas. I lied, pretending to Jolly Old St. Nick for my kids. He called me a saint; I chuckled under my breath when I left the shop.
When I went home I cooked up an accelerant, which was made up of two pressurized tanks that were easy to carry. Pressurized gas was in one of them. I listened to what my parents, didn’t I?
It was almost dark in Christmas Eve. Jake was on vacation in France with his girlfriend, Sheryl. I hope he knows not to make same mistake I did. I looked at myself in the mirror as I was in my room, dressed in the Santa suit. The cap. The jacket. The fake belly. The fake beard. The white gloves. The black boots. I did a jolly “Ho Ho Ho” and smiled under the beard. The accelerant I put into a book bag, and I left the house, drove my heap of a “new” car and went to my storage locker. Four guns, I took. All were semiautomatics.
There was a bit of traffic on Route 10. People on the holiday were a bunch of fucking tools. I used to be one of them.
After leaving the highway, I parked my car a few blocks away and walked over to the house I once lived in and owned. Christmas decorations shrouded the place. Holiday lights that glowed red, green and white slithered through the front yard’s bushes. Big, plastic figurines of Rudolph, Frosty and Santa were on the lawn. The whole works. Inside the house, there a lot of people drinking, dancing to “Jingle Bell Rock” (I hate that song) and having a good time.
With the accelerant, attached to my back, I went the front door and rang the doorbell. After some seconds, the door opened. A fat little boy, who I didn’t know, was in the doorway. Seven or eight, he was in one of those ugly Christmas sweaters I wouldn’t wear. And we were in California, for Christ’s sake. Having a distorted face, the boy definitely had Down’s syndrome. He sounded like marbled were in his mouth, “Hey, it’s Santa Cl—”
I whipped out a pistol from one of my coat’s pockets and fired. The bullet struck the boy’s head, making it explode. The shot’s sound made some woman screamed. The kid fell. I took out another pistol and went in. People scrambled as they saw me, I started firing. Some went through windows. I didn’t give a shit as I kept firing wildly. A bloodstain here, a bloodstain there. Eight or mine. Maybe ten.
One of them happened to be Meredith, who I got in her left shoulder. Lucky me. She was on the floor, faced down, moaning. I kicked over, and we looked at each other. I smiled. She saw me behind the beard and tried to scream. I shot her, many times, and her face became a mess of flesh, bone, dislocated eyes and brain matter. It was beautiful. After that, I took out the accelerant and aimed it at the Christmas tree. It went up in flames, burning the gifts. More people started to left, including Meredith’s dad, Albert, a retired city planner. He never liked me. Thought I was too dumb. When I burned him too, I bet I changed his opinion. I loved it when he screamed as his back was aflame. I drank a cup of Egg Nog, before the kitchen got my special Christmas present too. The house was engulfed in black smoke and crackling fire, when I left it. It was my kind of Christmas.
Drinking, I watched news coverage of my visit on my brother’s HDTV set. Twelve was the number of the body count; fourteen was the number of the injuries. I laughed through it all. I did one hell of a job. If you think different, I’m surprised you weren’t there too.
Then I got bored with all; the Barbie doll news twats I wanted to fuck and the Ken doll newsmen I wanted to make them into real Ken dolls.
The porno I got was better: “Anal Invasion #23”, “Golden Throat” and “Harry’s Whores”. I like the first and third ones, having innocent virgins getting butt-fucked by studs. The second one had too much plots. Good oral sex scenes, though. I cranked it nice and good, and the mess ended up on the carpet. Sorry, Jake.
Am I a monster? Yeah, but I’m a guy who got fucked when there was no reason to be, mentally and financially, by a selfish, unconfident bitch. Few people will understand what I’m saying, and they’re probably in the slam or on the run from the law. I’m not in any of those camps. I’m writing this down because and before…well, you get the idea, if you got a brain if your head. Few people do. The cops will probably get me soon, but I’m too quick and smart to be caught. I even rigged my car to blow up with another gas tank inside. I’m not that royal fuck-up O.J, just damn sneaky. If a uni cop gets killed, I can’t be charged because I’ll be long gone. No one will touch me.
Maybe Jake or some big player in Hollywood will get some geek screenwriter to jot this whole event down for a movie. Should be a MOW. You know, a Movie Of the Week. Hollywood slang. I shook my head; it’s a weird thing to deal with. All of my earthly possessions will go to Billy. Good old Billy. Maybe he’ll be charged, but he knew squat about what was I going to do. When he gets the 411, he’ll probably drink to my success and wish he had the balls to do it. Maybe put my name of a bullet and fire it in the air, like he did with his buddies in the Army. Good times, Billy. Good times.
I finished my six-pack, and I’m still straight in my movement. Maybe the feelings I have are so strong, nobody and nothing on Earth can fuck me over a barrel. The 9mm didn’t feel so heavy like I first held it, three years ago. I loaded the magazine, pointed the pistol at where the bullet should go and smiled. You were right, Mom and Dad. Work and study hard, and things will all right.
See you real soon. Love and hugs. Merry Christmas.