Christmas Red (Rough Draft)

I hear the train a comin’
it’s rolling round the bend

Dad crumbled up the last wad of wrapping paper and threw it gently into the over sized fireplace. “Big enough to roast a pig,” he’d always said when talking about that fireplace. The paper quickly caught fire and erupted into a ball of bright colored flames.

Dad was always the last one to finish unwrapping gifts. Probably because he was so meticulous about the whole thing and partly because he found more joy in watching us – my mom and me – open our gifts first. He’d use his pocket knife, the same one he used to save his best friends life in Vietnam, to pop the tape. He’d run the blade gently down a seam cutting the tape away, then he’d slowly pull off the wrapping paper and fold it into a large square. He’d hoist his gift before his failing eyes and proclaim his joy. He’d stack his unwrapped gifts neatly to his right, then wad the paper up haphazardly and toss it into the fireplace.

By this time Mom would be running around the kitchen like a mad woman on a crazy mission. She wouldn’t be cooking or cleaning or performing any other of her wifely duties. No, she’s be tearing up the house – starting with the kitchen – looking for the pile of gift cards that she’d inevitably misplaced.

About ten years ago she’d sworn off gifts and asked that we simply give her gifts cards for Christmas. Her reasoning was that she was too old for gifts that only ended up in her yearly Yard Sale. She’d much rather have a nice gift card, preferably an American Express Gift card in which she could easily purchase liquor with. If it were a store gift card she’d have to take the time to sell it at a discounted rate for cash. She swears that she doesn’t drink, but the two sheds full of empty liquor bottles say otherwise.

Eventually she would find them right where she left them; in the bathroom vanity hidden behind the bottle of douche and next to the dusty boxes of tampons. For whatever reason she continued to employ the idea that her nether region is still fertile and not the dusty dry desert that we all know her 75 year old body to be.

but that train keeps a rollin’ on down to San Anton.

It’s a shame that I had to kill them.

For effect I’ll let that sink in for a second.

It really is a shame that on arguably the second most joyous day of the year (your birthday being the most joyous) I had to snuff the life from them.

I don’t know, call it my gift to myself.

I’m not stupid enough to think that I won’t be caught. In fact, I just started a small fire in their bedroom. I used one of mom’s bottles of 151 rum to soak her bed sheets and then I lit it. Soon enough the fire will consume the bedroom and then work it’s way out into the hallway where the smoke will set off the smoke detector. The smoke detector is tied into the security system and when it goes off, as it should in just a few minutes, the Central Monitoring Station will call here. When I don’t answer they will dispatch the local fire department. When they arrive they will find the blaze form the bedroom has spread into the living room. I’m hoping by that time that the fumes will have overtaken me. I don’t care to face the firemen eye to eye. They simply aren’t a match for the lead slugs in my .45.

I bet there’s rich folks eating in a fancy dining car
they’re probably drinkin’ coffee and smoking big cigars.

If I am unconscious then they will drag me from the house. It is then that they will notice a second fire has engulfed the sun room — and that would be Dad.

He was the easy one.

It was habit that after opening his last gift that he’d light up the most foul smelling cigar known to man. In past years I’d joked with him that he was in fact not smoking a cigar, but the dried and rolled ears of the many North Vietnamese soldiers that he and his war buddies had killed. This year I skipped the formalities and caved in the back of his head with the nearby fire extinguished.

I guess you could call that irony in light of the current situation.

I’d tossed his limp body into the fireplace like a wad of wrapping paper. He snapped and crackled like a damp log and filled the house with a smell almost as bad as his cigar as his body began to ignite.

Well I know I had it coming, I know I can’t be free
but those people keep a movin’
and that’s what tortures me

Mom, the slippery snake that she is, was a much more difficult project. She’d eluded me in the kitchen on her mission to go find either her stash of gift cards or the reserve bottle of tequila that she kept hidden in the hall closet. Upon further review, it was neither of these tasks. She had sneaked out the front door to smoke a joint on the front porch.

Are there any bad habits that this woman does not have? I wouldn’t be surprised at this point if she were banging the mailman.

I opened the front door and caught her in the act. Her eyes, wide and dilated, expressed shock. She denied getting high. I half expected her to say that she was holding it for a friend, but I didn’t give her the chance. “Some thing’s wrong with Dad,” I told her.

She ran inside towards the back room. I followed quickly behind her. I caught the back of her shirt when we got into the kitchen. I put my arm around her neck and slit her throat from ear to ear.

At first nothing happened. It wasn’t until she put her hands up to her throat and tried to talk that her new opening burst apart. She slipped and sloshed in the pool of her own blood that had quickly formed at her feet.

If it weren’t such a tragedy it would almost be humorous.

The firemen would find her there. Fat Tony Ionucci would slide threw the pool of her blood and knock his head on the corner of one the cabinets. The gash would require 40 stitches to close. One for each year of my life that I spent living in their moldy, musty basement.

Well if they’d free me from this prison,
if that railroad train was mine
I bet I’d move just a little further down the line

In the end, the paramedics would revive me. The police would arrest me. A jury of my peers would find me guilty and a judge would condemn me.

Here in prison Christmas isn’t so bad. We get an extra serving of mystery meat and no work detail. I spent my extra time getting fucked in the ass by some new con, but it’s much better than smelling those damn cigars.


Think that there is any chance that this replaces one of the worn out specials on TV??? LOL


~ by ryanmastersonline on December 23, 2007.

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