Superstar, Michael Jackson, murdered his father Joe Jackson on the eve of Christmas, 1979. What drove him to commit such a passionate, heinous crime? Money? Greed? Fame? Th Jacksons and their reputation are sent into a spiral.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The pupils of Michael's eyes expanded over his dark brown irises like an eclipse. He broke out in a sweat, wondering what possessed him for those couple of seconds, but the entity was not done. It lingered in the air like an aroma before finding its way back into his veins.
He tried to take deep breaths but they weren't clearing. He hyperventilated and felt that his father was a threat who needed to be punished, so he rushed into the kitchen, through the dim lighting that filled the foyer whenever it was late.
He went to the wooden knife block that was specifically bought for the family's hired chef and he yanked the biggest knife from its slot. He wasn't hungry for blood, but just like his father in a way. Hungry for power.
He sprinted up the stairs into his room, fearful that someone would come out of their room and catch him with the knife. The thought of leaving it alone didn't cross his mind once. Instead he found a leather shoulder-carry bag that he shoved it into. He shoved other random things into the bag so it wouldn't appear empty.
The bag had two pockets at the front and a buttoned opening at the top. That is where he hid the knife, without even popping the top open.
As he rushed down the stairs, fearing that five minutes had passed, he knew he wouldn't need the bag or what was in it. With or without it, the night would play out the same because he was too pussy. He didn't explicitly grab the knife for the slaughter of Joseph, but for his own ego.
When he stepped outside of the house, he was hit with a cold wind that blew at him and he almost lost his balance. In actuality, it was not the wind, but the emotions that spasamed against his muscles and the weed that paranoid him.
There was an impending doom and he spotted Joseph, through his windshield, at his wheel with a cigar in his mouth. Joseph's driver seat window was rolled halfway down and that is where he blew the smoke from his cigar. He clenched his jaw and wondered if Joseph had a knife as well. What if he was luring him into the dark to slit his throat and decapitate him?
Michael sucked it up and walked to the car, being illuminated by the Chevy's headlights. He got into the car and his hand went to the armrest on his door. What if Joseph found life fit for neither of them and was planning to wreck the car and commit a double homicide?
His senses adjusted to the car. Christmas soul music played from Joseph's radio and Michael smelled the cigar. He knew the smell anywhere. Cocoa and hickory. It was quite the expensive cigar: Don Pepin Garcia Cuban. The batch had been released earlier that year.
In my mind I want you to be free For all of our friends Would you listen to me?
Joe noticed Michael's demeanor. "You alright?" He sat the cigar in an ashtray he placed in a cup holder.
"Yeah, why couldn't you talk to me in the house?" Michael tried to calm down.
Now hear what I say We wish you a Merry Christmas To each one of you
