Some Things Never Change: A Book Dedicated to Absolutely Nothing At All

Silent Night

His eyes gazed through the frosted windows at all the families bundled into their little nests. Each house was marked according to family size. His mind picked out medium sized families, usually a mother and father, an older teenager son or daughter, and then a child between 5 and 10. This helped filter his need for elders to be killed, as elders were too easy to kill, and even easier to cover up, but the bodies are hard to manage and hide. Children to him were like dead chickens, just kick them under the porch, mess the snow around a bit, and their gone. Larger people require dismemberment, and adults and teens are usually the trouble, so it's usually best to kill them first. If you like, you can even make the others watch the arduous and cumbersome process. But, his focus was finding and studying the house of choice, and in a little neighborhood like this one in New Jersey, it wasn't hard to pick. He settled for a cute little house at the end of the street, closest to the woods. Upon further observation, there was a river on the other side of the thick, scrubby trees. If needed, that was his escape. He walked downstream, and it ran under two overhead bridges, and split in two spots, also hooking up to a waste management system, and finally, emptying itself into a treatment plant. The ways of escape were numerous, and with his experience, he knew it was vital. He knew never to cut it close. Stay away from the heat, keep it off you, and avoid suspicion at all cost. He'd conned cops before, some were keen, others sloppy and dumb. He knew the key, though, was to turn on his Canadian charm, and he'd be all set. He'd picked up lady officers straight from the scene, he'd been able to get friendly with police Sargents, and he had even provided a few statements for describing the killer. He knew his way around, and he knew the rules of the game, which he played with professional skill and exceedingly keen training, which he thanked the CIA Anti-Terrorism Unit for giving him. Now, he needed tools. He needed his toys, he needed some heavy tape, tarp as well. Needed rope, a hunting knife, a tree saw, a machete, and he needed a large meat hook, the one with a wooden handle. He'd have to plan. But of course, planning was his bag.......

10:00. Snow flying in a confused haze, quelling any attempts to walk to the local 7-Eleven for milk. Perfect. Perfect night for the task he had in mind. Now, it was a matter of opportunity. He had a plan. 10 minutes, and if he lucked out and nobody came outside to do some menial task, then he'd go in and violently subdue them. He never once lost patience, he sat for nearly 15 minutes, when the eldest son, almost 23, judging by his build, brought out two large bags of garbage. The dumpster? Down past the dark spot where he now sat parked. He grabbed the tire iron, no need to take any sort of unnecessary chances. The snow crunched under the weight of the man. He watched as he walked right past him, and he slithered from under the cover of darkness, tire iron raised, when the man dropped the bags, and turned. He brought the tire iron sharply, hitting him square in the temple, also hitting his eyeball, popping it like a grape. The man stood dazed, eye oozing blood profusely. He raised the iron one more time and smashed him in the forehead, satisfied at the sharp crack, splitting the skin open, splattering blood onto his torso. He dragged the body and tossed it into the dumpster, then, as an afterthought, threw the bags in on top. Good, he thought, Killed one, and the trash was taken out. He saw this as a necessary precaution, as well as a civil gesture. He crept to the hiding place he was hiding in previously, and got his bag ready. Tape, gloves, spare knives, hammer, nails, handsaw, axe, rope, machete. He slid the cliche face warmer on, with a touch of bitter sarcasm, then crept to the back door. Keeping low, the windows were caked with ice, frost, and hard snow, making the path dark. There was a small alcove, halfway to the back, formed by the wind, where he stashed his bag. Staying low, he vaulted over the low gate, and crept quietly towards the back door. The light was on, so he had to think fast, he broke off a chunk of ice and lobbed it at the light. The chink hit and shattered the bulb with a loud crunch. Noises were heard, and the door squeaked open. An older man looked out, and stepped into the snow. The older man was halfway inside, back against the door support, he needed to lure him out in order to get in. He backed up, hopped the fence, then kicked it open. This caught the guy's attention and he quickly arrived to see what caused the sudden racket. Practically crawling, the man slithered into the alcove and waited, as the man walked closer, then, passed him slowly. He leaped out, tackling the man, hitting him hard in the mouth to keep him from making too loud of a noise. He lifted the man off the ground in retaliation, slamming him against the ice. Picking up an icicle, he stabbed the now wheezing older man in the ear, piercing his eardrum. He kicked him in the midsection, and twisted his neck, satisfied with the sharp snap as his neck broke, and he was rendered twichting, thrashing, but dead nonetheless, putting an end to his attempted killing. The older man stood up and kicked the attacker one last time before going into the house and calling the police. They arrived minutes later, asking questions and examining the scene. They found the son, Clayton, in the dumpster, horribly beaten to death with a blunt weapon, they found the body of the killer, as well as intermingled drops of blood, belonging to the attacker, identified as Lucas Grant, and the older gentleman, Richard Stohl, the father of Clayton. The police wrapped up Lucas Grant's body and loaded him up. It wasn't until later that night, on a bumpy road to the morgue, that Lucas Grant, pronounced dead at the scene, reopened his eyes. The police later found the vehicle empty, no Lucas, only large amounts of blood. Blood belonging to the coroner and driver.
14 Hours later.....
The phone rang and rang and rang and rang, until his wifey picked up.
Mrs. Stohl: Hello?
Lucas Grant: Yes, I'd like to speak with a Mr. Stohl about an offer in the paper, if he's available.
Mrs. Stohl: One moment, please.
......time passes.....unintelligible mutters.......phone clicks.....and is passed to Mr. Stohl......
Mr. Stohl: Hello, this is Mr. Stohl Speaking.
L.G: Ya know, it isn't wise to twist sombodies neck in a struggle. You could just dislocate a vertebra, leaving your attacker alive. You could've actually snapped my neck and killed me. But you didn't, and now I'm gonna have to find you. But I'm not worried. I've got all the time in the world. And eventually my patience will pay off, and I'll find you. And I'm gonna kill your entire fucking family right in front of you. I'll tie you to a chair and make you watch me fuck your wife, then bleed her slow, like a pig. Then, I'll cut you up like a fucking thanksgiving turkey.
Phone hangs up with a sharp click*......
Stohl: Hello? Hello?! Fuck........
Later that year, Lucas Grant again tried to kill Richard Stohl. Only this time, Richard shot and killed him in his new home in Atlanta, Georgia. He had extra bullets for the head and heart. Just to be sure.

*Note: I enjoyed this one, because not only did I cramp my brain up trying to write it, but also, it looks into what could've happened if a person attempts to kill his attacker, an attacker with the intent to kill them, and fails. I wanted it to be more, but it is what it is.