Page 33 of Merry Christmas, You Filthy Animal
“No, I’m a smart asshole who doesn’t want to lose the precious mittens his mother made for him and talks about constantly because by the time she was done knitting, her hands were bleeding. Jesus, insensitive much?”
“Sorry,” Cole says, looking slightly guilty.
“Apology accepted. Now, will you be here when I get back?”
“No, I have a life, and it doesn’t consist of holding your hand through whatever bullshit this is. I’m grabbing pizza and heading home.”
“How many pizzas? Maybe I could come over for some dinner?”
“One,” he deadpans.
“Maybe grab ten?” I ask. “Then I could come over, and we could have a little strategy session. Invite Guy and Taran, because she’s conniving and could help. Aunt Cindy would be a good one. Oh, and my brothers if we’re desperate.”
“No.”
“Okay, then maybe just me. I have no problem grabbing a salad for all of us to share.”
“No.”
I blow out a heavy breath. “When a man is in crisis, you’d really drop him like that?”
“Can we just reconvene tomorrow? Text me to let me know how it goes, and then we can plan from there, okay? I want to spend a night with my wife.”
“Fine.” We head out the door, and I set the bag down so I can lock up.
“Don’t set it down on the wet mat,” Cole says, pulling the bag up. “You don’t want the paper to break.”
“Please, these gift bags are all weatherproof.” I take the bag from him and then go in for a hug, but he palms my face instead.
“No,” he says. “Just no.”
“Fuck, you’re no fun.”
Chapter Eight
Betty
Narrator: And through the woods, without a hug, Max trudges over broken tree trunks, under snow-laden branches, subtly tripping here and there but with one mission on his mind: to find out who this Betty, the niece of Dwight Yokel, really is and what her intentions are.
Because in his eyes, right now, she’s seeming like a real wench.
I slip my slippers onto my feet and then look at myself one more time in the mirror to make sure I rubbed in all my lotion. I turn off the bathroom light and start to settle in for the night when I see a flash of light in the window again. Startled, I pause where I’m at in the kitchen and reach into the fridge, pulling out another two-liter of soda, this time Coca-Cola, and I bring it up to my chest just as there’s a knock at the door.
Ready to attack, I shuffle toward the door, two-liter in position to take out a human, and I call out, “Who is it?”
“Atlas Maxheimer, without a crowbar.”
What is he doing here?
Didn’t he get the hint the other day at the farm that I want nothing to do with him?
Or this morning when I sprinted across the street to avoid walking past him?
“I promise, I come in goodwill. I’m not here to hurt you.”
Says the serial killer about to attack.
“How do I know that?” I ask.
