Page 34 of Merry Christmas, You Filthy Animal
“Because I’m not that kind of guy.”
“You were trying to break into my window with a crowbar. You are very much that kind of guy.”
“That was a misunderstanding,” he says through the door. “And if you’d give me a chance to apologize and explain, I’d greatly appreciate it.”
“How do I know you’re not just trying to get me to open the door so you can bash my head in with your crowbar?”
“Because once again, that’s not something I’d want to do. As much as it might seem that way from the two negative interactions you’ve had with me, I don’t like to spend time in jail.”
I think about it for a second. I mean, if I’m murdered, there will only be one person who gets called out for it, and it will be him. Given the freshly fallen snow and his footprints, all tracks will lead to him, so... I could possibly be protected.
Not to mention I’m curious about what he has to say and how he’ll spin his little breaking and entering story. And sure, curiosity killed the cat and all, but I seem to want to test my fate tonight.
So I say, “I want your hands up where I can see them, and you will do what I say, or else I’ll make sure the cops take your no-good keister off my property, understood?”
“No-good keister? What are you? An old-timey mobster?”
“Just answer the question. Understood?”
I hear him chuckle on the other side of the door, but then he says, “Understood.”
“Hands are in the air?”
“Hands are in the air,” he calls out.
I unlock the door and then fling it open fast, startling Atlas so much that he jolts backward.
“Jesus,” he says as I hold the Coca-Cola over my head, ready to throw it. When he sees what I’m holding, panic seeps into his face. “Hey now, easy there. Put the soda down.”
“What’s that in your hand?” I nod toward the bag.
“A peace offering.”
“What kind of peace offering?”
“Can I move my arms and show you?”
“Slowly,” I say, watching his every move.
He starts to lower his arms, bringing the bag forward, and when he begins to reach inside, I cock back, ready to throw...
And then, like a bat out of hell, the bottom of the bag falls out, and a loud clang sounds throughout the still night, while a pop of brown and white shoots up into the air like firecrackers, startling the shit out of me.
Screaming bloody murder, I chuck the bottle over my head and right into his chest before I slam the door shut and scream out, “I’m calling the police.”
I rush to my phone, pull up the SOS option, and I’m about to call for help when I hear groaning on the other side of the door, followed by, “Noooo... pretzels and popcorn.”
I pause . . . slowly turning in his direction.
Did he just saypretzels and popcorn?
Finger ready to dial, I shuffle toward the door again, but this time, I squat down low to the doggy door that was included in the cottage. I unlock the latch that keeps it sealed off from the outer elements and then slowly lift it, focusing my attention on the ground, where I see an open Christmas can with chocolate-covered pretzels and popcorn scattered all over my welcome mat.
“Fuck, I think you cracked a rib,” he grumbles.
“What, uh... what’s that on the ground?” I ask. I don’t care about the pain he might be experiencing. I just care about the contraband on the ground.
“Fucking popcorn and pretzels,” he groans as I see him roll to the side. “A peace offering... like I fucking... said.” He groans more, and I feel myself wince.
