by Strand, Jeff
Don't do it! he said. He'll kill you! It's too late for me!
Jenny straightened up completely, but did not bend forward. Yet she continued to strain at something.
What are you doing?
Be quiet. I can't concentrate.
Don't do anything!
Be quiet!
With the next scoop of dirt, Max tilted forward even further, at about a forty-five degree angle from the ground. He wondered how it felt to have acid burn through him.
All of Jenny's leaves were pressed tightly against her stalk as she strained, strained, strained . . .
One of her roots popped out of the ground.
And then another.
Then a third.
Max's amazement overshadowed his terror as Jenny pulled herself out of the ground and took an actual step forward.
With the next shovelful of dirt, Max fell forward and almost smacked against the ground.
"What should I use?" asked Dr. Prethorius. "A few drops of acid to make it last, or should I just pour the whole bottle right on--" He let out a yelp and dropped his shovel as Jenny's leaves clamped down upon his leg.
She straightened again. The doctor dangled upside-down from her trap, struggling desperately but unable to escape.
"Let me go!" he screamed. "I'm your master! Let me go! Please, please, please, let me go!"
Should I let him go? Jenny asked.
I don't think so.
Me either.
I love you, Jenny.
You're a good friend, Max. Would you like to share?
Yes.
She slammed the shrieking doctor against the ground, which did not shut him up, and then dragged him to the side. His arm slid underneath Max's leaves. Max bit down.
Try to get his head, too, said Jenny, stepping forward.
Max did. Dr. Prethorius stopped screaming as they pulled him in two.
Thank you, said Max.
They ate without speaking for a while.
What's wrong? Max asked.
I don't think I can replant you.
Oh.
I'm sorry.
That's okay.
But I can bring humans to you. I'll leave the greenhouse and get them, as many as you want. You'll eat and eat and eat until you get healthy again.
That would be nice.
They continued to enjoy their meal. The doctor tasted better than the other humans he'd eaten. Perhaps insanity made meat more tender.
Maybe he didn't have a lover, but Max had a friend, and he knew that he could be happy for a long, long time.
WE BELIEVE
I don't care what the novelty songs say — losing your grandmother in a reindeer-related accident is no laughing matter.
I used to love Christmas. Presents, food, and a house full of relatives. I'd always wear my "Take Me To Your Mistletoe!" shirt and everybody would laugh and laugh. Momma would cook up a turkey, and she and Dad would break the wishbone, and Momma would say "Make a wish!" and every year Dad would hold his end and say "I wish I hadn't eaten so damn much turkey!" Uncle Herb would bend spoons with his mind. 'Course, he wasn't really bending spoons with his mind, he was whacking them across his forehead, but we all enjoyed the trick anyway.
We'd all sing Christmas carols, and we'd do that wacky version of "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" where we'd sing ". . . had a very shiny nose" and a few of us would shout "Like an alcoholic!" My cousin Joey Jr. was always in favor of "Like a mutant!" but you couldn't hear him over the rest of us. Then Aunt Becky would do that thing with her arms that always made us uncomfortable but was a family tradition, and everybody would go home.
Grandma and Grandpa lived close, just at the end of the block, but of course I wasn't going to send them walking down the icy road at night on Christmas Eve, especially not with all the egg nog Grandma had consumed. I took her by the arm, and we walked toward their house, talking about how much fun the evening had been. Grandpa laughed again at my shirt. Off in the distance, I heard the sound of bells ringing, which put me in an even merrier mood.
The bells got louder, as if they were moving toward us at a rapid velocity. I turned around and saw a bright red shining point of light, coming at us so fast that —
The reindeer's front hooves slammed into Grandma's back. A gout of blood sprayed from her mouth, steaming in the cold air, accompanied by a hideous crack. Her arm popped free of my grip as she slammed face-first onto the ice. The rear set of hooves crushed into the back of her neck, leaving a ghastly red imprint.
But it wasn't just one reindeer. Oh no. No sooner had the first one removed its bloody hooves from my dear grandmother than the second one struck her. Its front hoof hit the base of her skull. Its rear hoof landed in the exact same spot, breaking entirely through the bone and becoming lodged there. Grandma slid across the ice several feet, imbedded, leaving a gruesome crimson streak on the road.
She came free, leaving her blue and silver wig behind, only to have her skull shattered completely by the third reindeer. Glistening grey matter stuck to the reindeer's hooves after it passed over her. The fourth reindeer — the last in its row — trampled her legs and back, which was not quite as disturbing as the splattering of her brain, but was nevertheless unpleasant.
And then the sleigh. Oh, God, the sleigh.
The runners, sharp as a razor, sliced Grandma in half. Contents that I didn't even know existed inside the human body spilled out. I've got to be honest; I'd always thought of Grandma as rather dry and brittle, so the sheer gushing surprised me.
And, almost as soon as it appeared, the sleigh was gone. Grandpa cried out in horror and dropped to his knees beside his departed wife, as I frantically dug through the pockets of my winter jacket in search of my cell phone.
"No . . . please, no . . ." Grandpa wailed. He threw back his head and howled in primal anguish. Tears ran down my cheeks, freezing against my skin, and I knew that Christmas would never again be the joyous holiday we'd celebrated for so many years. Grandma lay in a growing pool of blood. The stroke hadn't killed her. The diabetes hadn't killed her. But never in a hundred years would I have thought that we had to worry about magical reindeer.
I don't place blame. When you have to deliver that many presents to the world in such a short timeframe, certain safety precautions will be compromised. Millions of families were filled with delight that frosty eve, and if there were victims along the way . . . well, they were acceptable losses.
You may say there's no such thing as Santa, but as for me and Grandpa, we believe.
Oh, yes. We believe.
POOR CAREER CHOICE
If you're like me, you spend a lot of time trying to joke your way out of socially awkward and/or potentially fatal situations. A good example of this took place one summer evening when I was relaxing in my recliner with the novel Whose Blood Is In My Popcorn?, which I'd been reading off and on for the past four years. I'm not an ambitious reader.
I looked across the living room into the kitchen and saw an extremely large man holding an extremely large knife. He had long greasy hair, was wearing a black leather jacket that had metal spikes around the wrists, and I sort of got the impression that he had broken into my home to kill me.
By "broken into," of course, I mean that he'd probably just casually walked in through the door in the kitchen that my wife, Helen, was always reminding me not to leave unlocked. She'd never specifically used a man with a knife as an example, but I'm pretty sure this is the kind of thing she was referring to.
"Are you here about the leaky faucet?" I asked.
Not my all-time funniest comment, I'll admit. That particular honor goes to "What if we used two cows?" (which loses something out of context, but trust me when I say that it was very, very, very amusing). Still, when you consider that I said it to a huge guy with a knife and a homicidal glimmer in his eye, it was a more than passable effort.
He shook his head. "No. I'm not."
"Oh."
I considered my options. The only weapons
I had readily available were the dog-eared paperback and a grape juice box. I'd already drank most of the juice, so the box probably wouldn't even carry all the way across the living room if I threw it. However, the straw provided a defensive possibility.
I considered making a run for it. But when I say that the man was "extremely large," I don't mean that he was an obese gentleman who would chase after me in a labored waddle. Though it was hard to tell under the jacket, he looked to be all muscle. And as he walked toward me, he moved with a grace and efficiency of motion that gave the impression that he could have me tackled to the ground and nicely decapitated before I even made it to the stairway.
But maybe not. After all, I'm rather nimble myself. I decided to let this one play out and wait for the precise moment to act.
"Are you Andrew Mayhem?" he asked.
"Yes," I said, a split-second before I realized that the more intelligent answer would be "No."
He stood in front of me and held up the knife. "I've been hired to kill you, Mr. Mayhem."
I lowered the recliner's footrest. "By who?"
"I can't say."
"You can say if you're going to kill me, right? I promise not to scrawl the name in my own blood on the carpet."
He shook his head. "No, I'd get in trouble."
"If you're going to kill me, you've at least got to let me know who wants me dead. Give my ghost something to avenge."
"I don't know . . ."
"It's the least you could do."
"Hey, I waited two weeks for you to be alone in the house. I could've done this while your wife and kids were home. Would you want your wife and kids to see you die? Would you?"
"Helen would kick your ass."
Uh, maybe you should try not to anger the nice assassin, I told myself. Using humor to buy myself time to get out of this situation was fine. Insults were uncool.
The hit man smiled. "She sure puts you in your place. Damn, but you're whipped."
"Not whipped. Henpecked."
"Whatever."
"Y'know, you may be here to kill me, but you're still a guest in my home. Let's be respectful, okay?"
"Fine with me. I'm not here to talk. I'm here to cut myself a slice of bitch."
I stared at him for a long moment.
"Did you just say you're here to cut yourself a slice of bitch?"
He nodded.
"Was that, like, a planned comment? Did you actually come in here with the intention of speaking those exact words?"
"What's wrong with them?"
"What does that even mean?"
"It means that you're a bitch, and I'm here to cut a slice of you."
"No, no, no, no, no, that doesn't work at all. Trust me on this. Have you really said that to other human beings? What was their reaction?"
"I haven't said it to anybody else."
"Good. Don't. What do you usually say in this situation?"
The assassin looked a bit sheepish. "Actually, you're my first hit."
"Seriously?"
"Yeah."
"Oh, well, that explains it. I know that you were trying to sound all cold-blooded and stuff, but the only reaction you're going to get is 'Oh, crap, I'm gonna be murdered by a doofus.' What's your name?"
"Victor."
"Hi, Victor." I extended my hand politely. He didn't shake it. I figured I probably should have seen that bit of rudeness coming and placed my hand back on my lap. "Listen, you need a catch phrase that doesn't make you sound like a street punk. Something sinister but classy. Because I'll be honest with you, right now I should be so scared that I can barely keep my urine on the inside, and I'm just not feeling it."
"I bet you'd feel it if I stuck this knife in you."
"I'm sure I would. But if you're an assassin, you need to be memorable. You need to be stylish. I mean, any common hooligan can run somebody over with a car, but you, you're the kind of guy who gets up close and personal with a knife. It's all about the presentation. You need to leave a lasting impression."
Victor nodded almost imperceptibly, as if he were considering my advice. Then he scowled as if suddenly realizing that he'd become the kind of assassin who listened to helpful hints from people he was supposed to kill. "No, I don't. You'll be dead!"
"Yeah, but this isn't about me. It's about you. I might be dead either way, but how would you feel if I died thinking that your hit man persona was sub-par?"
Victor shrugged. "I get paid either way."
"Is it just about the money, though?"
"Sure."
"Do you really believe that?"
"I kill for money. That's what an assassin does. When I slit your throat, I won't feel a thing."
I wasn't happy that the conversation had turned to slit throats, and I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. "How many people have you killed?"
"I told you, you're my first."
"You haven't killed anybody? Not even for recreation?"
He shook his head.
"What about animals?"
"No animals."
"Have you ever flushed a goldfish?"
"Look, I don't need to have dozens of corpses stacked in my closet to deal with somebody like you. One slice and you'll be on the floor gargling your own blood, and let me tell you, I'm going to have a good long laugh about it."
"I'm not trying to be a pain here," I insisted. "I'm just wondering how you got the gig of terminating me without any previous murder credits."
"I sorta fell into the job. You know how it goes."
"You padded your resume, didn't you?"
"That's none of your concern."
"You did! You lied about your experience! What are you going to do if your boss finds out?"
"I didn't lie about anything."
I shook my head and made a tsk-tsk sound. "Lying by omission is still a lie."
"You know what? I've had way more than enough of you." Victor pointed the knife at my throat. "Got anything else to say before I gut you?"
"That's not where the knife should be pointed if you're planning to gut me."
"Don't tell me how to do my job."
"I'm just saying. Not many guts in my neck."
"Sure there are."
"Do you even know what a gut is?"
"That's it. You're dead, Mayhem."
"My name's not Mayhem."
He blinked. "What?"
"Are you looking for Andrew Mayhem? He lives next door. Shorter guy, glasses . . ."
"You said you were Andrew Mayhem."
"Your knife made me nervous. I wasn't thinking."
He looked at me for about three seconds as if trying to decide if I was lying, and then clearly decided that I was, in fact, lying. "You know what? I'd kill you for free," he said.
"How much are you getting paid?"
"None of your business."
"Of course it's my business! I have a right to know my market value. How much?"
"I don't discuss salary with anybody. And it's time for you to die."
"You keep saying that, and yet my guts are still sealed up in my neck."
Victor looked so angry and frustrated that I thought he might scream. I used the opportunity to strike.
"Did you just throw a fucking juice box at me?" he asked, rubbing his forehead.
"I did."
"You . . . you . . . there's something wrong with you, man! How can nobody else have murdered you yet?"
"See, Victor, you're not listening. This isn't about me. It's about —"
He began to pace around my living room, wildly swinging the knife. "You know what, I didn't even want this crappy job! I was happy at the Wal-Mart! I'm just trying to earn enough money to go back to school! I didn't ask to get hit in the head by a goddamn juice box!"
I noticed to my horror that the juice box, which lay on its side, had leaked some grape juice onto the carpet. Helen was going to go ballistic when she got home. The juice boxes were never, ever to be consumed in the living room. Granted, the rule was intended for my childr
en, Theresa and Kyle, but I'd get in just as much trouble. Damn.
Victor continued pacing back and forth across my floor, alternating between shouting in frustration and muttering silently. I kind of felt sorry for him. I still held the straw and tried to figure out how good my chances were of plunging it into his eye when he wasn't looking.
Suddenly he turned to me, eyes wide with fury, raised the knife over his head, and brought it down toward my face —
— stopping a few inches from my nose.
It occurred to me that a substantial portion of my plan had revolved around the idea that I would break out my lightning-fast reflexes to escape from danger at the exact moment when Victor finally snapped. But if Victor hadn't stopped the knife's downward trajectory by his own choice, I would probably have a blade sticking deep into my face. T'was not a pleasant thought.
"I'm sorry," I said.
Victor lowered the knife. "This job sucks," he said.
"Most jobs do."
I realized that my palms were sweating profusely now that I'd come so close to being stabbed in the nostrils, and my stomach kind of hurt. What had happened to my lightning fast reflexes? The knife could have gone all the way through my nose and up into my brain! I'd be dead! And then Victor would collect his paycheck even though he was a below-average assassin!
I wiped my palms off on my jeans, hoping he wouldn't notice.
"Did I scare you?" he asked.
"No."
"I bet I did."
"Okay, yeah, you did, but that knife looks sharp, all right? You can't expect me not to be a little uncomfortable when you're trying to stab me with it."
"I bet you almost wet your pants."
"Would it make you feel better if I had?"
He shook his head. "That would probably be awkward."
"Yeah, for me too."
He sighed. I sighed back.
"Why didn't you finish stabbing me?" I asked.
"Dunno."
"Are you having second thoughts?"
"Maybe. I just . . . do you ever feel like you're playing a part that isn't really you? I mean, I feel ridiculous in this spiked jacket. What do you think?"
"Honestly, I thought the jacket was pretty cool."
"It's too hot. And it doesn't fit right in the back. And these spiky things keep scraping on furniture and stuff. I wonder if I should just give up the whole idea of killing people for a living. I don't think I'm cut out for it. I like being the lovable guy. I like being cuddly."