Victoria looked up. Some other woman had her hand on the sweater.
"Mine," said Victoria.
"I saw it first," said the lady, a short stumpy woman in an Eeyore hoodie. She had brown eyes that were close to being crossed. The wart next to her nose seemed to be taking on a life of its own. Victoria watched as the dwarfish woman’s hand curled into a fist around a clump of sweater.
"No," Victoria said. "It’s mine. I had my hand on it first."
"Bullshit," said the horrible woman. "My sweater. For my daughter in law. "
Victoria tightened her grip on the sweater, also. "For my sister. Let go."
The horrible woman snarled. "You let go, you hoity bitch."
"You hideous demon cunt," Victoria hissed, "I absolutely will not."
The horrible woman spit at Victoria, a glistening glob that hit the collar edge of her winter jacket, the powder blue one she had gotten at an amazing discount at the end of season last year. It hung and spun, like a disco ball of saliva and phlegm, catching the harsh fluorescent light and making patented multi-national rainbows.
Victoria’s first blow broke the horrible woman’s nose. She felt it crumble under her knuckles, like smashing an unwrapped fortune cookie. The woman cried out in pain as blood began to stream over her lips, but the sound was lost among the crowd noise and the host of native voices that seemed to live inside Victoria’s head now.
The injured woman never let go of the sweater. She proudly refused to break eye contact with Victoria. When she slashed Victoria’s face with her dirty fingernails, drawing three slim rivers of blood under her right eye, Victoria laughed. She dabbed at the wounds with her free hand. Blood sparkled like wine on her soft fingertips. Victoria laughed again as she licked the blood off, enjoying the look of disgust on the horrible woman’s face as she did so. The low growl reassured her that this is what the tribe demanded. This was what was expected of her.
Victoria stretched out and kicked the horrible woman’s legs out from under her. As the woman fell, her chin hit the sharp corner of the sweater table, chiseling it open. Again, blood came rushing. The tone of her voice when she cried was different. It was the sound of the cowed, the last whimper of the defeated. The horrible woman still had one hand on the sweater, but Victoria smashed it flat with her free fist.
The horrible woman sank to the floor of the ladies’ department, face covered with blood and failure. Victoria picked up the white sweater, the perfect gift for her sister who lived all the way out in Toronto but was coming home for the holidays, and held it in front of the woman, who was now crying. No one was there to console her or comfort her.
"Look what you did," said Victoria Holman, treasurer of the school board.
The woman looked up through hate-rimmed eyes, her face a crimson mask, the stigmata of Our Lady of Poor Decisions.
"You got blood all over my sweater, you piece of shit," said Victoria Holman, who sometimes volunteered at the library during Story Time for pre-schoolers. She planted a foot into the woman’s ribs and headed towards the men’s department, wondering if her brother-in-law had kept up that unfortunate weight gain cycle he had started a couple years ago. Better look for extra large, just in case.
IV
The Stranger
HE HAD BEEN amazed when he saw the news. People shopping for Christmas presents getting into fist-fights over baubles and trinkets. Madness! Last year, a woman brought pepper spray into the store. She hosed a woman down who tried to get the same display model of a microwave oven. Can you imagine? The base emotions, the sheer brutality, the absolute twisting of what is supposed to be a joyous holiday into something akin to warring tribes. One guy had his elbow broken trying to buy a laptop and didn’t even notice until he was driving home and realized he couldn’t steer right. Adrenaline does amazing things to the human body.
He knew he had to be there this year, reveling in the depravity, bathing in those fear and rage pheromones, taking advantage of that situation. He got a little hard just thinking about it. Sleep had been difficult to come by the night before, but he welcomed that. Lack of rest heightened his senses, made him hyperaware of his surroundings, allowed him to target more precisely.
The afternoon was spent concocting a disguise. A little white shoe polish greyed out his beard and hair. Putting in his wife’s colored contacts was difficult, but worth the effort. Some lifts in his shoes, an affected limp, and he was finished. An older, taller version of himself might raise a few eyebrows, but he looked differently enough that no one would call him out.
He arrived at the store a little after six. It was a keening madhouse, and he felt like a bloodhound as every color and thought filled his nose, sending his brain into overdrive. He wanted to play at first, test the waters, find out where the boundaries were. Blending into the crowd, he drifted into the ladies’ clothing department near the front of the store.
Women were shuffling hangers across racks, like insane abacus users trying to solve the mysteries of quantum physics. He moved easily behind a blond woman who was muttering to herself about the lack of plus sizes. He shook his arm, allowing the surgical scalpel he had hidden in his coat sleeve to fall gently into his palm. Gently, he draped some of her hair over his wrist, and sliced some of it off. The woman didn’t flinch, didn’t notice. He smiled. He gathered his trophy, put it into his pocket, and walked further into the store.
He never understood why fat guys refused to wear coats. The porky guy in electronics, transfixed by the giant flat screen television, was not only coatless, his shirt was too short for his torso. His belly pooched out, pale flesh oozing out over the top his slacks. It was easy to walk behind him and let the tip of the scalpel gracefully slice a thin red arc around his waist, just barely deep enough to draw blood. He watched as the fat man scratched his back, as if mildly irritated, then went back to watching television.
The man with the scalpel smirked. This, he decided, was the happy hunting ground.
The douchebag in auto accessories was so amazed by the wall of car stereos that he barely noticed the razor sharp instrument poking through his leather jacket and into his kidney. It was a quick jab, to be sure. He felt the blade on the way out, though, and turned to see what was going on. The stranger held up a hand and said, "Sorry, brah." The douchebag nodded and went back to listening to shitty rock music. He would notice the blood later, of course, and hopefully head for the hospital. Maybe he would bleed out, right there next to the floor mats and skull shifters, smelling of shit and body spray, the poisons from his body pooling around him as the ignorant masses kept shopping.
He moved through the store like a corner, scraping and slicing people at random. I must have walked into a counter, they would think later, when they found the unexplained red marks on their skin. He was tagging them like a wildlife agent, claiming them as his own, but still allowing them to live in the wild. Some would die from infection. Some would be scarred. But, if nothing else, he had left his mark, and no one was the wiser. The dangers of human contact, he thought! Such fear balanced with such trust!
Trust is for suckers.
In housewares, he ran into a particularly obnoxious woman. She was looking for a specific cake pan, a pan in the shape of Santa’s head, and if she couldn’t find it, she was going to raise hell. It was in the advertisement, she said. If it was in the advertisement, they had to have it, she said. And if they didn’t, she was sure as shit going to have one for free, she said.
"Maybe I can help," the stranger said. "I can reach the pans on the top shelf. Perhaps it’s up there."
"Do you work here?" the woman asked. "I want to see the manager."
The stranger fumbled about with the bakeware up top, pretending to be searching diligently for the coveted Santa pan.
"Do you work here?" the woman asked again.
"I am at work here," he replied. "Is this what you’re looking for?"
He handed her a cake pan made vaguely in the shape of a Christmas tree. She looked at it briefly.
"No!" she cried. "This is not even close to what I’m looking for!"
The stranger slipped the scalpel into her soft belly and wiggled it up and down a bit. The woman’s eyes grew wide and her pupils dilated. "What did you do?" she croaked. "What did you do to me?"
The stranger smiled at her, kindly. "This is the season to be grateful." He withdrew the scalpel. He knew there was serious damage done, even though the wound would be less than half an inch across from the outside. It was like stirring a drink with a straw through a lid.
"What did you to do to me?" she asked again, terror creeping high into her voice. "Help me! Help me!"
The stranger walked by her and became one of the crowd again, just a shopper, just another brave soul braving the retail jungle.
A couple minutes later, a bored voice came across the store’s PA system. "Attention, associates. Customer needs help in housewares. Housewares, please." By that time, the stranger had already disappeared.
V
End of Shift
THE LINE AT register four was long, and there were some signs of trouble early on. The cashier was not moving people through the line fast enough.
Mrs. Harrison only had seven items, all of them small. She bought a roll of mints on impulse and hurriedly threw them onto the conveyor. The cashier looked at Mrs. Harrison and sneezed. Then she threw back her head and laughed, a genuine guffaw. When she looked at Mrs. Harrison again, her face was totally serious. "Happy Holidays, customer," the cashier said. "Will this be all?"
Mrs. Harrison smiled weakly. "I think this will do for today," she said.
The cashier’s nametag read, "Sarah."
Sarah began scanning Mrs. Harrison’s items through. "Is this all you have brought for the sacrifice?" Sarah asked. "Is there nothing more you need, nothing else to place upon the great roaring fires?"
"Excuse me?"
Sarah shook her head. "Will this be debit or credit?"
"Debit," said Mrs. Harrison.
Sarah looked at Mrs. Harrison’s face, counting the wrinkles. She seemed like she could have some understanding (but then her eyes rolled back and she had teeth like electromagnets, hooks of the whaler, a canyon of doom, a throat of grinders). Sarah sneezed again. She bagged up Mrs. Harrison’s items.
"Your change is six dollars and sixty-six cents, because it is Man’s number. Do you have understanding? Do you have ears to hear?"
Mrs. Harrison placed her bag into her cart and rushed off to find a manager.
Next in line was a slight man. He looked like someone who would be typecast in films as a professor. Wire-rimmed spectacles, fine wheatstraw hair, an expensive cardigan. He had a couple large items and some grocery items.
"Happy Holidays," Sarah said. "Are you book learned?"
The man laughed. "I’m sorry, what?"
"Do you have your rewards card?" she asked.
He patted his pockets. "No, I sure don’t," he stammered. "Sorry about that."
Sarah looked into his spectacles while she was scanning his purchase. She could see the reflection of herself in his eyes reflected in his glasses, his glasses reflected in his eyes, the reflection of his eyes bouncing back into her eyes, and in the reflection of her eyes into his eyes she could see purple flames, flames roaring with the fat of the innocent. Dragons swam among the maggots in that fire. Sarah sneezed, and the flames bent as she did.
"Your discount will be reflected in Gehenna," Sarah told the man, "where thirst is never quenched and the worm never dies. You’ve seen it, haven’t you? You’ve made love to the Creature, right? Shoving your uncircumcised cock in and out of the Demon’s raging asshole? Right? Make sure you hold on to your receipt in case you need to return something."
The man left in a hurry, passing Mrs. Harrison, who was talking excitedly to a man named Dick, who was wearing an ugly tie that played Christmas music when you pressed a button.
The next person in Sarah’s line had only clothing. Sarah began to scan the clothing without a word, not daring to look up for fear of what monstrosity she would see in the next customer’s eyes. But she felt compelled to say something when she noticed the blood stains on the otherwise beautiful white sweater. She looked up.
"Is there a fucking problem?" asked Victoria Holman, former wife of the Mayor.
Sarah sneezed twelve times in a row and then stared Victoria Holman right in the eyes as she pissed herself. She was laughing as Dick gently led her off the floor. He had already radioed for janitorial to come and clean up the mess and a replacement cashier was on the way over. Everything was going to be all right, he kept saying, reassuring her, reassuring himself.
IV
Black Friday Coming Down
VICTORIA HOLMAN STRODE through the parking lot, head held high, not caring who saw her injured face. In the plastic bag was her sweater. Her sweater. She had fought for it. She had paid for it. She had won it. She was considering keeping it for herself. Would it be strange to get it framed? People frame sports jerseys. Why not a blood-smeared white sweater? She got her key fob out from her pocket and remotely unlocked her SUV.
She opened the passenger side door and placed the bag inside when she heard a voice. "Hey, lady! Lady!"
Victoria turned. As she suspected, it was the horrible woman. Victoria instinctively balled her hands into fists, but the short lady instantly held up both her hands, palms out. "Whoa there, lady," the horrible woman said. "I don’t want no more trouble. You got that sweater, got it fair and square. Don’t want no more trouble, no, ma’am."
Victoria relaxed. "Well, you put up a good fight," she allowed. "I was surprised."
"I’m feisty, for sure," said the woman. She put her hand out for Victoria to shake. "My name’s Sharon."
Victoria hesitated briefly, then grasped Sharon’s hand decisively, as if to reaffirm who was the stronger, the better of the two combatants. "Victoria."
"Victoria. Good name, nice name," Sharon said. "Hey, Victoria, would you do me a favor?"
Victoria bristled, wanting to get this encounter over as quickly as possible. "I’m in a bit of a hurry, Sharon."
Sharon shifted her weight from side to side and looked down at the ground. "I just wanted to look at the sweater one more time, get the manufacturer’s name off the label. Maybe I can have my son look for one like it on the computer. Would that be okay?"
Victoria looked at Sharon, her mangled face, her loosened teeth, the triangular gash on her chin. She softened a little. "Of course," she said. "That seems fair." Victoria turned and bent inside her vehicle, where she fished the white sweater out of the plastic bag. She turned around to Sharon, holding the sweater with both hands.
"The manufacturer is…"
Sharon interrupted her with a solid kick to the stomach. It knocked the wind out of Victoria, who doubled over and fell ass backwards into her car. Sharon grunted and jumped on top of the fallen woman, her short legs straddling Victoria’s midsection. Sharon grabbed the sweater with one hand and Victoria’s chin with the other. Victoria struggled to catch her breath. It didn’t take long after Sharon began stuffing the sweater into her mouth for Victoria to begin suffocating. The heavy mix of cotton and rayon was designed for easy care and maximum warmth. The weave didn’t leave much room for Victoria to suck air through. Sharon tenaciously kept shoving fabric into Victoria’s mouth, down her throat, all the while chanting, "Fuck with me. Fuck with me. Fuck with me."
Victoria’s arms flailed, but with Sharon’s knees jabbing into her ribcage, Victoria couldn’t hit the bitch effectively. Calmly, Sharon reached up and pinched Victoria Holman’s nose closed. It seemed like no time after that. Victoria Holman twitched a few times and heard the call of the low growl one last time before she died.
When she was sure of things, Sharon pulled the sweater out of Victoria’s mouth and stuffed it back in the bag. Using both arms, she got underneath Victoria’s legs and swung them into the car. Anyone passing by would think Victoria (never Vicky) Holman was just another shopper, overcome by fatigue
, grabbing a nap in the car before going back in for a second round.
"Fuck with me," Sharon said one last time, disdainfully. Rich bitches like that, thinking they have a right to anything they damn well please. Well, she didn’t get that sweater. Sharon was pretty sure she could get the bloodstains out just fine. It would make a delightful gift for her daughter-in-law. After all, a girl just back from the War would have a hard time adapting to seasons again. It’s always hot in the desert, isn’t it? Sharon didn’t know for sure. She would have to ask.
Sharon walked back to her car. It was an old thing. It sure wasn’t a big pretty thing like that dead bitch’s plush tank, with everything on the dashboard digital and shit, but it got her where she needed to go.
"Ooops!" Sharon looked up just in time to plow straight into a handsome man wearing a grey trenchcoat. She had been so focused on what had just happened, she didn’t even see him coming. She smiled at the man. "I didn’t mean to bump into you! I’m so sorry!"
The man smiled back. "That is perfectly okay, young lady," he said. Young lady. Sharon blushed instantly. The handsome young man moved his arm in a strange way, as if he were shuddering. "Are you okay?"
Sharon looked down, checking herself. Suddenly, she felt a strange jabbing pain in her side, like she had been stung by a hornet. She winced and drew her breath in sharply. The pain intensified briefly, then subsided somewhat. It was too cold for a biting bug to be out, she thought. Just one of those weird body pains.
"I’m fine, I suppose," she told the man.
He smiled and nodded. "You have a good Christmas season, then."
"You, too," Sharon said. She watched the man walk off, through the sea of cars in the parking lot, towards the store. That stitch in her side was getting worse. She unlocked the door of her car and set off for home, where she had a nice wood-burning stove and a bottle of whiskey waiting for her. Those were happy things that would help cure whatever ailed her. There was laundry to do still, but even that could be a pleasant task with enough whiskey.
Black Friday: An Elders Keep Collection Special Edition Page 13