Doug begrudgingly slid on the pink ski mask. “I hate you.”
“You have no one to blame but yourself. Who the hell wears a pink ski mask to commit a murder?”
“These are the only ones my mom had.”
“Whatever—just give me the gun.” She extended her hand.
Doug reached in the brown paper bag and pulled out a .45 magnum revolver. He handed the gun over to her.
She flipped open the chamber and checked to confirm it was loaded. She spun the cylinder a few times—because that’s what people always did in the movies—and locked it back into place.
“Now this is badass,” she said, sighting up the fake flamingos and lawn gnomes littered across Mr. Grovenweiser’s lawn. “Bang! You’re dead.” She laughed manically.
“Easy. You know how to use one of those, right?” he asked, flinching with every fake gunshot sound effect Meryl added.
“Duh, I’ve seen Terminator 2 like five dozen times.”
“That’s what worries me.”
***
Mr. Grovenweiser had just put on a kettle of tea over the stove when he heard the doorbell ring. He retrieved his walking cane, put on his thick heavy glasses, and slowly headed for the front door. He was eighty-years-old—was.
Meryl kicked in the door and Doug charged in, ramming into Mr. Grovenweiser at full speed.
Mr. Grovenweiser toppled over the couch.
Meryl pounced on top of him, planting her knee in the small of his back, and held him down at gunpoint.
Doug yelled out obscenities while he knocked down Christmas decorations and ceramic figurines of reindeers and Santa, smashing them to thousands of pieces.
“Whoa—calm down—buddy,” said Meryl.
“Sorry,” said Doug, finally simmering down, a ring of festive destruction sprinkled below his feet. “Was just caught up in the moment.”
“Just take what you want and get out,” shrieked Mr. Grovenweiser. He glanced up over his shoulder at the barrel of the gun Meryl aimed at the back of his skull. The old man started to hyperventilate.
“Where is it?” she asked.
“W-w-what are you talking about?” asked Mr. Grovenweiser.
“Don’t play dumb with me, you monster. You know perfectly well what I’m talking about.”
“I don’t have the faintest clue.”
She cocked the gun. “Where’s your uniform?”
“You’re all crazy.”
“What are you waiting for?” asked Doug. “Just shoot him already.”
“No,” she said, backing off of the old man. “I want proof. I want to see you wearing it when I pull the trigger.”
Mr. Grovenweiser slowly rose to his feet and glanced back at Meryl with ice-cold eyes. “I doubt it would still fit after all these years.”
She smirked. “We won’t know until you try.” She gave him a hard shove. “Now march like a good little Nazi.”
Mr. Grovenweiser nodded and headed upstairs.
Meryl followed, pressing the barrel of the gun into the middle of his back.
Doug trailed them, keeping a safe distance. “Wow, this is just like Stephen King’s The Apt Pupil.”
“I remember that movie,” said Meryl. “Ironic, considering the actor who played the Nazi is gay.”
“What? Gandalf isn’t gay,” Doug protested.
“It’s true. He’s gay.”
“You lie.”
“Come on, it was so obvious,” she said as she and Mr. Grovenweiser approached the bathroom. “He was eye humping Frodo’s crotch the throughout the whole trilogy. He couldn’t wait to slide his magic staff down Frodo’s ring of doom.”
Doug shoved her. “Shut up.”
Meryl shoved Doug back.
With them distracted, Mr. Grovenweiser saw his chance. He opened the attic door with a tug on the dangling chain. The trap down swung open and the stairs slid down, knocking Meryl and Doug to the floor. The gun tumbled away from Meryl’s grasp.
Mr. Grovenweiser ducked into the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet, and retrieved his Luger.
Meryl scrambled for the gun. She froze when she heard the click.
“Stop right there, my clever minxes.” Mr. Grovenweiser stood over her, his Luger sighted on her. “Unless you’d like a one-way train ticket to the showers.”
“Bastard,” said Meryl.
“Too soon,” said Doug.
“Sticks and stones will break your bones but gas is always more efficient.” Mr. Grovenweiser laughed. “Time to say goodnight...”
“Hey—look behind you—it’s Hitler,” Meryl said, pointing past Mr. Grovenweiser.
“Mein Fuhrer.” Mr. Grovenweiser spun around, clicked his heels together, and saluted out of sheer compulsion. “Sig Hail!”
Meryl retrieved her gun “Hans Solo shot first—mother fucker.” She fired, striking Mr. Grovenweiser in the neck.
Mr. Grovenweiser cupped his bloody throat, lost his balance, and stumbled backward into the bathroom and into the bathtub.
Doug rushed to Meryl’s side. “Nice shot.” He then slowly tip-toed up to Mr. Grovenweiser’s gargling corpse—blood still bubbling out of his new throat hole.
“Thanks,” she replied, staring down at the pistol in her hands, still warm to the touch. “So, this is what it feels like to be alive…”
Doug retrieved a pillow from the bedroom and tossed it over Mr. Grovenweiser’s face. “There, now it will look like a suicide.”
“He has a bullet lodged in his throat, moron.”
“Duh, he shot himself in the throat first—then suffocated himself with the pillow to make sure. Saw it on an episode of CSI.”
“Fine, let’s just check his uniform and go home.” Meryl headed up the stairs and into the attic.
Doug followed her lead.
After a bit of searching, Meryl found a big chest with a swastika on it. She shot the chest’s lock off and popped it open. She frowned when she raised the uniform into the light.
“You’re such an asshole,” she said, smacking the back of Doug’s head.
He winced in pain. “Hey, that hurt. What the hell did I do wrong now?”
She chucked a little boy’s uniform at Doug. “Hitler Youth, Doug, not Nazi. There’s a difference.”
Doug examined the uniform. “You say tomato I say toe-mato.”
“The last freakin’ Pope was part of the Hitler Youth program.” She massaged the bridge of her nose. “Great, now I really deserve to go to hell. Thanks a lot.”
***
Meryl stormed into the street.
Doug ran out of the house and chased after her. “Come on, don’t be that way,” he hollered to her. “If it makes you feel any better I’m sure he fantasized about the Holocaust.”
She spun to meet him. “Not a crime.”
He shrugged. “Well, at least he’s in a better place now. Living it up in that big Hitler golden shower in the sky.”
“He’s probably in hell. I’ll tell him you said hi when I pay him another visit tomorrow.” She turned her back on him and marched off.
He reached for her and grabbed her by the arm, spinning her around to face him. “Look—I’m sorry. How about I make it up to you?” He gave her his trademark puppy dog stare. “The movies, my treat?”
Meryl couldn’t maintain her frown. “Oh, okay. I can’t stay mad at you.”
***
Doug squeezed past the aisle of seats with a large bag of buttery popcorn in one arm and a giant-sized soda in the other. The theater grew dim and the opening credits rolled. He plopped down in the seat next to Meryl and took a big swig from the straw of his oversized soda.
He sighed. “Ahhh, nothing like the refreshing taste of Fountain Brew.”
Meryl glanced his way. “I heard that stuff shrinks men’s wieners.”
He spat out his soda, spraying the moviegoers below him. “No way, it only shrinks your sperm count.”
“Says who?”
“One of my friends. He says he drinks a whole gallon before se
x. It’s his homemade birth control.”
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” Meryl scoffed. “You don’t have any friends.”
“Yeah, I saw this film last week. Total waste of time,” shouted a zit-faced teenager with dyed purple and black hair in the front row as he talked on his smartphone. He had the speaker mode on so he could shove popcorn into his pie hole. “The CGI sucks ass-burgers.”
“Shhh!” said Meryl, sitting just three rows behind him.
“Quiet,” he snapped back. “Can’t you see I’m on the phone? I swear, people are so damn rude.”
“Asshole,” Meryl muttered to herself as she slumped back into her seat.
Doug nudged her with his elbow.
“What?”
“This is the best part.”
“How do you know?” she asked. “You’ve never seen this film before.”
“A hunch.”
She rolled her eyes.
“I don’t get it.”
“What’s not to get?” she asked. “It’s Spider-man. He shoots spider-jizz at the bad guys to stop crime. It’s not rocket science.”
The zit-faced teenager burst into laughter, spitting popcorn everywhere. “What?” he yelled into his smartphone. “Speak louder, I can’t hear you. Can you hear me now?” He inhaled a handful of popcorn. A few kernels got lodged in the back of his throat and he started to choke. He clawed desperately at his throat. “Help... someone... dial… 911...”
Doug nudged Meryl again.
“What?” she asked. “I’m watching the movie.”
“Here’s your chance.”
“Chance to do what?”
He pointed to the choking teenager. “Save him.”
She rolled her eyes. “After the movie.”
He gave her the look.
“What? Why doesn’t he dial 911? He’s the one with the cellphone.”
He intensified the look.
“Fine,” she said, getting up from her seat and walking over to the choking teenager. She gave him a hard slap on the back.
He spat out the popcorn into some guy’s soda in front of him.
The audience booed Meryl for her efforts.
“You happy?” She plopped down next to Doug.
“Popcorn?” yelled the Grim Reaper.
She glanced over to the Grim Reaper, who was now sitting next to her, and pressed her finger against her lips. “Shhh.”
“Sorry,” said the Grim Reaper as he switched his volume to a whisper. “Great job on your good deed, Punky Brewster. Unfortunately, that man you just saved was a convicted sex offender. So, sorry, it doesn’t count.”
The audience booed Meryl again.
She crossed her arms and fumed. “Totally not fair.”
His gaze shifted to the movie screen. “I remember this one. She dumps him for the French guy at the end.”
Meryl chucked her popcorn in the air in utter defeat. The popcorn container smacked the zit-faced pervert on the smartphone in the back of the head—causing him to choke on his popcorn again.
The Grim Reaper turned to Doug and held up a brush. “Can I brush your hair?”
Doug just smiled and turned back to the movie.
“Fine.” He folded his arms. “Cock-tease.”
***
Meryl took a swig of Doug’s blue Slurpee while they walked up a large bridge hanging over a river.
He swiped his Slurpee back from her. “Ewwww, Meryl saliva.” He wiped the tip of the straw off with his sleeve. “Gross. I hope you had all your shots, dirty girl.”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I brush my teeth after every sailor.”
“Somehow I doubt that.”
She shoved him.
“Watch it,” he said, rubbing his shoulder. “Bruises could potentially hinder my future career in modeling.”
“For Pet-co! Ohhhh. You just got burned, son.”
Doug sucked up a straw full of Slurpee and blew into it—spraying Meryl’s face with blue goo.
He took off in a mad sprint as she pursued.
“Bastard,” she yelled. “You’re so dead.”
“Too slow—dirty girl—too slow,” he hollered back.
Doug stopped dead in his tracks when he spotted an old man dressed as Santa Claus standing on top of the bridge’s rails, peering over the edge in a daze of despair.
“Prepare to die!” Meryl caught up to Doug. She stopped mid punch when she saw his frozen expression. She turned to the Santa Claus teetering over the edge.
“Of course, I’m prepared to die,” said Santa. “I’m standing on the edge, aren’t I?”
Meryl let out a gleeful cry. “Alright, good deed, here we go. Reaper ain’t got nothing on me.”
“Don’t bother trying to talk me out of it,” said the old weary Santa. “I’ve already made up my mind.”
“Come on, Santa,” said Doug. “We’ve all been dealt our share of deuces, but I mean…” He turned to Meryl.
She looked at him. “What?”
“Say something.”
“Right… ummm… if you jump off it will really, really hurt. You might even die.”
Doug gave her the look.
“What?”
“You don’t understand,” said Santa. “This has been the worst day of my life.”
“Oh, come on, it can’t be that bad.” She scoffed. “You should see the day I’ve been having.”
“Oh yeah,” Santa hollered back. “Just today my wife left me and took the kids.”
“Happens to the best of us,” she said.
“My dog got cancer and my cat was run over.”
“Life goes on.” She nodded to herself.
“My house burnt down and my car got repossessed.”
“When life deals you lemons...”
“I was fired from my job and I’ve been charged with tax fraud.”
“Every road has its bumps.”
“And to top it all off, Justin Bieber is marrying my sister.”
Meryl’s whole body jolted in a sudden cringe. “I stand corrected. Wow, your life really does blow. Maybe you should jump.”
“Meryl,” Doug shouted at her. “Don’t listen to her, Mr. Claus. There are so many things worth living for.”
Santa peeked back over his shoulder. “Like what?”
“Like…” Doug pondered a moment. Then inspiration hit him like a light bulb flickering on in his brain. “Like an ice-cold beer at a ballgame. NBA stadium riots. In’n Out hamburgers. Free tours on porno sites. Deep fried Oreos covered in chocolate. Lesbian sex scenes in movies.”
Meryl rolled her eyes.
“Family Guy, miniskirts, and Cheerios. Fuck Lucky Charms, that crap ain’t lucky. Fucking marshmallows and shit in them. Bullshit.”
“You done?” asked Meryl.
“Yeah, that about covers it.”
“Wow,” said Santa, scratching at his white beard. “I never thought about it like that.” He stepped down from the ledge of the bridge and walked over to Doug and shook his hand. “Thank you, kind soul, now I can live life to the fullest again.”
“Wahoo!” Meryl literally jumped for joy. “I’m gonna live—take that, Reaper.”
“Not so fast, eager beaver!” An ominous voice boomed from the heavens.
Meryl, Doug, and Santa looked around in bewilderment.
The Grim Reaper appeared before them in a puff of smoke and fire. “The rules specifically dictate that you have to complete the deed, not Tweedledumbass over there.” He pointed his boney finger at Doug.
Doug frowned. “I resent that.”
“I helped,” Meryl protested.
The Grim Reaper folded his arms. “You just stood there!”
“We’re a team and I gave much valued emotional support,” she said. “Come on, that’s worth half-a-point at least.”
The Grim Reaper shook his head. “Just be glad I don’t dock you for that Nazi fiasco.” He snapped his fingers and exploded in a cloud of ash.
Meryl chok
ed on the smoke as she swatted back the toxic fumes. “You know what, fine. You, get back up there.” She gave Santa a quick shove toward the ledge of the bridge.
Santa hesitated, clutching onto the rails. “But I don’t want to die.”
She jabbed her finger into the air. “Up!”
Santa threw one leg over the ledge, wobbling to catch his balance as he tried to stand up. “The ledge is slippery.”
“I don’t care.”
Santa rose from his trembling knees and stood up over the edge. His red hat fell, tumbling into the dark abyss below.
“Alright,” said Meryl. “Here we go.” She cleared her throat. “Oh, please don’t throw your life away.” She projected her voice so the Grim Reaper would hear. “Come down, Saint Nick. You have so much to live for. Think of all the small children who still believe in you and their disappointed faces on a Christmas morning without you. The spirit of Christmas is still alive in the hearts and minds of all good little boys and girls. All you have to do is believe again.”
“Yeah,” Doug interjected. “We believe in—”
“Shut the fuck up—Doug.” Meryl spun back his way, cutting him short. “This is my good deed. So help me god, if you take this from me I will fucking murder you!”
He backed away from her jabbing finger. “Sorry... jeez.”
“Okay, you’ve convinced me.” Santa wobbled a bit as he turned. “Now, let me just—”
When Meryl and Doug turned back Santa was gone.
Doug lost the air from his lungs. “Santa...”
She swallowed a lump in her throat as she walked over to the edge of the bridge.
His lower lip quivered. “Maybe he went back to the North Pole? You know, with all the reindeer and elves and Mrs. Claus... to prepare presents for Christmas Eve?”
She peeked over the bridge and peered down. “Hey, Doug?”
Tears swelled in his eyes. “Yeah?”
“Does the North Pole look like a riverbed full of jagged rocks?”
He snorted up a drooping trail of snot. “No...”
“I don’t think he’s back in the North Pole, buddy.”
They locked eyes for a brief moment before taking off in a mad sprint.
***
Meryl sat by herself at a booth, stacking the cream packets in a pyramid. She stared out the diner window and watched the sun set over the horizon, her last sunset. She let out a deep exhale of breath and mulled over her mug of hot chocolate, observing the marshmallows dissolve into mush.
The Devil, the Grim Reaper, and a Ghost Page 3
