Shane ed. - A Hacked-Up Holiday Massacre - Halloween Is Going to Be Jealous

“I see you’ve made your decision on which to be,” Big Karl said. “Gotten pretty damn good at it, too, from what I hear.”

Junior imagined Marie somewhere nearby, suffering a similar fate, or worse. “Where’s Marie? What did you do to her?”

“Marie? I think she should be the last of your worries. Marie will get what’s coming to her.”

Junior roared at his father and pushed off the wall with his feet, flailing a kick at Big Karl that didn’t come within three feet. He slammed back against the hard wall and felt most of the fight leave him along with the air in his lungs. He hung there, the cuffs biting into his wrists, his chest heaving. Big Karl leaned in close, laughing.

“I never did get you, kid. You always defied me, no matter what it was. Take out the trash, help me chop your mother’s head off. Didn’t matter, you never would go along.”

Big Karl held out his left hand, shrouded in a black leather glove, and said, “How about now, son? I’ll give you one last chance. Join me and we’ll rule the galaxy together as father and son.”

Junior tried to spit on him, but struggled to pucker properly due to the pain in his face. Instead, the saliva just dribbled from his lips and down the front of his shirt. He turned his head away from Big Karl, who laughed again. “That was from an old movie. Before your time, though, I guess.”

“Tell me, you bastard. What have you done with her?”

Big Karl just stood there smiling, his hands in the pockets of his nice blue suit. He remained that way for a moment with a wistful look on his face before turning to his right and nodding his head.

Marie appeared from the darkness. She sauntered up to their father and placed a hand on his shoulder. She laid her head against his arm and they both smiled at Junior. “Happy Father’s Day, daddy,” she said.

Big Karl kissed her forehead and walked away. “Thank you, baby. I’m glad you’re back.”

“Me too.” He handed her the Polack and she watched him as he left the room. Then she turned back to Junior, who sputtered and choked on his confusion.

“Sorry, Junior,” she said. “It’s a brave new world. Gotta do what you gotta do.”

Marie spit into her hands and rubbed them together, then hefted the Polack over her head and reared back twice, measuring the feel of it. Once satisfied, she sucked in a deep breath and swung hard, gritting her teeth, sending the honed spike into Junior’s screaming mouth.

SEEING RED

by Chris Lewis Carter

Our company picnic is almost over when my boss climbs the makeshift stage built alongside a wall of cresting sand dunes. He wrenches the microphone free from its stand, causing a whine of feedback that jolts the crowd to attention.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen! How is everybody feeling today?”

I finish the last bite of my hot dog, then wipe my ketchup-stained hands down the front of my yellow SunVerge t-shirt. Standing next to me, the blonde HR rep with a huge rack wrinkles her nose in disgust, so I wink and use the leftover ketchup on my fingers to smear a heart across my chest. She rolls her eyes and marches off, as the enthusiastic voice of my boss once again sweeps the beach.

“On behalf of myself, Kenneth Morgan, and the entire SunVerge family, it’s great to—”

More feedback squeals from the mic, and our resident tech geek scrambles to a nearby amplifier and fiddles with the knobs.

“Testing, testing? Okay, I think that’s better,” Kenneth says, now at a more reasonable volume. “As I was saying, it’s great to see everyone here at our annual employee appreciation day. Before we go any further, I’d like to personally thank some people who have gone above and beyond to make this event run smoothly.”

Kenneth points at the tech geek, a scrawny kid with a wispy chin beard and horn-rimmed glasses. Office gossip is that he’s almost thirty, but he barely looks old enough to be out of high school. “First, to Philip Barnes, for helping out with our sound system. Don’t worry, he’ll mute me if I say anything too embarrassing.” He pauses for a laugh that never comes, then adds, “Come on, let’s hear it for Phil.”

A few people feign a polite clap, but most decide that it’s not worth the effort of putting down their drinks. Philip waves for a few awkward seconds, then becomes interested in checking the extension cord at his feet.

“Second, to the lovely Miss Christine Dawson for organizing our games and activities. Where are you hiding, Christine?”

Across the beach, the blonde climbs on top of a picnic table and performs a sort of wiggling curtsy that sends most of the guys into a round of hooting applause. With her SunVerge shirt knotted just below her chest to expose her tanned midriff, and hot-pink bikini bottoms riding high, it isn’t hard to imagine how “Christmas Party” Christine earned her nickname.

Someone wolf whistles as she bends over to pick up her drink, which draws a few laughs from the crowd.

“Hey now, I’d know that sound anywhere,” Kenneth says, motioning towards a row of barbeques. “Tommy Hayes, you old hound dog. Don’t think I’ve forgotten about those fantastic burgers of yours.”

“It’s all in the seasoning, boss,” he calls back, stepping out from behind the grill to show off his greasy apron, which drapes over his thick slab of a gut and stops just above the knees of his cargo shorts. He waves at Christine, then makes a big show of gesturing at the words, “Kiss The Cook,” embroidered on his apron’s front.

Kenneth scans the crowd until he notices me standing by the ice chests, then shoots me a quick thumbs up. I return the gesture, but it takes most of my self-restraint not to flip him off instead.

In his mind, we’re still every bit the colleagues we were before last month’s performance evaluation. He thinks I’m still clueless as to why I didn’t get that promotion.

What a jackass.

“On a more serious note, I’d just like to say how grateful I am to have spent another year with this organization. This job means the world to me, it really does.” He lowers the mic and teethes on his knuckle, then puffs out an exaggerated breath. “Anyway, I know there’s been a lot of tension around the office lately, and the economy has been slower to rebound than we’d all like, but I promise to keep fighting for each and every one of you. Whatever it takes, we’ll get through it together.”

He locks eyes with me again, so I smile and clap like he’s the Second Coming in flowered swim trunks.

Pulling this off was even easier than I’d thought.

“Which is why I’d like to extend an extra special thanks to our lead programmer, Simon Gaines, for approaching me with his idea for a team-building exercise that we’re all about to take part in.”

Honestly, the people of Venezuela deserve most of the credit. They’ve been doing it for over sixty years. I just introduced the concept to middle-management.

Kenneth pauses for what I can only assume is dramatic effect, then says, “Have any of you heard of La Tomatina?”

A dull murmur ripples throughout the crowd.

“It’s a holiday they have in Spain,” he says. “Every year, on the last Wednesday in August, thousands of people visit the town of Bunol to take part in an hour-long tomato fight. Well, guess what? We’re about to have one of our own.”

The murmur swells to a nervous chatter. If I wasn’t the guy who sold Kenneth a line about this being a great way for the staff to “vent their aggressions,” and “have a unique, cultural experience,” maybe I’d be confused too.

“It might sound strange at first but it’s going to be great, I promise.” Down the beach, a few of the workers pull back a large blue tarp, revealing hundreds of plastic bags leaking red pulp.