New Year’s Resolution – horror short story

A sample from the collection. Definitely not for the timid.

About this title: This is a collection of horror. These nightmares will pierce into the deepest depths of your being, while in the shadows devils will dance and laugh at your pending demise. Will you listen to the Confession Of An Old Boxer or hear the cries of The Weeping Thing? Will you cuddle with The Devil’s Daughters or spend the night in the haunted Two Bedroom Cottage For Rent? Rating: EXTREME controversy.

Visit this title’s page on Smashwords.


New Years’ Resolution For A Serial Killer

Aargh! Grrrr! Ugh!

No, I’m not going to the bathroom with yesterday’s shredded chicken and cheese and extra jalapeno burrito wedged up my ass. What I am doing is having trouble keeping my New Year’s Resolution. Man, I am this close to breaking it!

You’d think it would be easy. My resolution was so elegantly simple; Do Not Kill Anyone This Year. That’s it. It wasn’t something grand like ‘Bring Peace To The World’ or ‘Invent the Perpetual Motion Machine.’ It was short, sweet and simple; Do Not Kill… Anyone. This. Year.

Just three days in, and my nerves are shot, my patience is withering like last year’s grapes, and my stress level is about to reach Defcon Five. I can barely walk out my house each morning, on my fifteen-minute stroll to work, when those homicidal tendencies start flaring up like hemorrhoids in a blooming riot.

Let me tell you why. First, there’s the neighbor’s dog, a medium-size Bearded Collie. The fucking thing doesn’t bark, it moans, and it does so all night. In fact, it moans damn near every single hour, as the stupid canine doesn’t like being left outside in the cold, and it responds by moaning and groaning at cats, at passerby, at the moon, and even at the places where a cat might have once been in the recent past. Seriously, who the fuck knows what the fucking thing is moaning at? It just keeps moaning, all night long!

So, I gained the owner’s confidence a little bit to find out what was going on. It seems the dog, named Kookie, pisses on the rug sometimes. The old lady who owns it can’t seem to rouse herself up at night to open the door and let Kookie go out so the dog can do its doggie business. In her intellectual loftiness, the owner has decided to leave the doggie outside all night, where it can go poopie and pee-pee anytime it wants to.

That’s all fine and dandy, but… Although the old lady can sleep like a dead log, my own brain seems to focus on those dreaded doggie moans that quickly shred away any lingering slumber I might have had. Every fucking day, I go to work half-asleep and I start downing power drinks until my heart’s doin’ its own version of a Techno Rave.

I’ve got the solution: my little hatchet, whom I affectionately call Mr. Hatchet. One good smack to end Kookie’s whimpering once and for all, and about ten to the old lady for keeping me awake all those nights, and for not giving a shit about it.

While we’re on the subject of domestic beasts, I’ve got to let you in on a little secret I’ve been keeping to myself. See, I used to have this problem with cats, who keep mass-producing themselves in the neighbor’s trash heap of a backyard. The neighbor said he couldn’t control what they were doing, but you know what, I’m pretty fucking sure I could do that for him.

That’s right. I’d grab those mewling little fleabags, those cute little kitten-shits, and I’d stuff them into empty sacks. I’d suffer through all these little slashes on my wrists and fingers, squeezing the shit out of them when their tiny claws cut too deep, and I’d take me a little stroll to an alley a couple of blocks away.

There’s this house with a tall picket fence there. The dude who lives in the house breeds Rottweilers on the side. I’d set the little bastard kitty right up on top of the fence, and wait until its cries attracted one of the big, scary predators. It would be awesome, like Jaws even, to see the hapless little cat just sitting there bawling on top of this fence, and to watch this huge dog head shoot up and capture the feline in its powerful jowls. It’d chew that little sucker right up, unless one of the other Rotts loped over and they started a wrestling match for it.

Besides the old lady and Kookie, there’s another couple of people who I wouldn’t mind removing from this current timeline. There’s Mika, my supervisor at the store I work at, who’s constantly and irritatingly reminding me that we need more shopping carts at the front of the store. I wasn’t born yesterday, and yes, I know we need more fucking shopping carts at the front of the store, but I’ve been busy cleaning up the baby shit on aisle seven, or restocking the pitiful toy section where all the Baby Mamas drop their kids off as if the toy section represented some free, super low income Daycare Center, while they go off to gab like hens or head over to the hair curlers or lipstick aisle to hide things in their purses.

Mika, who likes to place her hands on her hips, lean forward and glare at me. I’d like to squeeze her neck sometime, make her look like a frog with its eyes bulging out after I’d stepped on it with a size eleven combat boot.

And then there’s the manager, Yolanda, who keeps telling me that there isn’t enough money in the budget to give me full time. Funny, because her new hire seventeen year-old nephew got full time right off the bat. I’ve been waiting damn near a year and a half for full time! How about if I lock them both in one of the back freezers for a couple of days, when they’re doing their daily inventory and rotating stock. Then I’d go in there and stretch some plastic wrap around them and roll them up to make them look like extra large Thanksgiving turkeys. Imagine seeing the two of them like that, right in the middle of the frozen food section.

Don’t let me forget Jerry, the truck driver who brings us fresh produce every few days. You know the one, the guy who’s always punching me on the shoulder and touching my man-boobs. So I’m not the guy in the best shape in the world, but does he have to remind me about it every single time he sees me? I’ve got a special torture in mind for that guy. It involves the trash compactor and all those broken pallets we throw in there.

Couple of weeks ago, Jerry really was in there, inside the trash compactor, trying to dislodge some junk that got stuck all the way in the bottom. I locked him in there a few minutes, maybe ten or fifteen, I don’t know. I did it as a joke, and he was hollering and threatening to kick my ass something fierce once I finally let him out. I opened the door eventually, just to see what he’d do. He took a few steps toward me with his hands curled up like he was about to pound me. I don’t know, he must have seen something in my eyes, or maybe it was my shit-eating grin, because he stepped away from me without turning his back. He left really quietly that day, and he hasn’t talked to me ever since.

That boy was scared of me, I’m sure of it. Ha!

So many possibilities, and so little undisturbed earth left in my backyard. Makes me want to toss a couple of bodies into the makeshift dump next door, except the authorities would start asking all their questions and snooping around my yard like they did the last time, when the mail carrier disappeared.

Wait, pretend you didn’t hear that. Pretend we’ve been talking about something else all this time, like the shitty season the local football team’s been having. You know, about how that expensive new running back’s got a sore ass and has to sit out the next couple of games.

No, you don’t want to speak with my manager, because she’s written me up for having threatened a couple of customers before. I don’t want to lose my job! Do you have any idea how hard it is for an ex-felon like me to find a job?

Come on! Cut me some slack here. I was kidding, man! I was fucking kidding!

You’re gonna go and rat me out anyway? Aw, fuck it! Three days into the new year, and you had to fuck my New Year’s Resolution all up, didn’t you? You just had to go and make it happen, didn’t you?

Like the ad says, have it your way, motherfucker!

Meet Mr. Hatchet!

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