We Come in Peace (and Leave You in Pieces)
And we do.
We've come to collect, you see. You have an outstanding debt. If you were to survive this night, you would tell anyone who listened that it wasn't karma that got you, but an unfortunate event, luck of the worst sort.
It's not, but let's not quibble.
What we are bringing you is a chance to go out with dignity. The dignity you seem to avoid in your everyday life. So normal. So bland. Happy face of happy features hiding a world of hurt. You try so hard to fit in and disappear that you stick out like a sore thumb to chaps like us. We three kings be smelling you a mile away.
When you don't answer the door, we let ourselves in. One well placed kick and what would you know? You can't run to the bedroom fast enough. What do you have in there? A gun? Doubtful. A knife? No. All your knives would be in the kitchen. Ahh, yes. A baseball bat. How fitting. How totally you.
We laugh because you, in this moment of extreme fear and adrenalin, swing, on no offense is meant by this, like a girl. You don't even aim for the good parts. You hit our arms and stomach with all the force a nine-year-old could muster. And what is that smell? I do declare you've wet yourself. You, a grown man. A man who holds down a 9-5 like it's his life. A man whose idea of letting loose on the weekend is to go out in public with his shirt untucked. How bold. How daring. How ... you.
Your family has been awakened. It was either us kicking in the door or you screaming as you played Babe Ruth in the living room. Regardless, we ignore them. Your wife considers you "good enough," and is happy to tell you that when the wine makes her brave. And your son? His idea of a "man" is the exact opposite of you. We are, at the end of the day, doing them a favor. We tell them to avert their eyes and to stay inside. This is wet, sticky business that is best dealt with on your manicured lawn. Pride of the block, you say. Carefully fed. Dutifully weeded. Even enough not even to blemish a baby's ass. Your Saturday morning project will be your bleeding ground.
We drag you out. We should do it by your hair. You deserve that. Instead, one on each of your arms. Me in the rear holding the bat I took from you. Every once in a while showing you what a real swing feels like. Was that a rib? Snap. Crackle. Pop. Scream.
And yes, you are screaming. The block is lighting up like Christmas. Heads poking out doors. Curtains carefully drawn aside. We see you all. See? We're waving. We apologize that Mr. Smith has woken you up, but we guarantee that this Saturday you won't be hearing his mower at 8:30 a.m.. No Sir, Bobby Socks. That is one noise you won't hear. Soon you'll hear one you won't forget.
We put you to your knees. The grass isn't as soft as you thought, is it? No matter. Your wife and child are gathered at the door. Last words? No. Of course not. Just pleas for someone -- anyone -- to call the police. Nobody moves. Even if they did, do you think they would make it in time? Hell no. Those taxes you voted against have stretched their numbers thin, and the two who cover this area are looking at a woman's broken nose at the moment. She won't tell them where her husband is. Yes, she called them to protect her from him, but all of sudden she remembers love.
So scream away. Normally you whine and complain about things like "the weather," your "portfolio," and that "bitch who moved in three houses away who acts like a tease." Her only crime? She dared to smile at you while wearing something that exposed cleavage. Mr. Smith, don't you know cleavage isn't an invite to leer? Of course not.
We drop you to your knees. They don't let go of your arms. They are outstretched. If we were ancients, you could say we were making an "offering." We are ... in a way. We are offering your neighbors and family peace. In just a few minutes they will never have to deal with the likes of you again.
Listen to you. Who would've thought your final words would be so pathetic? "Don't hurt me." "I have money." "Please." "I have a family." We know. We are doing this for them.
I wield the knife like a surgeon. I've been to this rodeo a few times in the past. My cut is swift and clean. It bites deep into the throat. One hand wrapped in your hair pulling you head back. The other makes it look like I'm playing an upright bass.
We let you bleed out on your yard. When the police arrive, they are going to ask everyone what they saw. Everyone will give a different answer ... except when it comes to the noise. All of them will agree: When that knife went across your throat, you could hear a pin drop. It was screams. Silence. And then the sound of your body thumping onto the yard right where we dropped you. Wham. Bam. Thank you, Ma'am. You are far more impressive than pink flamingos or those black jockeys. Soon the flies will find you just as fascinating. So much so in fact, that your flesh will play host to the little white worms you call maggots ... just like you called the Mexicans who had 16 items in the 15 items express lane at Safeway. "Fucking maggots can't count," you said. Remember that? No bother. We do.
We don't look back as we walk down the street. We learned our lesson long ago. Leave someone bleeding out a gaping neck wound on their lawn, and the first people who want to kiss you and thank you are his or her immediate family. Hallmark should have a card for this. "Thank you for killing that brute." Believe me, folks. It wasn't easy, but it was fun. We make the world a little brighter. One corpse at a time. And we do all the dirty work for you so you don't have to worry about little things like prison and Hell. We've done our time in both. Neither of them scare us all that much. In fact, we are far more scared being out here, unchained, with you. Yes, you are sheep, but you are also herd animals, and herd animals stampede and trample.
Christmas came early this year for the Smiths.