Assignment #142 (Christmas Will Be Late)

    It was Christmas Eve in the city, and I stood at the window watching an ambient snow tumble lazily from the sky as though the flakes were feathers.  A part of me knew this evening had all the makings for a perfect Christmas; it was the kind we all read about and begged for as children, but never really saw.  Tonight was a special night.  It was rare, and as I watched the snow, and the world filled with a joyous anticipation of a "perfect" Christmas morning, I knew three who were going to die tonight. 

    I was pulled from my admiration of the winter scene beyond my window by the ringing of my cell phone. 
    "Hello," I said as I walked into the kitchen to fill a glass with scotch. 
    "Hey, man," the caller said.  "I got your money.  So far, I've only been able to find Mr. S.  But, if he's there, the other two aren't far behind."
    "Where?" I asked and took a sip of my drink. 
    "Not far from you," my source said.  "He's at Klaus'."
    "Thanks," I said.  I closed my phone, slipped it into my pocket, emptied my glass, grabbed my gun and was out the door before the harsh booze could bring a grimace to my face. 

    Klaus' Haus of Hookers and Hooch was not exactly the kind of place where a person would want to celebrate Christmas Eve if they didn't have to.  The only folks who hung out there on this night were liquored-up, pissed-off, department store Santas and the criminal element looking for a quiet place to spend their loot while getting loaded and comparing bullet wounds.
    "Merry Christmas."  The lump behind the bar spoke from a mouth full of tooth as he clutched a smoldering cigar with his gums.  "What can I get you?"
    "Scotch," I said.  "Double."
   
    As the lump shuffled to fill my drink, I scanned the bar and saw the bespectacled Mr. S sitting at a table in the corner washing down a bowl of peanuts with a glass of what looked like whiskey --A healthy dinner if you're a rodent. 

    I tossed a five on the bar, grabbed my drink, took a sip and sidled up to Mr. S' table. 
    "That's a nice blue sweater," I said. 
    "Are yougay or something?" He shot back in a squeaky voice as he looked up at me.
    "I'm not the one wearing the blue turtle-neck," I said. 
    "Look buddy," he said.  "Do I know you?"
    "No," I said and took a drink.  "But I know you."
    "So," he sat back, pushed up his glasses and shrugged.  "Lots of people know me."
    "That's right," I said as I put my hand in my pocket and felt the barrel of my gun.  For a moment, I thought about pulling it out and covering the wall with the brains of this rodent.  "You guys sang that one Christmas song."
    "Yeah," he said as he finished his drink.  "Buy me a drink and I'll autograph something for you.  And get me some more damn peanuts."
   
    I caught the attention of the lump behind the bar and held up two fingers before I sat down across from the beady-eyed Mr. S.  "I don't want your autograph."
    "Fine," he said quickly.  "What the hell do you want? 
    "Where are the other two?" I asked. 
    "They're supposed to be meeting me here," he said.  "We're supposed to put in an appearance at the Wal-Mart over on 8th." 
    "That's..."
    "Can you freaking believe it?" he interrupted.  "We were top of the charts.  We did Caesars, and now we're playing a god damned Wal-Mart in the middle of freakin' nowhere on Christmas freakin' Eve.  Talk about crap representation, huh?"
    "Yeah, but..." I started.
    "'Yeah, but' nothing."  He chirped quickly.  "We were planning a comeback.  Things were going good until some no-talent hack from American Idol took our place with Ricky Martin crap.  And, when he was gone, we've got that whining poser, James Blunt, to deal with."
    
    I sat there half-listening to him.  A part of me wanted to put my gun on the table and do what I could to convince him to just end it once and for all.  But, I wanted to get all three at once, and I wanted it to be painful.  After the millions who have suffered at the hands of these little vermin, I'd be doing the world a big favor.  Besides, I was actually getting paid for this hit.  I was getting paid a lot, and what with it being Christmas and all, I figured the least I could do is give my employer his money's worth. 
   
    "Are you listening to me?" Mr. S. barked.  "I'm telling you, he's got a big problem.  He might as well be shooting straight D-Con into his veins."
    "Who?" I asked. 
    "Al," he said.  "He's a freakin' strung-out junkie, and we're nothing without him."
    All three of you will pretty much be nothing in a couple of hours anyway, rodent.  I thought as he ordered us a couple more drinks.  "So," I began, "what time are they supposed to be here?" 
     Mr. S looked at his watch and glanced back up at me, "ten minutes ago, but they probably made a stop or two.  Bastards."
     
    Our conversation was interrupted by a commotion at the front of the bar, and an ear-straining, castrati voice.  "Hey Klaus!   Where the ho's?" 
    Laughter peppered the bar and tables as the somewhat chubby Mr. A approached Mr. S and myself.  "What up, S?"  He said.
    "You're late," Mr. S said.  "And where's Ted?"
    "He's in the van," Al said and nodded in my direction.  "Who's the mook?"
    "That's a pretty red sweater," I replied.  "I'm a fan, of sorts." 
    "He's cool," Mr. S said quickly and looked at me.  "Can you do me a favor?"
    "It depends," I said. 
    "Could you drive us over to the Wal-Mart?"  He asked.  "I've had a lot of Jack, and Ted lost his license, and Al here can't drive worth a damn."
    "Blow me, Simon," Al said. 
    "Not a problem," I replied.  "I need to pick up some things anyway." 
   
    The temperature outside felt as though it had dropped a few degrees, the wind picked up, and the light snowfall earlier had now transformed into the makings of a considerable mess of a heavy, white blanket.  The three of us piled into the van with a shiver. 
    "Who's this?" Ted said from the back as Al slid in beside him. 
    "He's a fan," Alsaid. 
    "We have fans?"  Ted sounded surprised.
    I laughed a little at that as I adjusted the seat and put the van in drive.  The tires spun a bit in the snow, gained traction, and I pulled out and made my way to our destination.  "Oy!  I sighed.  "It's kind of slick out here." 
    "This sucks," Simon said.  "Who do they think is going to be there?"
    "Losers," Al said as I heard him shuffle in the seat behind me.  "Just keep is slow and steady, man." 
    "I'm doing my best," I said.  "The roads are pretty bad, though."
    "I've seen worse," Al said defiantly.  "Hey!  Tie me off Theodore."
    "No way," Ted said.  "You don't need that."
    "The hell I don't," Al said as he loaded up his needle.  "It's freakin' Christmas Eve at a damn Wal-Mart, man.  Now just do it."
    "Shut up and help him out, Theodore," Simon said as he stared out the window.  "Just go easy on that crap, Alvin." 
    "Hey, douche!  Call me Al," Alvin said.

    For a moment, I felt a little sorry for Simon.  He seemed like a smart guy who'd gotten a pretty unfair shake in life.  It couldn't have been easy being around these two.  And, as I dropped them off at the front door of the Wal-Mart and parked the car, I couldn't help but think that not only was I doing the world a favor, but I'd probably be doing Simon one as well. 
   
    "Merry Christmas," the greeter said tiredly. 
    "Ditto," I replied as I shot past him and grabbed a large jug of peanuts and made my way quickly to Housewares.
    "Can I help you?"  A voice said as I scanned the shelves. 
    Man.  They must be really slow tonight, I thought, and turned around to see a chipper, young lady smiling a gleaming, saccharine smile at me. 
    "Are you looking for something in particular?"  She asked.
    "Yes.  I need some rat poison."  I said and scratched my head for no particular reason.  
    "Oh," she smiled.  "That's over between Sporting Goods and Lawn & Garden."
    "Thanks a bunch," I said happily and started to step away.
    "Careful with that stuff," she said with a small laugh.  "The Chipmunks are here, and we wouldn't want any accidents." 
    I returned her laugh.  "It... err..  There won't be any accidents." 
    "I hope they don't do that song," I heard her say as I made my way quickly to the hazardous chemicals, and I began to feel as though my work tonight was now a noble pursuit. 

    "Can I help you?"  I heard a man's voice say from Sporting Goods. 
    "Jesus," I said as I turned to face him.  "Are you sure this is a freakin' Wal-Mart?" 
    "I know," he laughed.  "It's really slow, and I'm bored enough to start cleaning the shotguns."
     "I'm looking for rat poison," I said.  "D-Con would be nice if you have it." 
    "I'll show you," he said as he walked past me.  "We have it right over here."
    "Thanks."  I said and followed close.
   
    It was a short walk with idle banter about the weather and the increase in rat infestations during this time of year.  I'd like to say I learned something, but really, I was in too much of a hurry to make it to before the Chipmunks took the stage near the Electronics section.  And when my guide pulled from the shelf a small black and yellow box with a picture of a rat with X's for eyes, I took it from him with a quick thanks, and walked quickly away. 
   
    Along the way, I dove into the most sensible place I could think of where the security cameras wouldn't be needed in a Wal-Mart, and I crouched down among the books of the Science Fiction aisle, opened my jug of peanuts, and began to fumble with the box of poison. 
   
    After tearing open the small bag and liberally seasoning the peanuts, I closed the lid with a spin and stuffed the empty box of poison behind a small pile of sharp looking blue books with sheep on the cover written by an author I'd never heard of. 
    That should be safe there for a good long time, I thought as I grabbed a copy of the book so as to not raise any suspicion, and stood andlooked up and down the empty aisle before making my way to the Electronics section.

    "Hey man," Simon said as I popped in behind the small stage. 
    "Who's this," Someone named Lisa with a well-polished manager tag pinned to her shirt said.
    "Who do you think it is?" Alvin squeaked and slurred.  "This is our new god damned manager.  Now, go introduce us!"
    "Hey guys," I said happily trying to fit into the role.  I offered the jug of nuts to Theodore.  "I got you something to eat before you rock this house."
    "Awesome," Theodore said as he spun the top off and let it fall to the floor.  "Man.  Dave was never this good to us."
    I laughed a little and watched them jam pawful after pawful of peanuts into their mouths and told them that I'd be out front catching the show. 

    I found a decent place to stand by a display of Chipmunk Christmas DVDs, and I watched as Lisa took the stage and shouted an introduction to the crowd of about ten that had gathered.   And, after she had mentioned a 10% discount on all specially marked Christmas DVDs, The Chipmunks swaggered tiredly onto the stage, and stepped up the their tiny microphones. 

    Their first song was their most famous Christmas tune, and subsequently the reason why I was hired to put an end to their ever singing it again.  And, as they started to play the first few bars of "Christmas Don't Be Late," I began to see the results of my machinations.

    Being the youngest of the three, the first to show signs was Theodore.  Shortly into the song, he appeared to be cramping, and, soon after clutching his stomach, he fell to the ground in a buckled over mass of twitching, vomit-covered rodent. 

    After seeing his brother on the floor, Simon stopped singing and brushed the glasses from his face.  A lens shattered as they hit the floor, and he stumbled to help his fallen sibling.  However, he made it only a few steps before crapping himself and falling down to die with a gurgling, belching gasp.

    However, Alvin, as a result of the heroin in his system, the rat poison must have turned into a low-grade form of crack, and his voice transformed from his trademark high-pitched squeal into a shrill, throaty rumble as a blood-flecked foam started to run down his chin. 

    "Oh my god!" someone in the small audience screamed.  "Alvin's gone feral!"
    "He's rabid!" Came another voice. 

    Alvin tried his best, from what I saw.  However, in his failing state, he began twitching, his eyes narrowed, and where there should have been a line begging for a hula-hoop, there was a barely-coherent, Jim Morrison style stream of profanities. 
   
    Alvin threw the microphone on the ground, and turned on the remaining crowd and looked directly toward me.  He mouthed a handful of silent words and leapt  from the stage toward me.  I could see the bloodied fangs of this rodent as he sailed through the air. 

    Instinctively, I jabbed my hand in my pocket and made a grab for my gun.  However, my efforts were cut short by a deafening blast coming from over my shoulder, and as I fell to the ground with my hands clutching my ears, I saw the flying Alvin explode into a cloud of bloody fur as the blast hit him dead on the letter "A" on the chest of his sweater.  All that remained was a small, red baseball cap which landed near me. 

    I stood up still covering my now ringing ears and turned to see the man from Sporting Goods standing with a shotgun as the barrel sent out thin, blue-white wisps of spent powder. 

    "Well," he said happily, "I guess I will be cleaning the shotguns after all." 
    "Thanks," I said. 
    "Eh," he shrugged.  "I was pretty much just planning on shooting them anyway.  Nice to have an excuse though."
    "Yeah," I said.  "I hate that freakin' song too." 

    With my ears still slightly ringing, I paid for my book and felt my phone vibrate in my pocket as I walked out into the snow.  I looked at the number and answered the call.  "Hello, Mr. Seville."
    "Is it done?"  The caller asked. 
    "I'd say so," I replied.  "You won't hear from them again."
    "And Alvin?"He asked.  "Did he suffer?" 
    "Very much, Mr. Seville," I said.  "Let's just say that anyone who takes home a Christmas DVD this year will be taking a little bit of Alvin home with them." 
    "Outstanding," Mr. Seville said.  "I'll wire you your money now." 
    "Thanks," I said.  "Merry Christmas, Dave.  I hope you enjoy it."
    "You have no idea,"  He said.   

Tags: Weekend Assignment, John Scalzi, AOL Journals, CarnivAOL, DPoem