MicroHorror

I could feel blisters forming on my palms as I shoveled the last of the dirt onto the pile. I had a newfound respect for those who did this kind of work before the days of front-end loaders and backhoes. I wasn’t too worried about the blisters. They’d go away. I was just glad to have the problem with my daughter’s good-for-nothing boyfriend taken care of and the burying done.

I tried to warn her about that boyfriend of hers. I told her he was no good, but she wouldn’t listen. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. Teenage girls don’t listen to their fathers anymore. I guess they’re too busy sending text messages and taking naked pouty-faced pictures of themselves in the bathroom mirror.

I could tell by the looks that punk gave me when he thought I wasn’t looking that he had no respect for his elders. And I could tell by the way he leered at my daughter and grabbed at her ass when he thought I couldn’t see them that all he was interested in was getting into her pants. I tried to warn her about that, too, but she didn’t want to hear it. I told her I wasn’t raising no whore, and she started bawling and stomped off to her bedroom.

I woke up in the middle of the night and heard squeak, squeak, squeak coming from my daughter’s bedroom. I grabbed my gun, walked down the hall to her room and opened the door. Her window was open, and that no-good punk was in the sack with her. Next thing I knew I was looking through blue smoke. My ears were ringing, and the smell of gunpowder was stinging my nose. My daughter’s bed was a bloody mess.

I can tell you it took some effort to drag that boy’s body out to the back yard. He was a big kid. My daughter was a lot smaller, so she was easier to lug. Digging a hole big enough for the two of them–now that was a job.

I told her I wasn’t raising no whore. She should’ve listened to her father.