MicroHorror

“So, are you ready for Christmas?” the teenage salesgirl said in a merry voice as she rang up my purchases.

What an annoying question. I hate when people ask me that. She really was a clueless little thing with her only-in-Texas teased blond hair and bubblegum lipstick. Grab it, ring it up and shove it in the bag. She hadn’t looked at a single thing I’d bought.

“Three hundred dollars and eighty-seven cents,” she chirped. “Somebody is going to have a nice Christmas this year.”

“Will they?” I said as I laid four crisp hundred-dollar bills in her childishly tiny hands. “Do you mind if I show you what I bought?”

She cocked her head to the side like a poodle and stared at me like she’d just woken up from a trance.

“Um… yeah… I guess… sure, mister.”

I carefully laid each item out on the counter. Four boxes of shotgun ammunition… two bowie knives… one hundred yards of double-woven rope… four padlocks… two boxes of razor blades… five thick wool scarves that make perfect gags… a gas can… box of matches… stacks and stacks of towels… two new mops for cleaning up the blood… and a large assortment of light pocket knives that could easily be thrown from a distance.

Disgust melted her Barbie-doll smile as she stared down at my purchases with dawning horror in her wide blue eyes. “Oooh.”

“Yes,” I said and chuckled. “I do believe I am ready for Christmas.”