Randy moaned, fighting with the rusty latch on his mailbox. Pulling out the contents, he wiped his free hand across his nose as he shuffled through the trailer park to his two-bed, one-bath. Pulling a beer from the fridge, he flopped in his Lazy Boy and took a long chug.
"Bill. Bill. Bill." Randy said as he flipped through his mail, tossing the unwanted materials to the side. "What the hell is this?"
Randy let out a sigh before taking another chuck of his liquid brew. Reaching his meaty hand down his dirty jeans, he repositioned his family jewels before settling back into his recliner. Examining the off-white envelope in his hand, he squinted at the neat handwriting that spelled out his name. Flipping it over in his hand, he picked at the tiny open area till he could fit his finger in, tearing the envelope open.
Pulling out a single piece of folded yellow paper, he opened it to reveal four words:
"You'll get yours, Randy!"
Jumping up from his chair, the middle-aged man dropped the note as he flew across the living room, latching the locks on the door and pulling the blankets across the windows.
The last time Randy heard those words was when he was walking out of prison three years ago. Having testified against a former cellmate, he got out on a reduced sentence. Big Jim yelled those words as he walked out to freedom.
The next day, Randy was alert. He looked around every corner and carefully at every face that crossed his path. Half-alert to the day's events, Randy went about his work at the two-shop garage where he maintained employment. Dropping tools due to his sweaty hands, Randy grumbled at the rolled eyes of his fellow employees.
The hair on Randy's neck stood up as he drove home in afternoon traffic. Scanning the people on the street and the cars beside him, he sank behind the wheel. Taking extra turns to ensure he was not being followed, the ex-con pulled in his short drive and hurried into his brown and white trailer.
Once inside, he performed an inspection to find himself alone. Looking at empty shelves in his refrigerator, he sighed. Opening this secret shelf behind the wall, he pulled out a bottle of red wine. Popping the cork, he poured a tall, dented glass full. Grabbing the glass, he took it and the bottle to his recliner and sat down, throwing it back as fast as he could pour the fermented grapes.
Every noise caused a shutter in his bones. He tried not to think of his time behind bars. Leaning forward to stabilize himself, Randy's eyes caught sight of the yellow note he'd received the day before. The paper slid under his chair when he jumped up to lock the doors.
Picking it up, he crumbled the corner in his hand, staring at the words. Big Jim wasn't due to get out for nine more years. He thought he had someone on the outside leave the note to mess with him.
The wine having not done the trick, Randy shuffled to the bathroom. Opening up the toilet tank, he pulled out a half bottle of Jack Daniels. Twisting off the top, he turned, plopped down on his throne, and chugged until he slipped blacked out onto the floor.
When Randy came to, he jerked as a freezing cold shiver swept through his body.
Rubbing his palm in a circle on his forehead, he groaned. Throwing his hand across his eyes, he moaned at the brightness of the light. Feeling a wet slime against his skin, Randy pulled his hand back, opening his eyes. The world was fuzzy and just out of view. Blinking hard, he shook his head as the world came into focus.
"What the hell?" Randy shouted.
Looking down at his body, he found himself covered in blood. Scrambling to his feet, the heavyset man slipped on the bright red liquid spilled across the bathroom floor, hitting his head. Gripping the doorway, he steadied himself and then used the inside of his shirt to wipe the blood from his eyes.
Stepping out into the hall, he gasped. Littered through the hall were human body parts. Arms and legs all severed and torn from a human body. Stepping carefully around the limbs, he peered into the bedroom.
"Holy hell," Randy snapped.
Torsos and heads were thrown about the room. Blood smeared across the walls. Randy stood unwilling to accept the scene in front of him. Pulled out of his trance by the sound of sirens, he looked around the house and thought about his parole.
Slipping across the hall to the back door, Randy gripped the doorknob. Shaking the knob, Randy was confused about why it wouldn't open. Throwing his broad shoulders into the door, Randy came back dazed when thrown rearwards into the scraps of dismembered limbs. Scrambling down the hall and through the kitchen, Randy plowed into the front door.
Growling, Randy took a deep breath to control himself as the siren's wail got closer. Yanking back the tattered and torn blankets from his windows, he punched the glass. Amazed at the lack of damage, the frantic man jerked the cord of his table lamp from the wall. Rearing back and getting ready to throw, the world around him shook with the force of an earthquake.
Slipping from his hand, the lamp shattered on the floor. Randy's eyes widened as he stared at his living room window. Up against the glass from the other side was the note he received in the mail. One single sheet of paper with four words written on it.
"You'll get yours, Randy!"
Ripping back the material from the remaining windows, Randy was terrified to find a matching note behind each unbreakable window. Hysterical, he pounded on the walls and glass, taking anything he could use, trying to break out of this hell he found himself in.
Dropping to his knees, the hardened criminal shuttered at the torn pieces of flesh that hung from his ceiling fan. Gasping, his body dropped to the floor.
Randy moaned, fighting with the rusty latch on his mailbox. Pulling out the contents, he wiped his free hand across his nose as he shuffled through the trailer park to his two-bed, one-bath. Pulling a beer from the fridge, he flopped in his Lazy Boy and took a long chug.
Yorumlar