A Very Vulgar Christmas (Part One of Fifty)
Mar 5, 2016 17:01:45 GMT -5
Corey Black and Lilith like this
Post by Vulgar on Mar 5, 2016 17:01:45 GMT -5
Ring!
Ring!
Ring!
"Donate to the Salbation Army! Help kill poverty today!"
Ring!
Ring!
Ring!
"Every dollar you spend is another bullet in the gun of one of our expurgation soldiers! With your help, we can clean up the streets in no-time!"
It takes an act of God for passersby not to look at this disgusting, snarled tangle of human hair and red cloth raving right at them on the sidewalk in front of the Wood Lane Pharmacy of Old Bridge, New Jersey. For over three months since the day after Thanksgiving last November, this putrid mass of congealed Vodka Jello and bile has been coming out here to besiege random pedestrians with incoherent tirades about America's dire homeless infestation and desperate need for social cleansing... All the while wearing a Santa outfit and waving around a Salvation Army donation bucket. At first the proprietors of Wood Lane thought he was just a legitimate employee of the organization who was getting drunk on the job, but upon calling up to report him they realized he had no ties to the Salvation Army at all. Like clockwork, they call the police every time he shows up in front of the store, but he always disappears before the cops are able to catch him. Stake outs, surveillance drones, trip wire... Nothing has worked. It's as if he knows whenever he's about to be caught by some unworldly, preternatural sense.
"Please help our cause, people! We need to burn these filthy, needy lice off the face of America!"
With a heavy, queasy feeling in his gut, Vasuki Nayak leers out of his borderline empty pharmacy at the rambling madman out on the street. The Indian businessman has to hold back a retch as he catches glimpse of the black, vomit-hardened "beard" dangling off of the cretin's face like a prolapsed rectum drooping out of the bottom of a weightlifter's singlet. Customers have never been too keen to show up here ever since this deranged, Krampus-esque hobophobe started giving his sermons on the sidewalk. It's been pretty brutal trying to get by, by there's no room in Nayak's heart for worry while he's being plagued by so many other tormenting thoughts and questions. Chief among them is that if... When this raving retard crosses the line, will he have the gall to stand up and do what's necessary? "That is the ultimate quandary," Nayak thinks as he fingers the recently bought Raven MP-25 wrapped in cloth underneath his desk.
“Fucking March,” a gravelly voice abruptly barks behind him. “It’s fucking March and he’s still out there.”
His train of thought derailed, Nayak turns around to see his burly prescription deliveryman, Holmes, standing with his arms crossed in the doorway to the storage room.
“If I asked you once, I’ve asked you a thousand times, Vasuki,” the bronzed muscleman steams through gritted teeth. “When are we going to run out there and jump that dildo?”
“Holmes…,” Nayak says while limply massaging his temples. “Do you really want to get syphilis-juice all over your body? The police told us not to take this matter into our own hands, we could get in serious trouble if somebody got hurt.”
“Purge the gutters! Rid America of the malnourished and downtrodden scum!”
Holmes rolls his eyes.
“Those inept pigs aren’t doing shit to stop this guy. It’s only going to be a matter of time before he starts molesting people. We might as well just nip this shit in the bud right now and kick his ass. If those retard cops can’t catch him after over three fucking months, there’s no fucking way they could pin it on us if we dragged him behind the dumpster and curb stomped his testicles.”
Nayak lets out a sigh like a child’s water floatie ramming into an exposed ladder-nail in the deep end of a pool. He looks up at Holmes with a look of sheer exhaustion that conveys his answer better than any words could.
“… For fuck sake,” says the fiery deliveryman while throwing his hands up in utter exasperation. “This is your livelihood at stake. Don’t you have any balls?”
Nayak sharply looks up at his employee with a look of arrant indignation in his eyes.
“Holmes, I am your boss. You’ll do well to-“
Nayak attempts to respond to Holmes but is abruptly halted dead in his tracks by what he sees out the window. Freezing where he stands, a look of raw, unalloyed terror explodes on hiss face like a shotgun blast full of makeup. Holmes takes a step back, confused by the sudden cutoff in the conversation. When he turns around to look out into the street himself, however, he quickly understands Nayak’s expression.
“… Oh, fuck.”
A girl. Twelve years old, give or take, with the most innocent countenance ever witnessed on a human being. Her silver-blond hair delicately bound in a purple ribbon, she jauntily skips across the potholed street as if nothing bad has ever happened to anyone in the history of mankind. A crisp, green twenty-dollar bill juts out of her fist, plainly visible in front of the backdrop of her light-pink dress; there’s not a hint of concern, not even a hint of revulsion, as she bounces up to the demented Santa rambling on the sidewalk.
“Here you go, mister. I was going to buy some Swedish Fish in Wood Lane, but the poor people probably need this more.”
The rapist-eyed cretin stops his speech in awe as the frail, young girl gingerly places the Andrew Jackson inside his vomit-stained bucket. He pauses a moment, speechless like a man who’s just received the greatest surprise of his life. Finally kneeling down, he firmly placing both of his crusty, grime-caked hands on her shoulders; despite the gobbed, corpse-scented beard obscuring most of his jagged mug, a look of profound appreciation is easily discernible on his face. With beaming teeth, the girl smiles in anticipation of gratitude.
But no thank you ever comes. The wild-eyed psychopath just looks her dead in the eyes and wheezes forcefully like a man with a malfunctioning CPAP machine strapped to his face. Nayak and Holmes nearly shit themselves in the pharmacy, both of them wondering if it’s finally going down. The pale girl’s smile slowly deflates as the deranged Santa keeps his tenacious grip on her, not budging an inch or taking his eyes off of her for even a second.
“Mister, are you gonna-“
The madman cuts her off with a high-pitched shriek.
“The Clown slithers behind the glass
Watching his prey unseen
Come nightfall he will strike
AND EVISCERATE HIS VICTIM’S SPLEEN!”
“Oh,” the girl peeps, her eyes going wide like a deer in the headlights. “Oh SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITTTTTTTTT!!!”
With nearly inhuman physical prowess, the putrid psychopath snatches up the miniscule pre-adolescent and bolts down the street like an ostrich with a bleach bomb going off in its ass. Holmes doesn’t even hesitate for a second; hurling his body clean through the front door like a gotard comet, he rockets down the road as swiftly as his fast-twitch African genetics will carry him. With Santa already a block ahead of him, he ignores any sensation of fatigue or lactic acid buildup. Holmes knows he needs to nab that jagged-faced creep at all costs, lest the innocent child in his arms be introduced to a fate worse than death (Presumably many, many times over).
Visuki Nayak, meanwhile, fumbles with his phone in utter shock back in the pharmacy. It all happened too fast, too fucking fast. Mashing every number in the general vicinity of nine, one, and one, he frantically attempts to convey his situation to the police only to be
met with “The number you have dialed does not exist. Please hang up and try again.”
“Son of a kike!”
Nayak throws the forest-green AT&T 700 corded phone straight down onto the edge of desk, shattering the outdated device in a verdant hail of plastic. Slumping back into his stool, he exasperatedly begins to pull out his already thinning hair, unsure of what to do.
“I really… I really don’t have the balls.”
Nayak trembles, just about ready to burst out in a fit of tears, when all of a sudden… He catches glimpse of the package wrapped up in cloth inside his desk.
The Indian businessman pauses, as if in a trance.
