Friday, December 30, 2016

The Gal's 62 Days of Horror Christmas Takeover 29: Glenn Rolfe

Veronica's Christmas aka Welcome to Paradise
By: Glenn Rolfe

Another lovely Christmas and not a drop of blood to be spilt.  For Veronica Newton, the doldrums finally arrived to her shady side of town.  The Lucky Lounge in Fenton, New Jersey welcomed each and every deplorable lowlife, every misfit, every anarchist, and every unencumbered criminal passing through or looking for a good place to cut loose, cut coke, kill yourself, get fucked, or strangle someone you shouldn't have fucked.

            She stood before the bathroom mirror applying red lipstick.  Jet-black hair touched down on bare shoulders poking out through her tattered Clash t-shirt, so worn and loved you could easily make out the round maps of her areoles beneath the threadbare fabric.  The winter cold in stiff competition with the ratty baseboards of the Lucky Lounge Motel kept her nipples at constant attention.  Victoria applied a fresh layer of black eyeliner and moved to the bed.  The floppy mattress squeaked beneath her ass as she strapped combat boots over her black leggings.  Not the most weather appropriate attire, but practicality had never been her strong suit.  Besides, she spent too little time in the sleet and snow for it to matter.

            You could triangulate her winter vacation life from the motel to Micky's Diner next door, to the EZ Mart on the corner of Hill and King, and back to the Lucky Lounge.  Exposure to the wintery conditions was at a bare minimum.  After spending eleven months as an inked-up punk rock model in Corona, California, Veronica longed for her Fenton, New Jersey Decembers.  Four weeks to kill, fuck, and chill.  Welcome to paradise, motherfuckers.

            And tonight, Christmas Eve, was always her last hurrah.

            She loved damage.  She loved scars.  She loved anything beautiful and broken.  The Lucky Lounge Motel served as the feeding ground for her biggest passion... murder.

            She nodded, glancing around the dim-lit room, from the 80s model mini-fridge that sounded like a generator, to the ultra-bulky, pre-smart TV flat screen featuring 20 crappy cable channels and HBO, resting atop a K-Mart Special bureau filled with what clothes she brought.  A nice and shitty waiting was at a slight tilt on the wall featuring a boat on an ocean that looked like something a beginner practicing along to a Bob Ross video might have crafted.  Or crapped out.  The lumpy twin size bed became comfortable after a few Jack and Cokes, and the cigarette burned pea green comforter matched the putrid, thin carpet beneath her feet.  A far cry from the beachside bungalow she shared with Jenny Pollack back in sunny California.  But she liked it this way.  It would feel wrong to do the things she did here in a better room.

            Tonight's goal was simple: Find a good-looking fella, or good-enough-looking fella, over at Mickey's, get him alone, bring him home, and kill the shit out of him after a good, drunk fuck.  She checked her lips and tits in the bathroom mirror before snagging her leopard print peacoat.  She slipped into the jacket, tickled her chin with the coats frilly cuffs, and gave her best Billy Idol snarl to the hot dish in the mirror.  Good to go, she headed into the night.

            Light snow glided down under the street lamps as she made her way across the deserted street.  King was slow as hell most times, but good as dead after midnight.  She stepped inside Mickey's and shook the flurries from her hair.

            "Evenin', kitten," Mickey said.

            "Hey, Mickey.  What's the good word?"

            "Just another day of breathin' and cookin'," he said.  He wiped his thick, black-rimmed glasses on his spotless apron.  "Coffee and a burger?"

            "Aw, you know me so well."  Veronica unbuttoned her coat and took up a stool at the empty counter.

            "I never forget what the pretty girls like."

            "Charming and attentive, Mickey.  If you were twenty years younger..."

            "Ain't you just the sweetest thing?" he said.  He placed a plain white cup before her and poured a steaming cup of the best joe in Fenton.

            She picked up the sugar container and dumped an unhealthy amount into the dark depths.  She cupped the hot mug and inhaled the inviting aroma.  Mickey disappeared behind the counter before reappearing in the peek-a-boo window in the kitchen.  He started singing an old Elvis song she couldn't recall the name of, swaying as the sizzle of the patty slapped against the grill.

            She didn't turn when the door to the diner opened.  A young guy in a leather jacket took up a stool, leaving one between them.

            "I don't bite," she said.

            He pulled his earbuds out, letting them fall to his chest, and tucked a loose strand of long brown hair behind his ear.  He had soft features, bright hazel eyes, and nice lips.  He looked like a long-haired, 30 Seconds to Mars, pre-Joker Jared Leto.  Despite her proclamation, she wanted to gnaw on him.

            "I might," he said.

            She reached a hand out and patted the red cushion of the stool next to her.

            He smiled, nodded, the hair behind his ear coming free, and saddled up next to her.

            "I'm Veronica."


            "So, Pete.  What's your gig?"

            "I suck at sleeping."

            "Welcome to the club," she said.

            "Hey there, young fella," Mickey said from over the grill.  "I'll be right with ya."

            "Sure thing.  Whatcha cooking up back there?"

            "Burger for the beauty next to ya."

            "A burger, huh?  Can you throw one on for me?" Pete said.

            "Sure can."

            Veronica sipped her coffee, studying young Pete.  The guy could have been in a nineties band.  He had the hair for it.

            "So, you hate Christmas?" he said.

            "No, just Jesus."

            "Never believed in him."

            "I did."

            She let him chew on that while she finished her coffee.  God's clout vanished when she lost Amy.  Staring into the bottom of the empty mug, she felt the tears well up.  Amy was only eight when the cancer devoured her.  Veronica picked up her napkin, turned away and dabbed the corners of her eyes, careful not to fuck up her mascara.

            Micky came out whistling with two steaming burgers in hand.  He placed the plates of juicy meat before them.

            "Thanks, Micky.  You're the best Santa in town."  She stood, leaned over the counter, and gave the cook a peck on the cheek.

            She gazed at Pete from the corner of her eye and noticed him checking out her ass.

            "Anything for you, darling," Micky said.  "Now eat up.  Gotta keep some meat on them pretty bones of yours."

            She plopped down on the stool, picked up the burger giving it a squeeze, and watched the ketchup and mustard drip out the back.

            "You like condiments, huh?" Pete said.

            "I like a lot of things."  She gave him a wink and took a mouthful of the hot burger.  After swallowing, she said, "You gonna eat?  Or just stare at me all night?"

            He picked up his burger.  "What are you doing, you know, after this?"

            Ah, and the fly is caught.  She smiled at him and took another bite.

            Micky returned to the front holding an old Polaroid camera.  "Can I get you two to squeeze in together?  I like to get a Christmas picture every year.  Always an interesting crew to look back on."

            Pete cleared his throat, wiped his hands, and said, "Sure."

            Veronica did the same.  She got up and went behind Pete, wrapping her arms around him, making sure to press her breasts against him, and placed her chin on his shoulder.

            "Your hair smells nice," she whispered.

            "So, after this..." he said.

            "Shhh.  Smile for Micky."

            "Okay, kids.  That looks great."  Micky snapped the picture.  The flash was followed by the mechanical sound of the picture sliding out.  He snatched it and began waving it back and forth.

            Veronica kissed Pete's cheek, letting her lips linger just a few seconds.  He tasted salty.

            "Finish your dinner, then we can go back to my place."


            She was going to have fun with this one.  She'd fuck him until he was delirious, then slice up the salty flesh one delicate cut at a time.  She licked her lips, feeling a rush of endorphins.  Watching him take his time with his burger made her hornier.  Most of her victims became bundles of anxious, blubbering messes once she extended the invitation.  Pete seemed cool as concrete.  James Dean on ice.  Watching him unravel would add another exciting dimension to the night's activities.  She went to work on her food.

            "Anything else for either of ya?  Piece of pie?  More coffee?"

            Veronica slid off her stool.  "Micky, I think we're gonna go celebrate a little."

            "Oh, okay.  How was the burger?"

            "Great as always," she said, pulling her coat on and fastening the two front buttons.  She reached for some cash, but Micky waved her off.

            "On me, for both of you.  Merry Christmas."

            "That's mighty kind of you, sir.  The burger was delicious.  Thanks."

            Veronica headed for the door.  Pete followed.

            "Goodnight, Micky."

            "Night, darling."

            She stepped out into the falling snow.  The storm had moved in.  Heavy snowflakes were coming down with the wind like rain.  This was gonna be what they referred to as a Nor'Easter.  She loved huge snowstorms.  They never saw anything like it back in Orange County.  Hell, they barely got any precipitation.  It was a major part of the East Coast charm.  Her friends always questioned her about coming out here with no family to be found.  They never bought that she just loved her Christmas with snow.  They knew she thought the Jesus holiday was bullshit.

            Pete pulled out a smoke.

            "Want one?"


            He placed the cigarette in her lips, his long hair shuffled in the frosty breeze, blocked the wind with his hand, and lit hers before lighting his own.  A well-rehearsed and perfectly executed move.  Allowing the idea that maybe this wasn't your typical loner-type roll through her mind, Veronica's libido stirred.  Experience could be fun.

            She took the lead, nodding for him to follow her across the deathly hollows of King Street.  The stormy holiday resulted in a beautiful and desolate night on Fenton's main road.  Plow trucks would be rumbling along within the hour, but she and her new pal, Pete, would be wrapped up in their own devastation by then.  She bit her bottom lip until she tasted the coppery promise of blood.

            Pete followed in silence, just the sounds of their boots crunching through the snow and ice as they finished their cigarettes, tossed them to the motel sidewalk, and hurried inside.

            Veronica was ready for her big, violent Christmas vacation finale.

            "Wow," Pete said, stepping into the small room.  "Looks like shit."

            Veronica dropped her bag and turned to face him.  Unbuttoning her coat, she let the cheetah print second skin slowly roll from her shoulders as she licked her lip.  Pete's brilliant hazel eyes took her in.  Her spell was cast.  She pounced.

            Their tongues met as she mashed her body to his, rocking him on his heels as they crashed against the door.  He kissed as good as she imagined he would.  Better even.  His hands cupped her ass and lifted her in the air.  She wasted no time in wrapping her thighs around him like a python prepping its next meal.

            "Take me," she gasped, coming up for air.  She'd been with many men and women - the anticipation, the tension, the buildup, had never matched this intensity.  It wasn't her alone; his energy was coalescing with hers, igniting a conflagration of desire they had no control over.

            He stepped forward, growling as his lips found her clavicle.  Just as she thought he was taking her to the bed, he spun and pinned her back to the wall.

            "Uh," she gasped.  His aggressiveness upped the game.  She unlatched from him long enough to get her leggings, doing a hyperactive tap dance to free them from her ankles as Pete slipped out of his leather jacket, undid his jeans, and unleashed a prominent erection that he took no time inserting where it needed to go.  Blood and torment rolled into the back of her head, there would be plenty of time for death and dismemberment.  Her priority had been hijacked by the overwhelming urge to fuck this man's brains out.

            "Yes, yes, yes," she moaned.  He surged, thrusting, hell-bent on breaking her from the inside.  Veronica was in a heaven she seldom gained access to.  This was what she was looking for, this was the fucking shit.  Her shit buried in his rock star hair, she sunk her teeth into his neck.  If he felt pain, he didn't show it.  He hammered her into the wall.  Her orgasm rushed upon her like a wave out of the Pacific, fast and out of nowhere.  Her squeal of ecstasy caught her off guard, as well.  This man knew how to fuck.  It made her duty almost sad, a near-travesty.

            After that first climax, gripping him around the neck, she slammed the backs of her heels behind his knees, dropping him.  She followed him down, the fall knocking the air from his lungs.  She was tempted to press her thumbs through his eyes, but quelled the impulse by sliding back onto his cock.  She wanted to get him good and spent before the real messy part began.

            After getting his bearings, his hands clenched  her shirt, and as she was too wrapped up in riding him, her jaw fell as he tore the flimsy cloth open, releasing her breasts.  She slapped him, leaving a red mark upon his beautiful features.

            His brow creased, anger climbing in his eyes.

            "What the fuck?" he said.

            She continued impaling herself upon him as she replied, "That was my favorite shirt, asshole."


            "Don't worry, I'll make sure you pay for it.  Now, squeeze my fucking tits and give me what I want."

            He smiled, reaching up and massaging her breasts in his soft hands.

            Veronica leaned back giving him full advantage of her bouncing tits.  He pinched her nipples between his fingers and clenched her breasts like a hawk snatching its prey.  A whine escaped her mouth as she bit down into her bottom lips.  Blood trickled down, sluicing off her chin, and dripped bloody tears onto his chest.

            "Goddam, you know how to make a guy feel special," he said.

            She felt another orgasm coming down.  She wanted his first.  Tightening her virginal muscles around him, she increased her speed and felt him doing the same.  His moans validated her hunch.

            Leaning back, she clawed for her coat.  She got loud, using the art of distraction as her hound found the switchblade in the coat pocket.  This was going to be for the record books.  A bloody Christmas to remember.

            His load exploded within her, her orgasm teetering on the precipice.

            Not yet, not yet, she told herself.

            She wanted to time it just right, just as the blade penetrated his flesh.  She gripped the cold handle in her palm, hit the switch, and swung her arm in an arc.  His fist rocked her jaw just as the knife punctured high on his chest inches below his collarbone, missing its intended tender mark.

            Stars accompanied her orgasm - a first - as she fell backwards, her shoulders and the back of her head hitting the thin, filthy, pea soup-green rug.

            "Gah," he screamed.  "What a wicked little bitch you are."

            Her head swam as she spat blood, and said, "Fuck you, you fucking hit me."

            He was on his feet, the switchblade lodged in his chest.  His next move would be anyone's guess.  The room finally stopped swooning.  Climbing to her feet, blood drooling down her chin, she let loose her Billy Idol snarl, a rocket queen hungry for sin.  Pete, busy trying to figure out the best way to get the knife out, didn't see her foot come up hard between his legs.  He dropped to the floor with a resounding oomph.

            Veronica skulked around him as he had one hand on his balls, and the other on the handle of the knife.  She dived down atop him, slamming down on the handle with one hand over the other.  Pete howled like a wolf from the pain.  She kissed his mouth and let her lips linger, enjoying herself.  This was her party after all.

            His mouth opened, his head darting forward too quick for her to react.  His teeth clamped down on and through her lips.  She flailed backward, his crimson grin watching her retreat.  Her trembling hands guarded her ruined mouth, blood flowing over her palms and fingers.  She felt the warmth run down her wrists.

            Off balance and matched up against another fuck as sick as she, Veronica scurried toward the bathroom.  She needed to regroup, reassess the situation and figure out how to put this sexy, miserable prick to rest.

            "Not so fast, pretty lady."

            Her head snapped back as he yanked her hair.


            "You got a thing for fucking guys and then stabbing the shit out of them?"

            He dragged her across the room and used their momentum to fling her into the old piece of junk TV and the crappy particle board bureau in the corner.  Her ribs took the brunt of the collision as she fell to her knees.

            Pete snatched up his jacket and pulled a cigarette from the pack in his pocket.

            "You can't shookedat in here," she said through her tattered mouth.

            "Not my room.  Not my problem."

            The cocksucker stuck the cigarette between his lips and lit it.  He exhaled, dropped the lighter, and in one fluid motion, grabbed the handle of the switchblade and wrenched it from his chest.

            "Ahhhh fuck!"

            Blood spurted from the wound like a hellish fountain, bringing a painful smile to her face.  He dropped the blade and threw his hand over the wound, stumbling sideways.

            She couldn't fuck around.  She needed to end this fucking bastard before he decided to kill her first.  She had a Glock under the mattress.  She normally likes to pick her victims apart using less traditional methods, but she had to get this guy immobilized first, then they could play.  She jumped up, feeling the ache in her side, goddam busted rib or two no doubt, and she'd make him pay all right. She managed to pull the gun from its hiding place, but the fuck was on her again.  She wasn't going to blindly shoot, not if she didn't want the police showing up.  She clutched the gun to her side as he collided into her, knocking them both into the bureau.  This time the TV took the fall, landing with a thud in the kitty-corner space behind the furniture.

            "You think you're gonna put a bullet in me, huh?"  He grabbed her wrists and twisted it until the gun fell.  "I was gonna fuck you one more time for good meas--"

            She head-butted him in the nose, bringing a fresh coat of blood to the party.

            "Fucking cunt..."

            She followed up with a knee to his balls and a right hook to his face.  She snatched the gun as he hit the floor, grabbed the pillow from the bed using it as a cheap silencer, though the devil knew it was gonna still be loud as fuck, and popped the asshole in the knee.

            He howled again.  She brought her leg up and dropped her hell onto his already busted nose.

            Naked below the waist, Veronica snagged a bottle of Jim Bean from the mini-fridge, took two big swallows, and slammed it down on the tiny table below the window.  The burn in her wounded lips made her knees weak.  She gritted her teeth and breathed through it.  "This was supposed to be a bit more routine," she said, "but... you have definitely made things interesting, I'll give you that."

            "If you're not gonna off me, you wanna give me some of that booze?  Or are you just gonna try and talk my ear off through that pretty little mess you call a mouth?"

            He was a fierce little fucker, she'd give him that.  Hell, she'd be full of shit if she didn't admit to almost liking him for it.  She grabbed the bottle and walked over to him.

            His shirt was soaked with blood.  His beautiful face looked even better dressed in ruin.

            "You want this?"  She held the half-empty bottle above his disaster of a knee.

            "Yeah, I do."

            She tilted the bottle and let the auburn remedy pour onto his leg.

            It was his turn to grit his teeth.  He laid back, slamming his hands on the ground, grunting, the cords in his neck taught, pushing against his crimson painted neck.

            "Oh,  you're gorgeous when you're hurting.  Here."  She handed him the booze.  He sat up and took it with shaky hands.  Guzzling it down like a man lost in the desert.

             She reached down, grabbing the pack of smokes poking out of his jacket pocket.  She was blindsided by the bottle as it crashed against her skull.

            She dropped down, sprawled out beside him, the world around her disconnected, drifting out ins pace, muffled and muted.

            "You're good, honey, but overconfidence can kill ya."  She heard his voice like it was broadcasting from some far off planet... her ears were ringing, she might have a goddam concussion.  Worse than any fucking hangover.  Her world returned to full color as she managed to roll over on her side.  He took another swig and set the bottle down next to her and nodded.

            She sat up and took it.

            "You're one tough cookie.  You do this sort of thing regularly?  Or is this some kind of one-off-lost-all-my-reason-to-give-a-shit-so-I'm-going-out-with-a-bang type of gig?"

            "It's more of an annual thing."

            She took a swallow, clenched her eyes against the pain, and handed it back to him.

            He pulled out two cigarettes from the crushed pack; they were kind of cock-eyed, but still intact.  He found his lighter on the floor and lit them together, handing one over.

            "You believe in anything?" he said.

            She thought of her sister, bald and fading away.

            "Death," she said.

            He nodded.  "Hard to argue with that one."


            "Might sound stupid."

            "Fuck you.  Spill."

            "True love."

            She was too tired to laugh.  And frankly, she felt it, too.  It wasn't often that the universe, that cruel hard bitch who loved to suck the souls out of the living, threw a set of broken people something fucked up and beautiful to share.

            "If I come over there and kiss that bloody mouth of yours, are you gonna whack me with that bottle again?" she said.

            "That depends.  You gonna put that gun to my head 'til it goes click?"

            She hadn't even realized the gun was still in her hand.

            "Guess this is our first trust test."

            He made an effort to get closer to her, wincing from his multiple wounds.

            "Fuck off," she said.  She crawled over to him, gun in hand, shoved him flat on his back, and straddled him.  That old Aerosmith song played in her mind.  Back in the saddle again.  He let go of the bottle of Beam, and closed his eyes.

            She put the gun to his temple.

            "Mr. Pete?"

            "Yeah, Miss V?"

            "I think this is the start of the most incredible fucked up love story in American history."

            She knew it was gonna hurt like hell, but she kissed him anyway.

            When the coppery taste of their lips parted, she laid her hand on the unblemished side of his chest and gently traced her finger around the initial knife wound.

            "We're gonna need to get up and get the fuck outta here soon."

            "You got a place in mind?"

            "I'm supposed to be back in California in two weeks.  I was thinking a cold-blooded road trip sounded pretty stellar."

            He kissed the top of her head.

            "To death," he said.

            She closed her eyes and grinned.

            "To true fucking love.  Merry fucking Christmas."

THE END... for now.

About the author:
Glenn Rolfe is an author, singer, songwriter and all around fun loving guy from the haunted woods of New England.  He has studied Creative Writing at Southern New Hampshire University, and continues his education in the world of horror by devouring the novels of Stephen King and Richard Laymon.  He and his wife, Meghan, have three children, Ruby, Ramona, and Axl.  He is grateful to be loved despite his weirdness.
            He is the author of the novellas Abram's BridgeBoom Town, and the forthcoming, Things We Fear (March, 2016), the short fiction collection, Slush, and the novels The Haunted Halls and Blood and Rain.  His first novella collection, Where Nightmares Begin, was released in March, 2016.
            He is hard at work on many more.  Stay tuned!

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