Russian Roulette

October 2007

"Take one guess."

The handle of the gun was greasy around her fingers. The barrel was pressed to his temple and she knew the fear that was going through him. She wondered if he would piss himself. That would be a laugh. He was such a big tough man on campus and off . She pressed the gun harder to his temple and leaned in close, her lips on his ear.

"C'mon baby. Lemme have a taste of that sweet pie."

That was the clincher. He let go as he remembered her and tried to look at her, but she grabbed his throat and pressed until he obeyed. "Listen to me. You will listen to everything I say, or else Boots over there gets her fucking brains blown out. Do you want me to jam the gun in your lovely wife's mouth like you jammed your dick into the mouths of all those little girls. Does she watch sometimes?"

She shoved him to the ground and checked the chamber. It was empty, of course. Shooting people didn't give her much of a charge. What did was in her bag, ready for when she got tired of playing this game with them. When she saw the dark stain on his lap, she giggled and made him sit next to his wife.

"Tonight is a Game Night. I know, I know, Game Night is on Thursday, and tonight is Friday, but who says we can't have fun two nights in a row?"

When Boots made a noise, she glared at the older woman and hit her with the gun, making her cry and bleed. She laughed and reached into the bag. A knife glittered in her hands and she ran it down his cheek.

"So, Johnny boy, you want to go first?" He shook his head and she grabbed his hair and pulled until his neck was exposed. "Too fucking bad! You never asked me or any of the others what we wanted!"

She plunged the knife in his throat, pushing down and drawing it across his neck until blood was spraying like a wonky hose. Boots screamed as he flopped around and she took the knife out and went for his chest.

Up and down, up and down. The crack of metal on bone made both woman scream, Boots with horror and her with joy. When the knife lodged in the couch, she had to yank it out, bringing fluff out and through the gaping holes in his chest.

Before she could do anything, Boots began to scream again.

"Dammit bitch, I haven't even touched you yet."

Then, she turned around.

He stood there, larger than life. A dirty jumpsuit and a graying mask that may have been white once. She knew who he was. The dead Michael Meyers. He had cut a path through Haddonfield a few nights ago, taking so many lives in style. She had to smile at the image that popped in her mind. He held a knife, and stood over John's body. Just like the image of Michael the Archangel that they had on the wall opposite of the action.

She stepped aside and let him have Boots. Boots was crying until Michael thought to stab her eyes. It was almost funny how she squirmed when they were gone, her voice annoyingly loud. Well before, she had been loud, trying so damn hard to be heard when she had nothing to contribute to the world. And people listened, at least most of the time. It was funny how the world worked sometimes.

When it was over, the dust settled, she turned to Michael, who was now staring at her from behind that mask, his eyes searching her. Maybe for signs of something she knew she did not possess. It had been lost somewhere, during the cycle of abuse, which she had only recently begun to correct. Michael titled his head and reached for her hair. It was dirty with blood and she leaned into his touch.

This is only the beginning, she thought.