IT’S CHRISTMAS TIME AGAIN…TIME FOR KILLING
Do not let my cutesy exterior fool you. The bouncy blond bob and velvet floral dress is merely a distraction. My dear grandmother’s ring that I wear on a delicate strand around my neck is all for show. The warm smile I give whenever I see you – it means nothing.
I assure you, I am a monster.
I do not wish for you to stop me; you couldn’t if you tried. My only desire is that you know of the great and terrible work that I do. Know me. Fear me. I AM THE DERANGED MURDERER OF YULETIDE EVERGREENS!
I’ve done it for as long as I can remember. As a child, every Christmas season my parents took me into the Green Mountain Forest to find our victim: a pretty little thing in a clearing with no friends or family to be seen. Father brought a handsaw and methodically cut back and forth away at its stump, periodically wiping the sap and bark from his favorite murder coat: the Land’s End Expedition Down Parka. Mother fussed about the cold and nibbled on her favorite murder snack: candied pecans. I watched in awe as the evergreen lost its life source, all the while singing my favorite murder song: Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas is You.” When the tree collapsed we bound it’s limbs with harsh plastic rope and dragged the still-living body to our Toyota Tacoma where it was unceremoniously shoved in the trunk bed. Then we buckled up and drove back to our suburban household as if nothing at all had transpired.
Our tree fell in the forest and no one ever heard it scream.
Now that I am grown I must do the dirty work alone. I live in Chicago where fine evergreens are hard to come by but luckily I have “a guy”. His name is Kipper (clearly a fake name) and he understands my particular brand of yuletide bloodlust. Every December Kipper sets up shop in the parking lot of my local Jewel Osco. He pedals his unholy wares to all the creeps and lunatics in my neighborhood; types with which I loathe to associate – my work is an art and not merely an impulse.
I survey Kipper’s trees as he wrings his sap-coated hands behind me. He offers me hot chocolate and a candy cane. Do I look like someone who wants treats? NO! I AM A KILLER OF FESTIVE TREES! Fine, I will take one candy cane in my pocket but not for the sake of juvenile merriment, only because I have garlic breath and even serial killers need good breath.
Now comes my selection. Never a fir, they yell to god and won’t stop crying; not a spruce, they make everything sexual; but a pine, ah yes, a young innocent pine, that is always what I chose. I pay Kipper in unmarked non-sequential bills, wrap my darling in plastic netting, and heave it onto my shoulder. The dying weight bores into my back but the walk is short and my excitement is uncontainable.
In the seclusion of my apartment I get acquainted with my victim, careful never to hear its name. I remove the netting and allow it to take in the surroundings. To the untrained eye it may look like the quaint one-bedroom of a twenty-something with a penchant for books with charming titles, vanilla scented candles, and large decorative clocks, but in truth this is a place of PURE UNHINGED EVIL.
I introduce the pine to my first torture device: a red stand with screws that dig into my captive’s stump, forcing it to stand upright as though nothing were amiss. Inside the stand I pour just enough water to keep the tree alive. I will remind you: I’m a truly sick individual.
Next comes the adornment of the body. I hang weighted red orbs upon the victim’s limbs, forcing them to stretch in unnatural directions. I wipe the sap from my hands and unlock my box of more disturbing trinkets: hand-made reindeer, family pictures in a child’s noodle frame, the tiny snow globe that was a gift from my grandmother. Reminder after reminder after reminder of the joy of living and being with the ones you love; it is a joy this tree will never know again. I, however, will see my family again. Sure I’m not with them now –flights to Seattle are prohibitively expensive – but I will see them again. I wipe a tear from my face and snap menacingly at the judging pine, “I’m not crying, YOU are crying and you should be because you are about to DIE.”
Finally the piece de resistance comes in the form of a long string of twinkling lights and a bright star I place atop my evergreen’s head. I plug the string in and my victim lights up like a…. goddamn it, there’s a simile here but I lost it. Suffice to say it’s bright and beautiful and festive as fuck.
I stand back and look at my masterpiece; more stunning as it dies than it ever was in living. Days will pass and life will drain from my captive. Needles will fall and by New Years Day the evergreen will be green no more: an ugly, brittle, corpse out of place in my room for the living. That is when I call the boy scouts to clear away my former masterpiece. It is their problem now.
I wipe my hands clean of the sap and lie in wait for next Christmas...when I shall murder yet again.