 
Twelve days of Christmas

By Rowan Scott Davis

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2014 Rowan Scott Davis

**Smashwords Edition, License Notes**

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Acknowledgements

Firstly, I owe a large thank you to Carl; the twisted mind whose thoughts and suggestions inspired some of the darkest parts of this story. I'll never sit down for Christmas turkey the same way again. Thanks for that. Seriously.

My wife, Alyce; she's put up with my nonstop harassment as I've maybe written a scene, told her about it, made her read it, then later deleted it. Not twice, three times, nor four... I've lost count again, dear. How many times was it again? Thanks, Love.

12 Drummers drumming

11 Pipers Piping

10 Lords-a-Leaping

9 Ladies Dancing

8 Maids-a-Milking

7 Swans-a-Swimming

6 Geese-a-Laying

5 Gold Rings

4 Colly Birds

3 French Hens

2 Turtle Doves

And a Partridge in a Pear Tree.

Now-December 24, 11:54 PM.

"Come on, Officer Smith, it's time to wake up." It's a muffled voice calling to him as his eyes slowly pry themselves open. The smack of a palm repeatedly striking his cheek helps too. "Open your eyes, that's right. Good boy, wakey, wakey."

"Whasspt? Blursspt?" his tongue feels fat and talking just isn't working. He can feel the words just on his tongue but they refuse to come out properly.

"Shush, quiet. Don't speak. I've drugged you." Detective Aslanov's husband soothes as he strokes his baby smooth cheek. He looks up at the man, noticing for the first time just how dark and lifeless the man's eyes are. There is no light in them. It occurs to him that in this moment he's looking into the eyes of a dead man. Breathing, walking, talking, joking, even caressing and capable of expressing love but a corpse of a man regardless.

Terrified he looks down to see a gruesome vice strapped on his penis. The image of a horrendously fried Allen Jones springs to mind. The word Clergyman seems to be glowing in bold fluorescent lights. It must show on his face as Liam laughs without mirth and soothes Rod's cheek.

He looks around the well lit area. He seems to be inside some sort of small warehouse; there's the metallic scaffolding packed high with pellets of cardboard boxes. There's a small forklift parked by the high roller door both look to be out of service and probably have been for some time. A pile of a chain no doubt used to open the roller door lies in a heap on the ground just in front of the smaller corrugated iron door located in the left side of the metal roller door. Three rusted pellet jacks are shoved on their sides or stuffed into a stack of fifteen empty pellets. The ceiling lamps are glowing hot white and Liam Aslanov stands in front of him in jeans, a rugby jersey and leather jacket. White sneakers cover Liam's feet and a calm, blank expression covers his face.

Six foot two inches of dead male meat staring directly into his eyes as he crouches down in front of the wooden chair Rod finds himself tied to.

"Abah blarb buh." Rod Smith struggles to speak. Frustrated that his fucking mouth won't get the words out.

"Alibaba bah bah." Liam laughs and snorts, "Fucking hell! Whatever man, I don't understand arsehole-inese."

"Blursbp."

"Oh, shut the fuck up." Liam sighs the words as he clamps his palm over Rod's mouth. "Do you have any idea how many marriages you've broken up?" there's a slight pause, "Seventeen."

That sounds about right. Should've been eighteen but Mrs. Aslanov is too damn loyal. It's annoying.

"Seventeen marriages. Which means you flirted and seduced, drugged and blackmailed seventeen different women into climbing into bed with you. And you tried that shit with Kim. Sadly for you, you chose the wrong man's wife. She's just too damn loyal. I'm one lucky SOB. Pretty as she is, is she really worth dying for?

"Tonight, you will die. Shush." Liam's free hand starts to stroke Rod's cheek and hair, tucking a strand behind the ear when Rod starts to struggle. "Gentle, gentle. Be calm. Good boy.

"Now. You don't realize it, but in this room somewhere, amongst the boxes and pellets and your own shit and piss is a bomb. It's on a timer that has been running down since the fourteenth. Come the twenty fifth the timer will reach zero and boom! No more Mr. Hotstuff.

"There's a knife strapped to the underside of your chair." Liam pats his cheek once and walks to the roller door. Picking up the piled chain Liam pushes the small corrugated door attached to the roller door open stepping through and smiling, becoming covered in darkness. The shadowed figure looks down at his wrist, "You have one minute and... seventeen seconds. Merry Christmas."

Liam slams the door closed as Rod listens to the sound of the chain wrapping around the exterior.
Then-December 14, 2:07 PM.

"Don't touch me!" Detective Kimberley Aslanov curses at her newly assigned partner as she reaches into her fridge grabbing a soda for both of them. Rod Smith's hands glide up her back. Smoothly caressing her skin and sending a shudder through her, right to her core. It's definitely not a pleasant sensation. His hands fall down to cup her bottom causing her to jump practically falling into the fridge.

"I told you not to touch me, arsehole!" yelling she comes around and slams the can into his gut.

"Come on baby, you've been flirting with me all morning. We both know you want this."

"Is there something fucking wrong with you?"

"The only thing wrong is that you're not on your back with my cock butting against your womb."

She cringes, scowls and barely manages to hold her temper in check. What she wouldn't give to wipe that smirk off his face.

"Come on baby, just think about how good it'd be. Why settle for a poor watchmaker-jeweler when you can have me? Isn't it embarrassing to be the moneymaker in the family?"

Aw, man. This guy sure is a dumbarse. You really want to piss her off, put down her man? Does he have absolutely no idea the shit Liam's been through the passed seven years? The insults, the putdowns, shit most people would have crippled over under it all. But Liam, not her Liam, he pushed back, flipped the world the fucking bird and makes a reasonable living off of his custom jewelry and watches. Who cares if she brings in more money week to week than her husband does? She sure as hell doesn't.

"I could make you come so hard, baby."

"One more word, motherfucker. Seriously, one more fucking word and I'll gut you like a goddamned fish." The rich, velvety tones, seductive and deep would usually tickle her but at this moment, with her partner pressing her into the fridge... not so much.

"Try it, Gipeto." The prick says with a smirk, he does realize Gipeto made puppets not clocks, watches and jewelry, right? "You can't touch me, I'm a cop."

Looking over at her husband and the look in his eyes, the vacancy of emotion, the endlessly dark pits that refuse to sparkle, it scares her. She's only ever seen the look- or lack thereof-twice in all the time she's known her husband. It's the same look that she's seen in the eyes of war veterans. It screams out that someone's seen something, heard something, felt something that was too painful, too difficult to get passed that the person has quite literally died.

The first time she ever saw that look was when he walked in on her and his... fuck that, she was not having sex with partner on the kitchen counter. A fucking nooner right there amongst the dishwashing detergent, spoons, knives and plates.

"Wow, really. You're a cop? I never would've figured that out, being just a stupid watchmaker. The uniform, cruiser, it never would have tipped me off." Liam's smile is absolutely false. There's a silent threat in it that she's never seen before as he goes to the fridge and reaches for a beer.

"Liam-"

"Shut up, Kim. I'm talking to hotstuff here." He reaches into the top drawer by the sink bringing out a rather smooth bone-handled butter knife using it to lever the cap of the Heinekin bottle.

There's an intensity to it, the way Liam runs the knife around the neck of the bottle couped with those silent eyes and that small tug at the corner of his lips that sucks the air from her lungs.

"You can't speak to her like that!" hotstuff tries to be tough. He wants to battle cocks does he? Thinks he's got a chance of winning against Liam, does he?

"I'll speak to her any goddamned way I fucking please, motherfucker. Now get the fuck out of my house."

"Liam, I can explain..." Kim starts. Shit, it must have looked bad when he walked in the door. Some guy down-talking him and his wife not saying shit. Christ, no wonder he's mad.

"I don't need you to. I saw and heard everything."

"What do you mean?"

"I heard everything. What the hell more should I say?" he turns back to the male cop who is still standing there, still no where closer to the door. "What the fuck are you waiting for cunt? Get the hell out of here."

"You can't tell me what to do, I'm-"

"An officer of the law. Yeah, yeah, yeah, badge, pistol, uniform, gay arse car in my driveway. I can add two and two motherfucker, coming up with four. Don't piss me off. This is my house and I don't recall inviting you in, so get the fuck out."

"It's not your house, you're just a-"

"Yeah, a lowly watchmaker. I know exactly what I am. Get the fuck out of my house before-"

"Rod, get back in the fucking car." Kim suddenly adds, trying to defuse the situation.

"Only if you're coming with me, sweet cheeks."

Kim looks at her husband, staring at those soulless brown eyes. "Fuck off Rod and get out of here. I need to speak with my darling husband."

She never takes her eyes off of Liam as Rod takes his pistol from the counter and walks casually as anything towards the door. He seems to be strutting, god forbidden bloody peacock.

"Baby, we were just getting a drink, taking a quick break. He started coming on to me. I did not participate in his advances."

"You need a new partner." He says coldly.

She raises her hand to sooth his cheek, watching the living slowly start to fill again. "I'll speak to the chief this afternoon."

He smiles but it doesn't reach his eyes. Eyes that now look to be on life support. "It's the afternoon now, ring him and get that prick transferred."

"I'll speak to him today, okay baby. I was just about to put him down when you came in."

"I know, I could see that."

She smiles as she reaches up to press a soft kiss to his lips. A butterfly landing on a flower petal soft. "How's the work going?"

"Busy, busy, I've got orders coming out of my arse. Fucking website whose idea was it anyway? Stupid fucking idea and the fuckers are being damned impatient, Love."

"And why wouldn't they be? You're the best at what you do."

The cheeky smirk she adores covers his face and throws his eyes to vibrant life.

"Don't I know it, Love. Don't I know it. Get back out there and do your job I'll see you later on tonight."

Pressing herself close to her husband's body she gives him one last kiss, smothered in lust which leaves her panting and him growling she heads out the door wiggling her hips at him on her way.

"And please, Love, be careful."

"Love you too."

2:27 PM.

He could've cut the prick's fucking head off. Policeman or not, that detail doesn't mean shit to Liam. He should've cut that motherfucker's head off. And her... Mrs. Kimberley Aslanov... fucking kids; how would they last if their mother was taken from them, if Daddy killed Mummy would they be okay, considering it'd only be them and Daddy? That's her saving grace. He wants to say that's the only reason but if he didn't love her so much he'd have put her in the ground years ago. Shit, Debbie didn't even kiss the other guy and he killed her for it, but Kim... she gets caught with her hips attached to some wanker and he gives her the chance to explain. Doesn't seem fair to Debbie really but oh well. Such is life.

He's not stupid. He can read his actions. He hasn't killed her because of all of those factors, but for the love he feels for her. The need to have her. To take care of her. To see her smile is a blessing he couldn't live without. Love begets salvation, and she can be thankful for it. Not that she'd know how very tempted he is to sever her jaw from her skull.

He's been out riding his bike for a few short minutes. Travelling through the town, looking at certain buildings. Mentally taking notes, seeing which are the busiest, the most populated; the most vacant, obscured. Reevaluating his plans for the next eleven days, trying to see a flaw in them. he can't seem to see any. He's been vigilant these last seven years, he won't get caught now. The reason the other so-called 'serial killers' got caught is because they made one little, stupid mistake. Just one mistake and it sent up a fucking flair for those arseholes his wife works with to follow. He's not that stupid, he looks at it all from every angle. He can't screw up. He just can't. He's too clever. It's not arrogance if it's true. Besides he hasn't let it get to him, this knowledge that he's just better than the law enforcement agencies out there. It'd be costly, because he'd slip up and like the rest of the fuckers who thought they were too good, too clever, he'd find himself behind bars. Well fuck that.

He turns into the car park of the sports centre. Outdoor netball courts are trapped in wire mesh prisons now vacant waiting for the next season to start up.

He's not here for the imaginary bouncing tits of ghosts running up and down the courts as they jump and catch the ball back and forth. No, he's here to make a phone call. A phone call in a place where they are no witnesses, to a place where there will be no survivors.

2:27 PM-Mega Shopping Complex.

"Daddy, wait! Daddy, look Daddy, pup-pup. See pup-pup." The little girl points through the pet shop window at the tiniest brown coated sheepdog that ever existed. Her eyes sparkling with desire.

Oh hell no. He is not getting a dog. Fuck no, no way, no how. He's already cleaning up after one little shit he sure as fuck doesn't need the hassle of adding a flea infested one to the fuck fest that is his life.

"Please Daddy, please, please, please." She looks at him with her pale blue eyes pleading and her lower lip dangling.

He knows he's a goner. He knows he's going to relent and give her exactly what she wants and to make it worse, he's not too sure he cares. It would be nice to have a dog around the place for when his daughter's at school.

"I guess we could go in and have a look-see." Oh, he knows he's screwed as soon as he holds the door open for her. Watching as she runs off heading for the puppies in the cages at the back of the room, he just knows he's going to get the ugly little sheep dog she saw in the window.

"Wow, see birdy. Daddy look, I see birdy. We get birdy?"

A bird, now that's a pretty good pet. Put it the cage, let the cage hang give the little fucker some bird feed and water and abracadabra it's all gravy from there.

"Sure, baby girl. Let's get us a birdy. Which one do you like?"

"That one. I want that one over there the white... Argh"

The father grabs his daughter and engulfs her into his arms as a deafening roar explodes in the building. It seems to go on for ages. Never stopping. It is in fact several different explosions as different bombs are set off in different sites through out the mall.

Fire blazes high seemingly having blown up out of nowhere. Fire balls peeling the skin from bones. People rush but the fire has them trapped, most however are caught underneath the rubble. The entire shopping complex has been leveled to nothing more than a pile of rocks and support beams.
Now-December 24, 11:59:27 PM.

The screaming has started. The blood curdling scream of a man castrating himself. Such a beautiful sound. So glorious. So harmonic. So dreadfully poetic. Liam wishes he could smile as he straddles the bike but his life has gone down the pisser so now he has to run. Now he has to hide and stay beneath the radar. He kicks the bike into gear taking a brief look at the factory car park's cracked, weed clustered pavement as he soars towards exit.

Mr. Claus they call him, Twelve days, they say in hushed whispers. Damn his lovely wife. And therein lays the problem. He can't kill her. He refuses to, bugger it because although he's hidden some pertinent truths from her he does love her with all of his twisted heart. Perhaps it's in spite of such things.

She's known for roughly seventeen hours now-he sniggers at the number-that her loving, loyal, protective husband is the killer she has been searching for these past five/seven years. He wants to hate her for setting the goddamned dogs on him but he can't. She's just doing her job. A job she's incredibly good at and he's incredibly proud of her for.

He looks down at his watch and wonders how far he can go before they pick him up or if they'll even be able to.

Turning off onto the quiet street as the factory explodes behind him.

And on the twelfth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...a tear trails down his cheek as he mourns for what he's forced to leave behind. His wife who adored him, his children that loved him, and his business that he was finally starting to make a decent profit from...Twelve pieces of one dead motherfucker.
Then-December 14, 2:35 PM.

On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me...one hell of a bang.

There are ambulances, fire engines, police cars streaming through the area with their assorted sirens deafening. Now that's music. That's a symphony of high strung violins playing a concerto. That's absolutely divine.

Who would have thought that blowing up one little shopping centre would create such an upheaval? How interesting. Well tomorrow's going to be fun.

As Liam follows the procession of giant red ants he can't help but wonder if anyone has yet found the naked woman in the service portion of the shopping centre locked inside of a freight container. He drugged her, stripped her, then attacked her with his switchblade to the gut. He had to prep her. Remove the stomach, intestines, bladder. A messy job that he gained no pleasure from. It was all a necessary part of the process, prepping the bird ready to be stuffed.

Holding the organs in his hands was, in the least part, strange. To think that this part connected to that part, connected to that made her pass gas. Incredible. He had interest in them, once past the initial organ removal so it was just a matter of shoving the bloodied pieces of tissue into the skip to swim amongst the open cans of baked beans, Christmas trees that only had half of their branches and other general waste products.

It might be thought of as weird, maybe a little perverse that he went to the trouble of basting her skin, covering her in sliced pears and the syrup from the tins, then shoving a clockwork partridge in her mouth but that's exactly what he did.

He had the image of a classic Christmas spread in his mind with the woman as the turkey centerpiece. A large table covered in an ugly green tablecloth, bread rolls, cranberry sauce, apple sauce, chestnuts, blah... the final product turned out quite well.

She was truly a stunning centerpiece. Her dirty blonde hair complemented the brass of the partridge and the green of the tablecloth went well with her eyes, even if it was swamped with blood.

He stood back for a second, admiring the finished masterpiece and wishing he could pull out a seat and say grace before tucking in but that'd just be sick... and what is he, crazy? He doesn't think so. He's just getting in to the Christmas spirit and if he feels that he should teach a few little arseholes about it in the process all the better. Not that that matters either way to him. Learn or stay stupid he's going to kill them all anyway.

Without the liver, kidney, stomach, spleen, pancreas and intestines there wasn't anything inside of her to keep her shape. He can just imagine the surprise and disgust on the faces of the cops and medical examiners and every other clown who takes a look in at the body. Bags of breadcrumbs filled the newly formed cavity as it was either that or actually having to go through the hassle of combining sage with egg, butter, onion and breadcrumbs to make a stuffing. And that'd just be a waste wouldn't it?

Too caught up in what he was doing, he didn't notice at which point the woman died. It could have been at several points. Despite the drugs she did start to kick and move not that he'd thought much of it at the time. She could have been dead and acting like the chock he envisioned her to be; convulsing and jerking, running around with its head cut off and lying in a bloody heap by the table leg. She may have died at the moment when she stopped trembling. Just before the twitching stopped. Was it after he removed the second organ, or was she already dead by then? He neither remembers, knows nor cares.

The fire engines pile side by side as Liam stops his bike in the centre of the street. People scream and cry around him. Police officers with tears in their eyes try to hold the populace away from the smoldering rubble as the firemen spray their hoses. He's amazed by how much of the building is actually still standing. He thought, in the back of his mind that there'd be nothing but bricks. Sadly, there's about a quarter of it still standing.

It's been roughly half an hour, he checks his watch, twenty seven minutes since he made his phone call to detonate the initial device. It was brilliant, at least in his mind, to rig the explosives so that the first would set off the second and the second would set off the third, and so on until the fifth blew the bottom out of what was, by that time nothing more than a shell of what once was. Of course the freight container should have been relatively safe, but like most things in life there is no guarantee.

Putting the bomb together was child's play. Stupid watchmaker, his arse! He sure showed that wanker who the stupid person is.

The Defense Force should be here at any moment to take over things but really, it's all too late.

He spots Kim talking with some tall bastard he recognizes as her father. Good to have your father be your superior on the force. He can't see this Rod jackarse as Kim and her father work to establish a reasonable perimeter with a team of other officers.

She's in Detective mode. Her back-the-fuck-off expression clear and vibrant. He doubts she'd even see him if he were to stand directly in front of her. As it is he knows he's gone unseen, just another biker sitting astride his hog in a place he really shouldn't be.

Glad to see that she's unharmed by the explosion and damage it rendered he blows her a kiss and having not shut off the bike turns back around to head home to retrieve his daughter's helmet before rushing to the primary school.

3:07 PM.

The school's always busy at this time of day. What with the parade of parents coming and going as they lead their either drowsy or over-excited children away from what was their prison. It's odd that he has prison on his mind. Maybe it's the bombings and the use of Cyanide in the explosives that has him doubting himself. A few professions allow people to acquire the substance, jewelers being one of them. He thinks back to his basting of that Rod prick earlier and how he said he could add two and two coming up with four. All he can hope for is that those arseholes do their math wrong and come up with five laying the blame on the shoulders of that famous prick with the jewelers on the corner. You don't take the time and hassle of framing someone for it to come and bite you in the arse.

The questioning will come as it did seven, no, eight years ago when he was forced onto his path of murder so he has to remember his part, his rehearsed lines and responses. He was busy at home restoring an antique clock for a local customer he met through his website. It's not exactly a lie; he does have a wooden Cuckoo clock that a customer wants restored it's just that he wouldn't exactly say it was an antique. Originally made somewhere in the 1890s to the 1910s it would be more appropriate to call it vintage but who's to argue over semantics?

He fooled them all before, he'll do it again. He even got one over the supposed psychologists that interviewed and questioned him, forcing the belief that he was simply an innocent person and definitely no suspect into their minds.

He just has to play his cards right.

Smiling he walks over to the playground with the helmet in his grip. She looks so beautiful there as she runs through the maze to the slide. Zooming down it then retracing her steps to fall in a flurry of fluorescent pinks and green cloth back down the slide. Her black curls like Goldie Lock's ribbons of hair falling around her young and vibrantly innocent face, her mother's tender eyes smile from the feminine clone of his. She's a little replica of him with all the stunning beauty of her mother. This is what love is. This feeling inside him that forces him to stand in awe each and every time he sees Lyra.

She, as like her mother doesn't see him standing there. Too caught up in her slide he knows she'll be depressed to see him. For now he contents himself with the joy of watching her joy as he remains invisible.

Perching himself on the brick retaining wall of a small garden tucked against the side of a brick classroom block Liam settles the helmet on the grass by his feet. Thoughts of the upcoming questioning circling his mind yet he still enjoys the moment. The freedom and unsullied brilliance of youth brings forth a painfully nostalgic feeling, much akin to envy in nature.

He waits for a while, staying hidden amongst the lavender and floral bushes, just watching her playing. She leaves the slide on her fourth trip down, running gleefully for the monkey bars when she spots him. Pouting his dear girl starts to make her way towards him, kicking pieces of bark into the air petulantly.

It's quickly approaching three twenty by now and he knows that he should get home, she surely has homework that needs doing but he always fails to put on the disciplinarian's hat when she pouts and looks heart broken like that.

"Go on," he smiles, "We'll stay fifteen minutes, but then we've gotta get home so Daddy can put tea on, okay?"

Her face has since long broken into a ten kilowatt bright smile since he started talking and making shooing gestures. It seems impossible that it could get even brighter but somehow it does. She glows, like the brilliant LED lights on their Christmas tree standing proudly in the living room only far more beautiful.

He sits where she spotted him playing with the helmet, just watching her as she runs around the play equipment stealing quick glances in his direction every few minutes. Whether to make sure he's still there or if it's time to go home, he's not sure.

As he watches the time, home time quickly approaches yet there's the sense that the clock is dragging its heels. Maybe his watch is broken. That's a laughable thought. No, he's just having too much fun watching his baby girl play.

"Time's up, honey. It's time to go home now. Go get your backpack and we'll head off."

"Already?"

"Sorry, baby. Yea, we've gotta get home now, so we get your homework done and put dinner on."

"Now?" she whines, retrieving her pink and black bag from it's place at the foot of the slide.

"Yes, now. Come on."

"What time's Mommy going to be home tonight? Reckon she'll be home to tuck me in?"

"I doubt that, baby. She's got a lot on her plate at the moment."

"So she's not even gonna eat with us?"

He smiles at her misinterpretation no matter how accurate her statement. She'll be eating at home, no doubt about that it's just everyone but he will already be in bed by then.

He crouches down in front of her as she slings the backpack on. To think she's already putting her bag on by herself, how could she have grown so much yet still look like a baby? Next thing he knows she'll be dating and getting her heart broken. Poor sap, stupid enough to break his little girl's heart. Their deaths are inevitable. It'll happen the first time he sees those heart broken tears on her cheeks as she hides in her bedroom huddled underneath her blankets; trying to hide from the world.

"Are you crying? It's okay, Daddy, I'm sure she'll eat with us tomorrow night."

He wipes her cheek with his forefinger, overwhelmed by tenderness at her naivety before placing the helmet over her head. Tapping it twice and listening to her muffled laugh he lifts her awkwardly onto her shoulders.

9:49 PM-Mega Shopping Complex-Ruins

"What the fuck?" Detective Aslanov proclaims as she surveys the mess on the mahogany table which just about fills the freight container. The silky green table cloth looks more reddish-brown than green with all of the dried blood caking it. there's a woman lying prone upon a platter made of tinfoil in the centre. Her legs and arms tied up together behind her back at a painfully unnatural angle. Some sort of rotten fruit cakes what remains of her skin, where maggots frolic and rejoice in their Christmas feast. Kim thinks of roast pork for a split second but the fruit can't possibly be pineapple. It looks more like apple, granny smith maybe. Or pear. But who puts pear on pork? It looks like the traditional Christmas spread, the iced fruit cake, cut into eights, the stale bread rolls, the sauces in little serving platters. There's even eight Christmas crackers on eight dishes at place settings around the table. The only things missing are the sleeping mice then it'd feel just like last year's Christmas Eve when she was huddled on the couch with Liam and Lyra. Her head resting on Liam's shoulder, her feet tucked up beneath her as she stroked his chest with her hand tucked in between two buttons. Lyra dozing in his arms as he read the rest of 'T'was the night before Christmas.'

It's like the killer, he or she, wanted to convey that rich full family Christmas feel with this setting. Even though it's a disturbing scene to behold, the killer obtained their goal.

"Christmas supper. That's crazy. Whoever did this is seriously fucked up." One of the other detectives pipes up. It's her new partner, Jenny "call me JJ" Jonson. Sometimes it good to have a father in high places, why he wears a uniform though is beyond her. He hasn't had a wear a uniform in years although sometimes, at odd moments he'll pull out the blues and spend an afternoon on the beat.

"Anyone recognize her?" Kim asks of the many men and women strutting around with equipment and badges as she continues to stare at the scene.

"Sally, works in the McD's." responds JJ as she snaps away with a camera.

"And you know that how?"

Indicating to a pile of blood splattered cloth in the corner she says, "Her name badge and uniform."

"JJ, I'm going to question the manager. Get her roster, see when she was last meant to be working. All of that."

"Right. Yea, you can't do that." JJ looks at her sadly, taking her eyes briefly away from the dead chick on the table.

Chick? She's not meant to be a pig she's a..."Turkey... Wait, what? Why not?"

"The Mickey Ds was one of the bombsites. The food court was hit the hardest."

Then she remembers the layout of this mall, she was meant to bring Lyra here to meet Richard so they could shop for Liam's Christmas presents. She'd planned on stopping in the food court with her half dozen bags of La Perla and her one little socket wrench set for tacos for lunch. Maybe sushi if she wanted a change. Looks like that plan's gone the way of the dodo bird.

"Screw it. Let's get in touch with their offices and see if they upload their rosters online or something. See if we can get a list of employees who weren't working today so we can find out just who you were, Sally, my love."

11:21 PM.

"Oh, sorry baby did I wake you?" Kim smiles apologetically at him as she withdraws a knife and fork from the cutlery drawer.

"Mmm." He confirms with a languid stretch of his arms above his head and a rather loud yawn.

He looks over at her and sees her face.

"Hard day today was it, Love?"

"Very." She frowns as she makes her way to the microwave.

"Wanna talk about it?"

"You know I can't do that baby. No matter how much I'd love to unload on to you, I really can't."

"Okay babe. But I'm here if you ever want to tell me about it. Besides, who am I going to tell? The kids? My clients? The boys down at the bar?" he snorts, "I don't think so dear. Imagine I'm a psychologist and whatever you tell me's privileged."

"Thanks baby. But I can't."

Liam sighs, sitting up on the couch as he twists the kinks out of his neck. "So, other than this thing that happened to day that you can't talk to me about, how was your day?"

She laughs and adds tomato sauce to the plate full of his homemade Mac and Cheese, "It was fine. I've got a new partner now."

"Already? That was fast how did you manage that one, or can you not tell me?"

"I got Dad on to it."

The thought of it makes Liam laugh. Some little shit getting told off by Bill Roberts. A big arse guy with a hell of a military record before he became a cop. Sure would've liked that experience. "Ah, the joys of being Commissioner Roberts' baby girl."

"Precisely. Rod's been bumped back down to beat cop."

"Bet he's just thrilled about that."

Pulling out a seat at the kitchen table, Kim feels Liam's hands on her scalp. The sensation draws a small whimper from her, "Do you care? Honestly?"

"Not in the slightest, couldn'tve happened to a nicer guy?" His lips come down to brush against hers as she cranes her neck for his kiss. Soft and tender they melt against each other. She taking the calm and strength he offers, letting her forget the horrible image of Sally upon the table in the freight container. He, portraying the love and tenderness he feels. Trying to express without having to say it, that despite his somewhat criminal activities that he does love her.

It has taken two months of planning and a week of prepping to bring about these beautiful twelve days of Christmas and as the days go on and the bombsites all get blown sky high and the gifts are discovered one by one they're going to hit hard. He wants to take care of her, to be there for her when she struggles to deal with the gruesomeness of the murders. So he kisses her, trying to show his concern for her in that brief meeting of skin.
Now-December 25, 7:03 AM.

Oh fucking great, looking out the shop window at his bike he sees two officers circling it. Has his wife told her colleagues everything? Damn, whatever happened to a bit of spousal loyalty? He never told his buddies at the bar that she likes to sleep in the buff and really gets off on anal sex. Wouldn't it have been a bit nice if she didn't tell her friends what kind of bike he rode?

Although, it's probably his own fault he should've abandoned that bike hours ago but sentimentality comes along and fucks up everything. Now he's stuck making his exit on foot.

"Give me a packet of Winfield twenties and shut the fuck up when the cops get in here." Liam demands of the clerk. A pretty little red haired boy. Thought he was a chick to start off with, those long flowing red locks, those dimpled cheeks. He just seemed so feminine.

"Ah." The kid does a double take at Liam, then the front page of newspaper. His eyes widen, his mouth opens.

He's about to scream, Liam can see it. the build up tension in his chest, that large inhale. So reaching in to the back of his pants and bringing up his.45 smith&Wesson. He blows the shit out of the guy just a few seconds after the yell leaves his mouth.

The cops charge into the little convenience store with their guns raised, obviously disregarding their training. Perhaps underestimating their foe.

Three people dead in less than a five minutes.

Liam shakes his head and makes his way around the counter to grab the packet of cigarettes from the shelf. Removing his wallet he drops a twenty on to the till, blows a kiss up to the security camera knowing that his wife is going to see the tape eventually.

His life wasn't meant to go down this way. When did it take such a drastic detour and he became some sort of monster? Sure he was defending himself. But upon walking past the bodies of the dead cops he realizes he recognizes one of them. That hits like a knife in the gut. He had dinner with this kid and his young wife. They have new born twin girls and now the wife is a widow. It's a little disheartening, obviously upsetting. However, apart from the initial wave of emotion it doesn't really bother him.

As he hopes on his bike and rides off with the lit cigarette in his mouth, he comes to understand that the reason it hurts him so much is for the pain of knowing that his wife will be hurt to know he killed a friend of hers.

A definite conundrum because murder really does not bother him.

But Kim being upset, that kills him.
Then-December 15, 5:09 AM.

Panting, sweaty, totally drained, Kim lays upon her husband bestowing gentle kisses upon his lightly hair splattered chest, playing her fingers over the myriad of crisscrossing scars that cover his chest, stomach and hip. They lead down his thigh and run fiercely towards his groin. It always upsets her to them. Even when they were younger, just teenagers it broke her heart to see such a maze of pink coloured tissue decorating his body. The evidence of such a rough childhood. His mother never loved him and his grandmother hated him with a passion. Maybe it was because he looked so much his grandfather that you'd be forgiven for thinking he was the ghost of Spider Aslanov if you saw him in the shadows or from a distance. Maybe it was because the two of them were just straight up bitches.

Some of the scars are newer than the others. Like the ugly one leading from across his stomach to his left hip. He told her once, years ago, that it was the result of a stolen cookie. Damn those bitches.

They always tear her heart out but she knows he doesn't think much of them anymore. Just scars that he carries like everyone carries the wounds of their lives upon their bodies. Doesn't mean she doesn't mourn for the little boy who was more often than not beaten to a pulp for the sake of being hungry.

"I love you, Liam." She says as tears cloud her vision. She says this perhaps too much, if ever a thing were possible, trying to compensate for the obvious lack he had growing up.

His hand travels down to stroke her naked hip taking gentle liberties with her quickly moistening privates as he kisses the top of her head, "I love you too, baby. Never doubt it."

How could she ever doubt that this incredible man loves her? It'd be impossible.

Snuggling closer to his chest as she listens to the steadying thud of his heart an overwhelming feeling of contentment washes over her. God, how she loves this man.

It doesn't feel like much time has elapsed since they finished making love and started on the simple luxury of cuddling but the shrilling alarm of her cell phone tells another story.

How can it be half five already? She groans as he kisses the top of her head, stopping the tweaking of her left nipple much to the disappointment of both of them. It would have been nice to give his machinery another ride. She just about to do just that actually when her stupid alarm went off.

"Time to get up, Love." he's trying suppress a laugh and damn him, it's contagious.

"Yeah, I know, I just don't want to. I'd much rather stay in bed with you."

"Me too, but dear, there are people out there counting on you. Have I told you lately how proud I am of the work you do?"

She can feel her cheeks heat at the complement and her chest swell. "Not lately, no."

He snorts and kisses her cheek as she pushes herself to the side of the bed, stealing the blankets in the process. It's a move made to uncover him, intended to be playful rather than meek or self conscious.

"Well I am. Incredibly proud of you, dear.

"I love you."

Feeling warm to the tips of her toes, she smiles leaning over the bed to kiss him, dropping the blankets to the floor. "I love you too.
Then-December 15, 11:25AM.

On the second day of Christmas my true love gave to me...

Liam sits astride his bike across the road from the lavish First Presbyterian Church waiting patiently for today's victims to get into place. The first car has just rolled into the weed infested car park. A superbly clean luxury BMW. Typical waste of a banker's bonus. Leather, wood, glass, paint. An early Christmas present perhaps?

Glancing sadly at the leggy blonde as she climbs out of the gleaming white vehicle, approaching the building in the hesitant way of the guilty he wishes he could have second thoughts. The twin doves in the stained glass windows however tell him he has no option but to continue. As if his doing so was ever in doubt.

Her classy business suit and tight arse a little looser than would be appropriate in the office let alone walking out the door this morning as she kissed her husband on the cheek. He wants to ask her, "Judas, betrayest thou thy husband with a kiss?" mutating Luke 22:48 to suit the current domestic situation. It seems rather fitting if a tad abstract.

She inserts herself through a broken window.

She'll be feeling excited; shamed; proud; and the slightest portion of guilt. Those feelings will change as soon she sees what's before her. Liam has made sure of that.

Another BMW parks a block down the street and a man with a clerical collar climbs out making his way towards the church. Odd as this isn't his denomination. Sweet beads across the forehead of the young minister as he removes the white collar from his black shirt. The youth appears to be crossing himself. The vain attempt to exorcise the lustful demon that is inhabiting his body, driving to meet with this married banker in such a clandestine manner. It has to be a demon. He's a man of the cloth. A man of God, of Christ, such relations are beneath him.

Yet his cock strains the fly of his pants and his tongue comes out to moisten his lips in preparation. His palms sweat and his entire body is alive with the need to take the woman inside the church before him and bend her over the pew. Heaven is what it is to fuck her.

Like a wolf, Liam can all be smell the arousal radiating from the church parking lot across the road from him. Like a wolf, starved and greedy, there'll be nothing left of the two of them when he's finished with them. Liars, to have betrayed their spouses, their vows that they had made before God, in such a way... it's illogical, disgusting.

Deadly.

The man too follows the same entrance as the woman took. Like the woman, the sight before him is a scene from his worst nightmare.

...Two innocent doves.

11:37 AM-First Presbyterian Church

Oh god, oh god, oh god. Jesus, Mary, mother-of-God. Oh, God no. Tiffany is nothing more than a weeping pile of grief clustered at the end of a long wooden form.

"It's all my fault." She whimpers wiping the back of her hand across her mouth.

That Christmas tree wasn't there yesterday. That gory excuse for a pine tree. She looks at it again and spills stomach acid across the floor.

Oh god why?

Tears flood her eyes making everything blurred. Her scream is hysterical. It cries from the depths of her soul recognising all too well the school bag under the tree and the tool box beside it.

Abbott was meant to be in school for his last day of the year and Thomas was meant to be in the garage across town.

Another frustrated heart broken scream retches out of her throat as she tries not to think of how her life is going to be now.

Intestines hang from the branches like tinsel. Wrapped around the branches, spiraling up and around the tree passing over hanging glass baubles with little fat men dressed in red pointing to a small hunk of flesh perched at the pinacle. written across the marble floor in a disturbing brown red are the words; "It was your choice Mrs Clarke you chose your lover these two don't matter"

Her husband and son, butchered and used as tree decorations. If she were to look closely she'd see fingers dangling from branches her husband's wedding ring still attached to one of them. Toes scattered amongst the pine needles. Scraps of her sons school uniform and her husband's overalls, school and company emblems to the forefront. Two sodden giftwrapped boxes sit below the six foot high tree. Two head sized boxes acting as bookends for two large trashbags.

She doesn't need to open the sacks to know that all she cares about lays dismantled inside. Her son in the small, her husband the larger.

This is her price for a little excitement? A little fun? A little extra to spice up her life? She doesn't deserve to lose her family for some strange dick. God works in wondrous ways, well he screwed up this time.

"Tiff..." she hears Ralph's voice behind her, his footsteps on the marble echo. Just minutes ago she was looking forward to this meeting something fierce now she wants nothing more than to go back in time and erase Ralph's existence.

"Don't fucking talk. Don't say a fucking word!" she turns on him his eyes blazing. It's all his fault. He's responsible. He's a minister for Christ's sake he should have some measure of restraint. He should have turned her away, at least. Really he should have made her realize that the only man she needs the only man she should be with is her husband.

Because he failed, her family is dead and packed into black trash sacks. It's all his fault.

He raises his hands as he steps towards her. Trying to placate a raging bull.

The jumping dance beats of Shaggy's remake of 'Girls Just Wanna Have Fun' ring sickly through the quiet of the church. She thought she was being clever when she made that song her ringtone. Now it makes her feel sick.

Automatically she pulls her phone from her purse answering it without paying much attention to the 'unidentified number' onscreen message.

"Merry Christmas Mrs. Clarke." A strange voice greets warmly. She doesn't recognize it. "I hope you like the surprise I left you and Ralph. You have a decision to make now and very little time. The bags and boxes on stage hold the remains of what is left of your husband and son. They obviously didn't mean much to you so I got rid of them for you. Thank me later.

"There is of course the chance that you were just misguided and acting foolishly. In that case I owe your husband and son an apology. I will be happy to give it to them one day in the far off future.

"Both of the trash sacks over yonder hold remotes buried amongst your husband and son's body parts. The remotes are marked with either a one or a two."

"Who... who are you?"

The light cast from the broken window disappears as a long board covers the hole.

"Just a friendly window repairman.

"The remote with the one on it is for a bomb set to detonate down in the subway. You know how busy it is down there this time of the day. It's murder. The one with a two... well, that one is here with you somewhere.

"Mrs. Clarke? You have fifty seconds to decide which bomb goes off. Don't get any smart ideas about getting your boyfriend there to go after the other one or to go after the bomb I'm watching you and if I see that happen... I'll set them both off. Tell him to kneel down and pray. It is a church after all."

The phone call is disconnected.

If there is one thing Liam can count on as he lifts the nail gun from the concrete to secure the board over the window it's the selfishness of cheaters. Stupidly he hopes for some redemption for the new widow even if he knows there won't be any. Shaking his head he slowly casually makes his way back to the bike watching the seconds tick away on his watch.

23

22

21

The church still stands. She better save the people in the subway. It's the only righteous thing she can do. The only realistic option.

10

9

8

He swaps the nail gun for the remote on his saddle bag. The building won't explode, not this one. All the trigger will do is release cyanide into the air; one hell of a cloud. An explosion would ruin the beauty of his Christmas tree and that's too costly. He worked too hard on it to see it go up in... pieces.

She better save the people in the subway.

3

2

1

He Waits. Nothing. The church still stands quietly, tranquilly.

Disgusted he hits the trigger listening for the faint echo of their cries.
11:40 AM-Subway Station East

Late again. Always late. Why is today such a shit storm?

First, the alarm didn't go off so she missed her first audition. Then, her coffee machine decided it was time to pack it in so she had no option but to have that instant crap which she has in the cupboards for quick and on the go moments. Which, when compared to a double shot chai macchiato isn't an option whatsoever. Then to top it off, when the clothes she wanted to wear today landed in the puddle of water just out of the shower cubicle she wanted to cry something pitiful. That's without the added facts that she ran out of not only hot water but shampoo, exfoliating coconut body wash and leave in conditioner. What else could go wrong? Oh that's right, the fucking train's late as well so she'll probably miss her next goddamned audition too.

At least she hasn't lost her purse, phone, or house keys.

Best double check. Just to make sure.

Tucking her head down so that her lovely blond hair curtains her dimpled cheeks she rummages through her mammoth purse with her green eyes taking on a sudden panicked gleam.

Okay, here's a tissue. Another, tissue. Thankfully both unused. An unopened pack of moisturizing face wipes. Makeup pads, makeup removal cloths, cherry cola lips gloss. Lip balm. Strawberry flavoured lip balm. Lip balm for cracked and chapped lips. Wow, she didn't realize she had this many different types of lip balm. There's the lipstick; Revlon's Colorstay Overtime Sheer-Sheer Pomegranate. Eyeshadow, which she may as well toss out as she doesn't use it. But she may, so no that has to stay. Foundation. That has to stay. Zit cream. Am so not going to admit that's in here. She reminds herself to invest in a little travelling makeup bag when she goes to buy a new coffee machine later on in the day.

Some wrapped candies, throat lozenges, fisherman's friend which are the same thing, aren't they? She takes one out a plops it into her mouth not expecting the sudden burst of fierce freshness. Well, chalk that on to the fuck ups of the day.

There are a few random coins, seventy five cents total. Great. Can't do shit with that. Maybe if she finds another twenty-five cents in her purse she'll feel rich with a whole dollar. She continues to scavenge through her purse, hey she's rich. What was that song? That lame arse one that was hugely popular a few years ago. Something about giving a dollar? Well, here you go... no, second thoughts, this is hers she isn't parting with it.

Though she's wading through the jungle of tissue, makeup, even her nephew's rattle that must have gotten in there on her last baby-sitting session she still can't find her keys.

Wallet, phone, even a few condoms, and Yours+Mine Couples Lubricant but no keys. Well, fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck... she looks up with her eyes welling. Doesn't this just beat all? Where could they be? On the coffee table. The kitchen bench. Did she chuck them out the window when she threw her broken coffee machine out in a fit to smash on the concrete below. She's surprised the bulky monstrosity didn't land on a pram. Considering her day, it's a major surprise that it didn't happen.

This just caps off a perfectly fucked up day and it's not even lunchtime yet.

Finally the subway car pulls to halt in the station, its doors opening. People rush like the living dead on all of those zombie movies she loves to watch and had hoped to be in if only her alarm had gone off in time this morning. Drowsy and subdued, eager and hurried. Rats and zombies, them all, scurry out or in.

As she pushes her way in thunder roars, lightning strikes. Concrete pillars are turned into hailstones flying into windows as glass and metal explode and cutting bodies in half.

The worn leather seats of the vehicle are ripped from their framing. The framing, cool metallic, splinters like wood and shards of metal stab into chests, eyes, hands, bodies. Bodies fly and soar through the air already dead or on their way to it. Some are merely wounded, bound to live the rest of their lives without appendages that the owners were once attached and assuredly fond of. That is, if they survive the cave-in.

The subway roof creaks and howls as people stagger to the surface with blood pouring down their faces mingling with the tears that stream from their eyes or clashing with the blankness that clouds their features. Despite those that managed to escape one hundred and seven people are doomed as the roof caves in.

And the aspiring actress, so fearful of having lost her keys after such a shit storm of a day... she lays dead atop the tracks. Her hips and thighs downwards still upon the platform. Her torso, arms, head, lay across the farthest tracks. A triumphant smile on her beautiful, miraculously unsullied face, her house keys clasped in her fist.

11:55AM-Starbucks Coffee Shop

"Latte Grande, tall eggnog latte for Aslanov."

"Thank you." Kim grabs the cardboard coffee cups in their plastic bag carrier from the young barista just as her husband comes in the door. He jerks to a halt, confusion evident as he looks around him then smiles broadly smile hesitant with confusion. "Hey baby. What are you doing here?" she kisses his cheek in greeting before taking a sip of her coffee.

"Felt like a real coffee for once and decided it'd be good to have someone else make it." Liam answers his wife with a smirk.

"Cappuccino Venti," Kim asks the barista with a head nod to her husband making him laugh and shake his head.

"I'm not that predictable."

"Of course not, dear." She smiles stretching up to kiss his cheek again. "And hide the sugar from him would you? He doesn't need anymore of it-"

"I'm sweet enough as it."

"Too right, I'll see you tonight okay?"

"Okay, be careful."

"Always."

One last kiss and he watches her make her way out the door to sit shotgun in the cruiser with the hot young cutie he met this morning. It has to be illegal to have two sexy detectives on the same force let alone partners.

The siren goes on and he shakes his head sadly as he pulls out his wallet to pay.

"Venti, today, Liam?" the barista raises a speculative eyebrow at him.

"No, give me my usual Small Cappuccino."

"And that's to have here, right?" he nods slightly, "Okay, that's two thirty five."

He hands over a five, "keep the change."

"Liam, that's more than the coffee cost."

"And?"

"Well..."

"Elizabeth, say thank you."

"Thank you, Liam."

"You're welcome, Elizabeth. How's Richard? I haven't seen him in a few weeks."

"He's been kind of busy on the Rodeo circuit."

"Still think that boy's a fool for doing that shit for a living."

"I know, scares me every time. I wish he would think of me and our child just once. Just bloody once before he decides to get on the back of a one ton animal God gave horns and a short temper."

"Have you told him that?"

"I try."

"Do you want me to talk to him?"

"Could you?"

"Of course." He smiles at his daughter-in-law and her rounded belly. To think that Kim and he are going to be grandparents. Now that's a frightening thought.

"Here's your coffee. And thank you."
12:10:27 PM, Street light-Red

I wudnt stop da car if I was u

The text message reads. But it's a red light. You have to stop. It goes without saying. The law is the law and why should he feel as if he were exempt. A high court justice should be a pinnacle of exemplary behaviour.

He slows the Audi to a crawl.

Wat happens now is ur own fault

Judge Mitchel Monroe tosses the phone onto his passenger seat as he stops the car for the light, a high building of brick and glass stands to the left of him. Three blue ATM machines, and a coffee shop off to the side and slightly behind. Starbucks, inserted into the tall building.

Except it doesn't stop.

The force of the explosion lifts the rear wheels into the air. Flipping end over end as the rear wheels fling free of the body. There's a weightlessness, a lack of sensation, than an all too apparent abundance as the disintegrating vehicle rips hunks of flesh from his body. Blood coats the windscreen as his hands cover his face, trying to protect his head from the oncoming destruction.

There go the 20 inch rims, the custom paintjob.

If there was time before he died for his life to flash before his eyes he'd see the first time he walked Tiffany to school. He'd see her graduating from college. He'd replay the fear and trepidation of walking his baby girl down the aisle to hand her over to that little punk with the noisy pickup truck and grease stained overalls. He'd remember apologizing to Thomas for his early assumptions of him when Thomas opened his second garage. The punk had a steady mind for business. But he doesn't have the time to even think of what he had for breakfast.

Still strapped into the seat the sheer force of the lift snaps his neck long before the car has landed on its roof at the now green street light.

He only had time to take in the sight of the man standing by the side of the road in front of the Starbucks with a cheap looking phone in his hands. He was tall with a thick mass of short black hair, wearing broken in jeans, white sneakers; an ugly Christmas novelty shirt under an old leather bikers' jacket. The man's eyes. So lifeless. So empty, if he weren't already dead those eyes could have killed him.

The man mouthed; "I told you so." Or maybe the man actually said it. He was already dead by that point so he'd never know.

Liam stood by the road watching the car flip twice before then hitting the road with the roof marking the collision.

The judge was right on time. He's not going to pretend that all of this wasn't preplanned... at least, he's not going to pretend with himself. To everyone else it was all a lucky coincidence.

Today, it's all the daughter's fault. It's all Mrs. Clarke's doing. If only she hadn't cheated, her husband and son would still be alive, she'd still be living happily with the two of them. The minister wouldn't be dead because she'd have never fucked him.

Her father. He's dead because she turned out to be such a useless tart, he'd probably die of embarrassment when he learnt of his daughter's actions. So he spared the great man the hassle and pain. Saved him from the embarrassment and humiliation.

She really should have saved the people in the subway. If she had... her father would never have died. A federal judge would never have been blown to pieces when his car was turned into a rocket.

If. If. If. The world's favourite word when it comes to regret.

"Ring 911!" Liam yells out as he approaches the car. Play the part. Pretend. It all goes away if you just remember your lines. "Hey, Mate! Can you hear me?"
Now-December 25, 8:00AM

"Hello, my dear."

"Liam, is it really... turn yourself in."

"I'm sorry, Kim, I don't want to do that."

"Liam, please."

"All I ever wanted was for you to be happy. Merry Christmas, my love." he disconnects the phone call. It didn't last any longer than ten seconds. Not a chance of tracing, triangulating, or throwing a dart at a map to come up with Liam's location.

Sadly, she throws the phone to the kitchen floor as her father enters the room, "We almost had it. Damn it Kim, another five seconds and we'dve had his location."

"He's not stupid, Dad. He knows the phone's tapped and all the rest." at his look she turns back to the glass on the counter filled with bourbon. Liam's eighty dollar bottle. Never opened until this morning. He was saving it. Wanted to keep it for when Lyra had moved out and it was just the two of them. Something to celebrate their empty nest.

"He hid it for eight years, Dad. Don't fool yourself. If you catch him it'll be because he let you." lifting the glass she takes a sip. All the way down it burns. However, it feels better than her heart does.
Then-December 15, 12:40 PM

"Can you explain why these were found at the crime scene? These are of your making are they not?"

"Sure they are I happen to sell a lot of those every year around this time. Hell, your sister ordered seven of those clockwork pieces yesterday. And your wife ordered twelve the day before that. S'what?"

"What the fuck is going on in here?" Kim roars as she comes charging into the room. Her eyes are glassy and rage filled, her chest rising and falling angrily. She's a vision.

"Oh, hi babe. Our friends here are just asking me a couple questions. Did you know I'm a suspect in the bombing at the mall?" at her look he smirks, snorts and truly is upset. Crap, need to sort this shit out. It's getting hot in here. "Kim?"

"Detective Aslanov, can I speak to you outside?" a roaring voice calls from the doorway.

"In a minute."

"Now." Spoken with such authority, Liam recognizes the voice of Kim's father.

"I said in a minute."

"You're not my daughter here, Detective. I said outside, and I expect it happen now."

"I'll be back shortly." Kim says to her husband. "No one says anything until I get back."

"Continue as you were gentlemen." Her father counteracts as he holds the door open for Kim.

Hot and angry she turns and with clenched fists heads out the door with her father on her heels.

"You were spotted outside of the mall yesterday, and just happened to be by the road when Judge Monroe's car flipped. Are you telling us that it's all one big coincidence?"

"Why wouldn't it be? How screwed up does a person have to be to blow up a shopping mall then to go and visit it? Why exactly would a person visit the crime scene anyway? To see the aftermath? To see the devastation? Come on, man, I'm not that fucking crazy, our families have gone out for dinner together. Shit, we did gigs together for crying out loud. You know me, you stupid fucker. I'm sure you'd know if I was some crazed killer."

He's trying to remain steadfast, the cop is, but there's a part of him that's heard exactly what Liam's said. Despite of all of the circumstantial evidence or maybe it's because of it- it is rather light and gripping at straws anyway- a smile is creeping out on one side of his lips.

Besides, as far as he's concerned there's still that famous, uppity blue blooded jeweler to consider. The shit always did have a problem with the police ever since he got caught with all of that coke at a dinner party.

Liam was kept in the interview room for a further two hours while the questioning continued. The interviewing officers changed twice during that time always asking the same stupid questions. Where was he at whatever the time insert yesterday's date here. And he always provided the same answer. He was at home working on getting his orders completed and no, there is no one that can vouch for that.

They'd ask the next question and he would again give them his rehearsed reply. He went to the mall for the food court, he was hungry and felt like sushi for a change. Obviously that option was out of the question, seen as the mall was blown sky.

Why didn't he stop in and see how was wife was?

"You work with her right?" that's as far as his answer would go.

Kim never came back that afternoon. Maybe it was the doubt, maybe she was starting to realize the truth. More than likely it'd be something to do with her father. Fair man. A tad uptight. But a fair man.

He was starting to think that he really shouldn't have said anything without his lawyer present but that'd just make him look guilty so bugger that expensive son-of-a-bitch.

Keep his lies as close to the truth as possible. Only tweaking minor details. Remember his rehearsed lines. Make them believe him.

Eventually at a quarter to three they let him leave. For a while there he thought they were going to charge him. It pissed him off.

The whole ugly mess made his skin crawl and his face distort under the calm exterior. He could blow the whole fucking building up. Slit every last goddamned throat but then that'd just be a give away wouldn't it?

Fuck at one point, near the end as the time was creeping right up on three some faggot and his queer, poo pushing lover came in holding hands waving around badges, id and claiming to be FB-motherfucking-I agents.

Stay in town, his arse. He'll go wherever the hell he likes and no purple fucking elephant in a dark suit is going to tell him otherwise.

Bunch of fucking wankers!

He shoves the door of the police station open and walks out onto the street cursing under his breath.

"Liam!"

He's too angry to stop for his wife.

"Baby, please."

At least he was allowed to bring his bike down to the station. That was awful nice of them. Arseholes!

"Liam Richard Aslanov. You stop right there!"

Hoping on the bike he turns to look at his wife. Angrier than he's ever been with her. The FBI was coming, she knew it, knew he was a suspect and never fucking told him. Oh, he knew it was coming, the fucking storm that's drenched him over the last two and a half hours. It'll only get worse too, they'll have task forces from every different legal force they can think up. FBI, CIA, LACID, MCIO, ABCDE... blah. Still. Regardless of this prior expectation, it would have been muchly appreciated if his wife had given him some forewarning.

"Liam!"

Shrugging her hand off his shoulder he peels away from her and her department filled of cunts. Damn building may as well be a brothel the only thing that happened in there was his getting fucked over.

It's dead on three and someone has to pick up Lyra from her last day of school.
3:23 PM-Primary School

Sometimes it's difficult to find the right balance between the crazed murderer and the loving husband/father. Like five minutes ago, still upset and on edge by the treatment he received at the cop shop that when he was waiting at the lights and some teenaged boys were harassing and dog whistling a singular teenaged female he sought his retribution upon them.

She was pretty. Blue eyes, brown hair, tattooed sleeve of her right arm, slim, if he was twenty five years younger his tongue would have been hanging out like a cartoon coyote's. She was crying, not slight, cute weeping, but full-on chest heaving sobs. Barely able to move as her crying was so strong. He had no idea what had happened to her that day but fuck, those boys teasing and humiliating her seemed to push too far. She slumped to the ground by the side of the road and sobbed into her knees as cars passed her by and those boys came upon her.

They mimicked masturbation as they stood in a circle around her. Four of them snorting, cackling little faggots all sighing, moaning and grunting as she sobbed into her hands.

It was too much for him to look at.

Too much for anyone to see, especially when already as worked up as he was. So he ride into them, grabbed the girl and after riding a block let her off and told her go home.

It didn't feel right leaving her in the state she was in but he had to worry about his own daughter not someone else's.

First of all he had four little shitheads to take care of. He rode back and found them just crossing the road. Heading straight for them he reached back into the saddlebag for the nail gun he had ditched before heading into Starbucks.

It's a bitch of a thing, shooting someone in the head with a nail gun. But cathartic.

It took up his time but needed doing and at the end of it he didn't feel too badly. His only regrets were leaving the girl alone in her obvious distress and not being able to pick up his daughter any earlier.

So now he's twenty three minutes late for picking up his daughter. Sixteen minutes later than he was yesterday.

He felt terrible when he saw his baby girl sitting alone on the brick retaining wall that he had sat upon the day before. Her feet kicking the ground at her feet as tears ran down her cheeks. It appeared that even the teachers had left. She worried her bottom lip between her teeth. In this moment she looked very much like his baby girl. The small child whose nappies he had changed; who he risen to in the middle of the night to give her a cuddle or to simply pawn her off to Kim for feeding as he stroked her fuzzy little head.

"Hey, Butterfly." He whispers as he crouches down in front of her.

"Where have you been?" she demands, "I thought you forgot me."

"I could never forget my little butterfly, it'd be an awfully dull world without you. No, baby, I was having an interview that went longer than expected."

"Well, don't do it again!"

"Of course not. Come on, Butterfly. Your brother's flying in from Texas we're going to meet him because Elizabeth's working."

"D'you think he remembered to bring me one of them big cowboy hats?"

"Let's go and find out, shall we?"

He says this to her retreating form as she runs towards the bike. Her school bag already securely over her back. Her black locks flying freeing behind her.

Sometimes, at moments like this, it isn't hard to find that balance between the crazed murderer and devoted husband/father at all. With his two children, being surrounded by their presence or just the thoughts of them, it's hard to remember the murderer is even a part of him.

4:50 PM LAX

"Dad," the bluebird whispers as it lands upon his shoulder. The sky streams with fluorescent pink lights. The Hollywood sign, constructed from neon blinks and strobes feverishly on the hilltop. Liam isn't looking at that though, for that is far too normal. He sees that everyday as he goes down to the dairy across the road from universal studios to buy a bottle of bull's milk for his lunchtime cereal.

He's staring intently at the bluebird on his shoulder. It's an ugly little bird. Ugly and angry with its little cowboy hat on and a joint in its mouth. It has Liam's .45 Smith&Wesson that it points to Liam's temple.

"Dad," it tweets, swatting away Liam's hand as he lifts his finger to poke at the odd creature. "Wake up."

The butt of the piston strikes Liam's temple. Hard.

Jerking his eyes open, Liam looks around him in bewilderment. Where'd the bird disappear to with his gun? "I'll kill that fucking bird," are the first words that escape his mouth. Flying forth on the wisps of a dream before his mind has cleared enough to inform him he's been sleeping. Sleeping in a fucking chair at LAX waiting for his son's flight to get in while his daughter sits in a chair beside him playing with...he has a look at her hands... his phone. Oh shit! Thinking that she's blown something up or triggered a bomb somewhere in town he remembers that that simply isn't possible. He's hidden that phone. The other phone. The cheap ten dollar toss away deal. He relaxes, turning his attention back to his son.

"Hey, Dad." Richard smiles at him. Such a handsome boy. Fucking fool child.

"You've gotta stop with that rodeo clown bullshit, boy."

"Oh for fuck sakes. Straight away? Should've let you sleep." His brows have drawn together and he turns his attention back to Lyra. Liam knows when he's been dismissed, and by a twenty odd year old boy at that. Fucking no. Way. In. Hell.

Lyra stares harder at the phones touch screen as she rocks from left to right. Trying to move the little on-screen ball through the maze.

"Richard..."

"I'm not a goddamned fucking rodeo clown! I'm-"

"Going to be a father in a few short months time. And I want my son to be around for his daughter."

"Liz's having a girl?"

Oh shit, he didn't know? Doesn't everyone find out what they're having before it pops out of the oven nowadays? That way no one feels bad for ruining the surprise when the news flies out into the open. It always has a way of doing that anyway. If it wasn't for him he's sure that someone else would have sooner or later.

"My god, I'm having a little girl. Well, technically Liz's having her but I'm going to be there. And it was my sperm that fertilized her egg so shit, yeah, I'm having a girl. I'm having a little girl! Oh, shit! I'm having a girl.

"Fuck that means boyfriends and curfews and first dates and sex and boyfriends, and boys. Oh shit, I'm having a girl."

The look of fear on his son's face is priceless. "Do you think that it's only with girls that you have to worry about curfews and first dates and sex... and boyfriends?"

"Whatever. Look I'm having a girl!"

"We've already established that." he casts his gaze, now clear at his daughter sitting beside him. Looks as though Richard remembered that hat this time. "You got your gear?"

"It's coming in tomorrow. A girl?"

Laughing, Liam stands, pats his own girl on top of hat whilst stretching. "Okay, then lets get the fuck out of here, and go home. Figured I'd make lasagna for dinner. You Still like that shit, right boy?"

"Better than Mom's. But if you tell her that I'll deny it to high heaven."

"Fair enough."

***

"You're giving me the bike?"

"What the fuck? No, just letting you ride it to see Elizabeth and get around on. Dinner at home tonight. Bring her back in one piece."

"Thanks Dad." Richard hops on the hog, revs it a few times and peels off leaving Lyra and Liam clasping hands alone in the airport car park.

"So cowboy, how you feel about taking a taxi home?"

"What about the metro?"

"Don't recall ever seeing a cowboy acting like a mole before. Lets get us a taxi."

Metro's fucked anyway, damn Mrs. Clarke. Should've saved the people on the subway.
Then-11:00 PM, Shed.

Fuck! He tosses the clock against the wall. The connection seemed to make more damage to the wall than the clock. So good was the work he did, even if the fucking thing continued to be a few seconds slow despite what he did to try and rectify the problem.

"Goddamnedsonofabitch!" he squeals the last word as he kicks the wooden shell in frustration. It delivers no relief.

Bursting with rage and revolted with his horrid efforts he takes one last kick at the beautifully crafted clock. Screaming his aggravation fists clenched he lifts the clock skyward and slams it back to the countertop.

"Okay you demented SOB let's get you working properly."

Taking a hard look, he decides to take the blasted thing apart and work his way back through it. It takes him a number of hours. Carefully, lovingly, disassembling and reconstructing the clock. It's two o'clock by the time he's finished. Frustrated, pissed off and feeling absolutely relieved he swings the pendulum setting it all in motion. Tick, tick, tick. He studies his watch. The hands moving in perfect sync with those on the clock face. The initial feeling of trepidation easing as time closes in on a minute. It's fucking working. The blasted SOB is working!

Elated, he leans back in his chair and the table. Prideful and comforted. Annoyed somewhat, because he can't put his finger on what it is that he did differently the second time as apposed to what he had done the first time he constructed it. Daft bloody clock.

Damned nice though, he'll admit that; despite the slight chips and dints in the wood created when he threw it to the wall. He decides, looking at it, that it creates character.

At least, that's his excuse.

"Looks good," Kim says.

Startled, he turns to find her leaning against the doorframe. He hates the warmth that fills him at the sight of her. The happiness, joy that informs him that somewhere along the course of his afternoon he somehow misplaced his mad.

"I'm sorry."

It's annoying how the two words most rarely said by a female are only offered at stupid times. When he's tired at his most defenseless. Makes it incredibly hard to rebuild the fires of his resentment.

But then, when it comes to Kim, it's always hard.

He looks at her. Simply stares. Trying to find that place of hurt that he was in when he left the department. A futile effort.

She's everything. His life preserver. Today he felt the beginnings of drowning as he tried to discover if, when the time comes that everything surfaces whether he's going to be able to swim. The tide's rising, he felt the water around his throat, there was a time there he wondered about his swimming abilities. Unsure. Scared, possibly. Slightly. Without her he might not have the desire to keep his head above water. Let alone the ability.

"I know." He tells her. He's not too sure what he's meant to be angry about anymore. Being a suspect in the bombings? Well, he is responsible. But there are logical explanations behind the circumstances that lead to his questioning. Someone, the person/people responsible bought up a whole heap of his new range of clockwork Christmas toys. There's a reason he went through the effort of setting up a fake e-mail account and copying the numbers off of the famous prick's credit card.

How'd he get access to it? The same way he got Mrs. Clarke's husband and son. The same way he knew that she and her lover-boy priest were going to be at the church. The exact same way he knew her father would be driving past Starbucks when he did.

You shadow someone, learn their routine, discover habits, then exploit them later. Set things in motion to disturb said routine. Whether it be a slight delay so that they get to the church a few minutes later than usual so you have time to climb out of the window and lock the other doors securely before the lovers even show. Or just making sure that you're in the prime place to watch a car bomb detonate at a street light.

Or, in case of the famous prick with the jewelers on the corner, it gives you about twenty seconds to sneak into his house through the master bedroom window while he's taking a dump to memorize his credit card details.

Nice fucking house that. If you could call the thing a house. More like a goddamned palace. But ah this is Hollywood after all. L-fucking-A so you could expect a rich jeweler to live in a bloody palace filled with all of his trinkets and pathetically ugly knick-knacks. Liam had to wonder how the guy made so much money off the shit he made. But then you can't account for taste.

He looks at her now, sadly, as she comes hesitantly into the room. No roaring lion is she now.
Then-December 16, 4:00 AM

On the third day of Christmas my true love gave to me...

The wind whistles through the windows. It's rather eerie. The creaking, squeaking, the walls are complaining. The house cries sorrowfully in its old bones.

Kim sleeps fretfully. She kicks her feet as she tosses and turns. She sobs as tears run down her cheeks. Her eyes are still screwed tight. Does she dream of bodies. Piled high upon one another? Or does she dream of falling brick and steel? The glass and debris, do they come flying at her, is she trapped in the subway station as it collapses? Or is she stuck in her car as it flips end over tail to land wheels up with her head grinding the concrete?

The wind whistles Johnny, I hardly knew ye as Kim twists and turns around the bed. Watching her as he sits with his back against the headboard Liam knows that she's struggling with the horrors she's seen. The bombings. The murders. It's all too much.

And it'll be worse today.

Oh so much worse. He snuggles down into the blankets, wrapping his arms around her as her sobbing signifies her restlessness.

If only she'd talk to him.

"I'm here baby, nothing's going to happen to you, I promise. You're safe, love."

She nods her head as she buries her face in his chest while she gets her sobbing under control. It's not long before she's asleep again.

Her breathing heavy. Deep.

Her body pliant and relaxed.

She trusts him so much, he knows. It shows too, by the way she is when she sleeps.

On one level her trust is completely misplaced and he knows it. has always known it. every day that has passed over the last eight years has been a minor night terror, a night fright if you were. Frightened by the possibility that she may make the wrong discovery. He's been cautious. Almost to the point of anal retentiveness. So far it's worked out in his favour. The fear of losing what he has with her; their two kids, their home, their love and affection has made him vigilant. He must hide things. Hide the horrors of his abilities. It seemed to be the only way he could preserve their lives as they were. The alternative is too painful to imagine.

He wonders, not for the first time, how his life would have turned out if Debbie didn't play that last prank on him. he'd probably still be married to her, living the simply life of a blues club guitar playing jeweler. They wouldn't have kids and he'd be struggling to hide his contempt for her ridiculous pranks. Debbie hated kids. Never wanted them, though she always tried to reassure him that they'd start in a few years.

Always a few more years. It's funny how often those simple words placated him. you can't define how long 'a few more years' actually is. Could be two years, three, shit it could even be a decade depending on ones definition.

It's a good thing he made her slit her own throat. Forced suicide, as he defines it, he didn't actually kill her. Shit he barely touched her, beyond what was necessary to strip her and tie her to the bathroom towel rack.

He can still remember leaving his bone-handled utility knife on the bathroom floor mere feet from her as he closed the door behind her and rigged it with a rather primitive trap of homemade explosives and a timer. He told her through the door that the explosives would go off in twelve minutes. If she hadn't managed to find the key for the lock on the bathroom door before that she'd get blown key high. The only hint was that he put it somewhere that was used to breathe.

After seventeen hours locked in the bathroom naked she believed every word he told her. As he knew every loving word she had ever told him was a lie so too was everything he told her that day. She'd have been fine if she just sat there or if she simply walked to the door and twisted the knob and walked out.

Taking him at his word she slit her throat open looking for a key that wasn't in the bathroom, for a lock he decided not to use. It's the case of the beaten elephant used to years of a chain around his ankle that doesn't realize when the chain's been replaced by a piece of rope so flimsy a sneeze would have the creature free.

If hadn't killed Debbie. If she had never played that prank he wouldn't be married to Kim with so in the long run, it doesn't seem too bad. At least he traded up. Scored big when he got with Kim again after so many years apart.

It's that thought that he uses to reaffirm his actions to keep his secrets exactly that; his secrets. She's too much of a prize to let slip away.

So he shows her what he needs to show her. What is deep inside him, what he wishes is all he is. The man who loves and adores her. The man who would do anything for her. Who would kill for her.

What girl doesn't want a man who loved her so much he would and could kill for her?

It's his way of proving, at least to himself, that her trust, her adoration, isn't misplaced.

He reflects on the loving and cuddling and forgiveness of the last two hours or so. It really didn't take much to lose the mad when she came in looking like she did. It would have been the realization that she was just doing her job that cooled him off. It doesn't matter. She always had that ability anyway. The ability to cool him down when it didn't seem logical to be able to do so, so quickly.

She's got some party to go to tonight. Some Christmas do with the force. Maybe Rod will be there. Maybe he won't.

Liam smiles to himself as he climbs under the covers, his mind already wrapping itself around his plans for the foolish cop.

Merry Christmas motherfucker.

***

...Three French Hens in a queen sized bed.

In an expensive hotel room booked for the remaining days of the month three bodies have been festering for a week. The windows never opened, the door never opened. The tenants never seen the light of day laying in skimpy French maids outfits.

It'd be beautiful if the skin weren't rotting in the hothouse the room had been turned into.

If the foul odour hadn't cloaked the room. If it weren't starting to linger into the hallway.

If it weren't a room where the sheets are caked thick in dried blood. The minibar empty and its contents spilling onto the floor by the bed. If the world didn't have crazy SOBs like Liam who'd pay for the services of prostitutes get them up into the room tell them to put on those lovely outfits before helping themselves to the minibar.

They really shouldn't have touched anything from the bar. All of it had been spiked. All of it, touched by poison. All of it drenching the lips. All of it.

The hookers didn't have a chance.

Greed, lust, money. Temptation.

They should have resisted.

Oh the cost of two hundred an hour. Far exceeded the opening of legs and use of a well used pussy.

Such a shame to die that way.

Such a shame there was no one out there that actually missed them.

If they didn't serve a purpose it'd almost feel like a waste of life. But what lives do they have anyway? Prostituting themselves for what? To put them through school? Who'd hired them anyway once their prostitution convictions come through, absolutely no one with a job worth applying for.

Stupid young sluts. Maybe these three French hens learnt something about their lives before they died. Maybe they didn't. Liam didn't care either way. They're to serve a purpose to him. the third day of twelve. That's it. nothing more.

It may take a few days before they're discovered, or the cleaners may just find the girls at some point today.

He'll let the world think that the bombings are over, that the killer is finished. They may just believe then tomorrow... he'll prove them wrong.
Noon-Police Station.

Well fuck me... again?

Twisted thoughts circle his mind as he envisions the snotty little prick infront of him burned and charred to a crisp. The black suit nothing more than a piece of dirty remnants over a black as fuck body. The slicked back hair burnt away. The cocky smile, gone. The teeth, oh, he'd bust out all of them perfectly straight teeth before covering the weeping, groaning body in his homemade napalm (gasoline and soap shavings. Stir. Let sit. Stir again. Hey, presto.). He'd light the little sonofabitch up and watch.

Lyra's with Richard so that's good, seen as his wife's bastard father and his cronies have decided to bring him back down here to the station for more useless questions.

They've got the whole day figured out. The times are wrong. But besides that, they've come up with a pretty accurate depiction of what happened on the day he killed the McDonald's worker.

"She insulted you somehow, reacted poorly to something you said, provided you with poor customer service. So you waited, dined there everyday to learn her routine. It was an obsession for you."

Obsession? Fuck off, she tried to double charge me and refused to give me my fucking food. Tried to pawn off some wanker's order. Killed that motherfucker too. That prick that stole my order. I blew the cunt's brains out in the fucking carpark. Shoved his body in the drivers' seat and wrote a suicide note for him. He got off easy. Fucking faggot.

"After a month of this..."

It was a fortnight not a month.

"One afternoon when it was raining you saw an opportunity and you seized it. you pulled up beside her as she was walking home and offered her a ride. She took it and you took her. Isn't that right?"

"No." he says this calmly, coolly. Not letting anything show.

They got it wrong, just a little bit. With just one minor detail. It wasn't raining.

"You didn't give a lift? We have witnesses who say they saw her get in the back of your truck."

Liar, she got on the back of my bike. Always had a thing for bikes, she told me, a large pulsating machine between her legs. She told me it got her wet. Stupid bitch didn't realize how close she sat to dying.

"I did not give her a lift anywhere. She served me my lunch, or my breakfast. That was all the interaction I ever had with her."

The questioning continued for hours.

***

Kim watches her husband through the mirrored window. He knows she's back here and she knows he's not going to break. It's almost funny how determined everyone is to nail him with this. With all of it.

But she just doesn't believe he did it. he couldn't. it's not possible. She knows what kind of person he is, he's just not capable of murder. Liam wouldn't... he just wouldn't... do... anything like this.

***

"Let's talk about your mother."

"Right. What does she have to do with anything?"

"Is she still alive, Liam?"

He rolls his eyes at the man, "As far as I know she's in a retirement home somewhere back in Washington state."

"You don't know this for sure though? Could you name the retirement home, the town it's in?"

"Honestly? No. my mother and I have a somewhat, strained relationship."

"You've been known to say that you hate the bitch. You've said it a few times to friends when questioned and more than a few times to your wife. Correct?"

"Fine, yea. I hate the bitch. I was nothing more than a boxing bag for her growing up. I looked too much like my father and grandfather for either my mother her grandmother to stomach."

"They beat you."

"That's what I said."

"I don't really believe you."

***

Kim shudders as the emptiness fills her husband's eyes. He's pissed off now. With good reason too. She's right there at pissed-the-hell-off with him.

"No? You want some sort of fucking proof? How about the goddamned scars that cover half of my fucking body, would that be good enough for you?

"Should I strip off so you can see them and take it all in?"

"I know you have scars but I don't believe you got them through some imagined beatings when you were a child."

"How the fuck did I get them then?"

"I managed to look up your military record this morning. Did you tell anyone about that? That you did time in the military? Do you tell anyone? Your brother, mother, wife, friends?"

"I don't like thinking about it."

"And why is that? why don't you like thinking about it? Is it because you killed five men and women? A shot between the eyes; perfect headshot to almost all of your victims and the people where the shot wasn't point perfect you were out by fractions of a millimeter. It's quite impressive."

"I served seven years straight out of high school. I was a sniper. A damned good one. I took out targets. Not people, I couldn't afford to think of them as people. They were targets, if I thought of them as brothers, sisters, mothers, sons, husbands, wives, grandfathers, I'd have turned the rifle on myself. It was a job, I did it in service to my country as they put me through uni and now you want to bring up my military record to prove I'm capable of murder?

"Tell me agent; have you ever fired your firearm?"

The bravado leaves the agent's face for a moment. Just a moment but long enough for people to see what wasn't said.

Kim sighs as she looks at her husband. Yes, he told her this. He told her everything. They just refuse to speak of it. it was said once, they got their cards out on the table and that was that. the end. Finito. Never to be brought up again.

"I didn't think so.

"So you wouldn't have a clue how hard it is to pull that trigger. How it never gets easier. How taking a life fucks you up. Locking an arsehole behind bars is one thing. But taking away everything including the last breath he'll ever breathe? Once you're out you never want to do it again. And you pray you don't have to."

***

If he had a gun on him right now, he'd shot the son of a bitch between the eyes. Bringing his fucking military record into this shit for Christ's sake.

Liam knows he just lied his arse off but what else could he do? Concede the point? Fuck off!

"Did you ever tell anyone why you were discharged?"

"Besides Debbie, then later on Kim? No."

"You actually told your wife? I'm surprised."

You're a fuckwit, is what you are. "Imagine that, a man tells his wife even what he would rather keep hidden because she deserves total honesty. How goddamned surprising."

"Did you happen to tell her all of the details?"

"What are getting at?"

"I'm just wondering if she knows the real reason behind the crisscrossing scars on your chest."

Liam can see the prick with his head lolled to the side. Barely attached to the neck by only a thin scrap of flesh. It dangles and sways before one gentle flick of his fingers sends it falling to the fall. Like a cartoon the body would stand for a moment before collapsing.

He'd give his left nut for a gun.

"The scars on my chest are the result of my bitch mother's abuse. You stupid motherfucker it'd be best to get your facts straight before tossing judgments around."

"Can you explain the summer of '92?"

"I can."

The agent waits. Is he really expecting Liam to elaborate? He answered the question. Beyond that shit isn't going to be said.

A frustrated smile flickers over the agent's face. "Cute. Real cute Corporal Aslanov."
Then- 4:18 PM, Police Station

The fist hits him straight in the jaw. A hand grips the back of his head to slam his face into the table.

"I want a glass of water." Liam mumbles as he sits up in his chair watching the frustrated agent huff, wheeze, snort, and scowl.

"I know you killed that woman." The agent whispers, "I know you blew up those buildings. I know you're behind the subway bombing."

"I want a glass of water."

"Fuck your glass of water! You did it, admit it. just fucking admit it."

"I admit, I... could kill for a glass of water."

The agent grabs Liam by the throat, dragging his face back into the table not just once but twice.

***

"Dad, stop him already. Please!" Kim pleads as she watches her husband's face brutally thrown against the table. "Dad!"

Liam smiles as the agent releases him. that's not a good thing. Especially when someone has pounded his face against the table over and over again.

"I'll kill you for what you've done. You hear me, Corporal? I'll take away everything starting with the last breath you'll breathe. Then I'll rape your daughter and have your slut wife groaning beneath me before your body's cold in the ground.

"All I want is a confession. One little confession and I promise you, I'll only fiddle your daughter a little."

Kim can only watch as her husband once again asks for his glass of water.

***

Hit me one more time you stupid cunt.

"I'll kill you for what you've done. You hear me, Corporal? I'll take away everything starting with the last breath you'll breathe. Then I'll rape your daughter and have your slut wife groaning beneath me before your body's cold in the ground.

"All I want is a confession. One little confession and I promise you, I'll only fiddle your daughter a little."

God you're smart! Piss me off, just piss me off.

"Can I have my glass of water now?" Liam enquires with a smile.

The fist comes towards his face. It's not an unexpected strike. None of them have been. This time he doesn't sit there meekly letting the punch land. He swerves and rises from the chair. Dragging the agent onto the table with his stomach pressed against it and his head in Liam's hands. There's a crack, a snap, as bones shift and the man's neck breaks fills the air as a roar of commotion erupts outside of the interview room.

He's about to slam the man to the ground but there's a sharp pain in the base of his neck before he loses control of his motorskills. All he can do is convulse on the floor, soiling himself thrashing around close to choking on his own tongue.
Now—12:00 Noon, December 25

The building burns down around her. Richard and Lyra are outside so that's good, but she has to get her father. Her father has to get out. Where is he? It's hard to imagine that Liam set their house on fire but then she refused to believe that her husband could be a murderer and it seems that he was. But his own house? His own family?

He's always been the perfect father, the most loving husband why would he try to kill his own family?

Choking and spluttering on the smoke, she makes her way to the lounge where her father was sleeping.

She shoves the door open.

The room is empty. Where is her father?

She's been inside the flames for too long. She's been breathing the poisoned aired for far too long.

She'll kill Liam for this.

Oh, she loves her husband. You can't turn off emotions like you can a lightbulb. But she'll kill her husband for this. For endangering their children, she'll butcher him.

With that thought the gases get the best of her and Kim falls flat on her face.

***

Commissioner Roberts tosses the can of gasoline through the open kitchen window and rushes to the front lawn to stand beside his family. There's his grandson and granddaughter, where's his daughter? Where's Kim?

The confused look on his grandchildren's faces confirms a horrifying fear.

"Kim!" he wails as he rushes back towards the building.

6:06PM, December 25

His smartphone vibrates in his pocket, he digs it out and runs his finger across the screen, "Hello."

"Hello Commissioner."

Fear and anger flood him. "Liam, you son—"

"I'm coming for you."

The connection is cut leaving him sweating and fearful. Liam's coming for him. Liam 'The Clergyman' Aslanov is coming for him. Twelve days, Mr. Claus, The Clergyman is coming for him.

How do you stop a man so good at murder that he's able to get away with it for eight years when he's decided to put you on his hit-list?

A text message flashes on the screen: I'll make what you did to Kim look like a cuddle. Merry Christmas Dad.

***

Sitting across the waiting room in a pair of jeans, orange printed tee, cowboy boots and a Stetson Liam watches his father-in-law pace as he places the phone back into his pocket. The old man's stressed, worried. There's a slight puddle on the front of his pants, fear made the man wet himself.

Good.

He rises from the chair and makes his way out of the hospital. Leaving the flowers on the reception desk for the nurses or orderlies to give to his wife later on.

He'll burn the bastard alive for what happened to Kim; for what could've happened to his kids. He'll kill the son of a bitch for this.

He walks across the car park opening the door on his muscle car. Necessity has changed him. He can't walk around wearing the same things as always, having his hair the in the same style and driving the same vehicles. He doesn't even speak in the same accent anymore. He can't afford to. Leaving town and driving as far away as he did was all a diversion. Make the police and law enforcement agencies think he has run off to hide in some small secluded shithole when in actuality he's gone to one point then turned around and come home.

By lunchtime he was back in LA walking around in a Stetson with his hair slicked back driving a new Dodge Charger. Black with silver racing stripes. Listen to that baby purr.

He puts the cigarette in his mouth as he slides into the leather seats and relaxes for a moment.

He'll burn the son of a bitch alive, strung up like lunchtime's roast leg on the cunt's living room couch.
Then—5:21AM, December 17

The world revolves around the sun on a specific angle. This angle is responsible for the life sustaining properties of this planet. Blah.

How did he end up working a pet shop? He studied and studied, wanting to become a teacher and what does he end up doing with his time? Working in a fucking petshop.

He slams the door behind him as he enters the rear of the shop. It's unusually loud in here this morning. The birds are chirping, the dogs and puppies are barking manically, the cats, the godforsaken cats are meowing like shit. Save him. flicking on the lights he makes his way into the room sipping from his metallic carrycup. He never quite lifting his head he makes his way to the cupboards in the rear to get the birdfeed out.

Birdfeed in hand he twists the chinks out of his neck. Bring on the day, he thinks to himself as he approaches the birdcage. Not paying attention to anything around him.

Oh, he wanted to be a teacher so much. Working with little kids. Inspiring them. seeing how their little brains worked. It would have been fun. Exciting. Challenging. A blast.

Putting his hand on the cage he jerks away in fright. What the hell? Why is his hand sticky? What is this... is this blood?

Raising his eyes to the cage the coffee cup and birdfeed fall the ground forgotten as he stumbles away from the cage. Oh god, oh god. Shit, damn motherfucker.

The heads of four young African American children are tied to the various wooden perches. Wings fashioned out of wire are stabbed into the ears. Their faces, mostly the mouths and lower jaw have been carved into a beak making them look like mutated Angrybirds characters.

He feels his stomach turning. The entire cage is empty apart from the four heads and the countless dead birds clustered in piles of feathers along the cage floor.

He throws up.

Sick to his stomach there is no other option.

He wonders fleetingly where the bodies are. It doesn't take much for him to realize that he doesn't care either way.

Think of the solar system. Think of the faces of the little kids as they learn something new. As they develop a new obsession. As they fall in love with learning. Do not think of the heads in the cage. Do not think of the heads.

Shit, probably shouldn't have looked up at the cage again.

He stumbles towards the rear room, reaching for the phone.

What's the emergency number? Right. Hahahaha 9-1-1. right. Dial. Vomit.

"There's heads in a cage." He says, "fucking heads in a cage..."

7:15 AM, December 17—Police Station, Interview Room 2.

"How did you do it?"

"How'd I do what?" Liam knows he's asking about the four heads of those little African American kids. He's not going to answer any questions. None. They'll have to break him first and that's not going to happen. "How's Agent Thomas?"

This new agent glares at him.

"I know he's not dead so you can stop looking at me like that."

The agent frowns but the glare is gone.

"He probably won't walk again but at least he's not dead." Liam sighs heavily, "Agent, I knew what I was doing, if I wanted to kill him he would have been dead. Instead, he's paralyzed. How badly I don't know. Don't care either."

Now the new agent is grumpy. Oh no. snort, cough, snore. Bore-ring.

"There was a scene, found in a petshop this morning..."

"And I'm supposed to know anything about it? how? I was here all night.

"I couldn't have done anything."

12:00 Noon, December 17— Police station, Interview Room 2.

"Are you waiting for me to confess? Ain't gonna happen, son. Just let me go already."

This new agent. This short four-eyed SOB is giving him the silent treatment. Trying to unnerve him by being silent. Does he really expect it to work?

Liam sighs dramatically before smiling, perhaps with too much of a sinister malice.

"It'd be about twenty years ago now, closer to twenty two. I found myself in a little country just west of Serbia. I had just joined the Green Berets and had been recruited further into an elite force that... doesn't officially exist.

"You get the west of Serbia reference, right? As you can understand I can't actually tell you what I was doing there, or where there was. But let's just assume the shithole country begins with a 'b' and ends in 'osnia' shall we?

"It's not actually that bad a country if you're into the whole touristy thing but war turns everything to shit so it was a shithole, at least to me. Buildings were being burnt to the ground. People were being blown sky high and Serbs were raping Muslim women through some misguided ideal of ethnic cleansing. I considered it genocide.

"While on this topic one of our missions was to free the victims from a series of detention centres. I was posted at a distance to cover the team as they went in to the building. Some dreary music was playing over a speaker system. Bang bang bang, hum. In some foreign language I didn't really understand.

"You see, I didn't gather the significance of the song. Naivety maybe, I was only in my early twenties what the fuck did I know about such things? Rape, in such a systematic and pre-decided way was ambiguous, I guess. We didn't grasp that the song was a herald, a start to the entire rape and beating procedure.

"It put fear into the hearts of the victims. And here we were going in at the time went the song was playing..."

Liam stops talking. Tears track down his cheek and his throat grows tight. It's still painful to think about. Oh, he was no stranger to pain. They had such an intimate relationship already, pain and he, by the time he even thought about enlisting. But this, this was something else. This was ordered and mechanical. This was straight up wrong. Even he can admire the irony of that thought. Not that he has ever raped anyone. Not that he ever desires or is willing to do such a thing.

He does have some limitations.

"I'm can't tell you what my role was but I'll tell you this much. The police chief never knew happened. One minute he's standing there trying to pull up his fly the next second his body's falling to the ground a little hole at the back of his head the front splattering against the wall.

"I'll confess one thing; I have never felt sorry for killing him. Even if the guys had already restrained the SOB."

He stares at the agent. Taking in the spiked blond hair and pretty little badge hanging on the lanyard around his neck. The pasty white skin, vibrant green eyes sparkling with excitement. He's in his early twenties, probably out in the field for the first time. Hoping to break the guy and having the prestige of closing the LA Bombings case. Now that's naivety.

"Is that the confession you were after, Agent..."

"Mason."

"Is that the confession you want from me, Agent Mason?"

The agent glares at him before heading for the door.

3:47 PM, December 17, Police station, Interview Room 2.

"How many people have you killed, Liam?" the spiky haired kid finally decides to speak.

"I took out targets. Not people. I couldn't afford to look at them as people. I never wanted to think of them as people. It's too hard, too scary, too dangerous to think of them that way."

"Them?"

"The targets."

"Are you referring to your military career again?"

"What else would I be talking about?"

"I'm speaking about the time since left the army."

"Haven't you been listening? I haven't killed anyone since I left the army."

"Really?"

"Really."

"What about your first wife?"

"What about her?"

"Did you kill her?"

"She cut her own throat open."

"So you didn't then?" it's more of a statement than a question.

"No, I didn't." this is getting boring. Beyond boring actually. Being held and interrogated by a bunch of bloody amateurs. Maybe they should swap places and he'll show them how it's done. He'd have had them confessing within the first twenty minutes for every damn thing, from the 9/11 plane crashes to the crucifixion of Christ. These are the Jewish priests that dragged a Nazarene man before Pontius Pilate, or so he'll have them convinced when they don bathrobes and Kippahs.

"Let's talk about her for a moment shall we?"

"Oh goody, lets." Liam summons all the sarcasm he can muster.

9:02 PM, 17 December—Police station, Interview Room 2.

"Hey, baby." Kim smiles sweetly at her husband as she walks into the room and sits down opposite him. "Are you hungry baby?"

"Starving, Love."

"I couldn't bring you anything. They wouldn't let me."

"Any idea when I'm going to get out of here?"

She chews her bottom lip while staring down at the table. She must be wondering how to word the question that is apparently on her mind. to think that her trust in him has waivered. It's a sorry thought, despite its justification.

"Just ask." He shrugs.

Reaching across the table she grasps his hands pleadingly, "Tell me you didn't do it."

"I didn't do it."

"That's all I wanted to hear." She leans forward and over the table top kissing him gently before rising and exiting the room. Extracting her hands from his at the last possible moment.

9:45 PM, December 17—Police Station, Interview Room 2

They're trying to drive him insane. keeping everyone and anyone apart from him. as if that is going to work. Solitary. Darkness. This isn't going to work. He chuckles to himself. Solitary. No one hears him. No one cares.

All they have done is amuse him. he did worse while in the military. He's done worse since he left. So much worse. This isn't going to break him. not even close.

"I spent fifteen months in 'b'-osnia. Shooting targets. Taking them down. That last guy, Thomas, he seemed to think I took out five. It's a lot higher than that. I'll confess that much. It was a lot higher than that."

He tugs at the shackles on his wrists and legs.

"Don't you think these cuffs are wee bit excessive? The door's locked it's not like I can get out of this room!"

He smiles and slouches in the chair.

"Come on, Agent Mason, this is just a bit much."

He sits there. Staring off into space for a bit. Well this is fun. Fun-diddily- motherfucking-fun. Skipping in a puddle of fecal matter fun. Crying out to Allah as the skin peels of your bones fun.

He'd rather watch paint dry.

Or grass grow.

Maybe he should think about the commotion that is going to erupt in approximately twelve hours time.

And on the fifth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...
Then—9:01 AM, December 18—Police Station

Men dressed in Kevlar with heavy helmets and ridiculous tongs stand over the wooden flower box. A rather large, plain white square of cardboard.

Kim and her father stand behind a heavy bullet proof glass partition with members from the CIA, FBI, LAPD as the lid is lifted carefully, oh so carefully off the top of the package. The fear of the recent bombings has made everyone edgy, nervous, scared. Every parcel is a potential bomb. Every unattended shopping bag and trash sack.

So when the package was left on the doorstep of the police station with the words 'Merry Christmas Motherfuckers' on the front the first thought was bomb squad.

"Oh, shit!" one of the men says as he drops the tongs and throws up in his helmet.

"That's just nasty." The other one proclaims, looking unsettled as well.

As they look over at the opened parcel, the sight is revealed to be a collection of hands with a sheet of paper rolled up in the centre.

Tinsel ties the five hands together finger to wrist in a circular shape. Each hand a pale unattached left with a yellow or white ring on the ring-finger. Pieces of holly are inserted amoungst the tinsel. Small golden bells scattered to create a sick Christmas wreath.

It's nauseating to behold.

"What's the paper?"

One of the men grabs the scroll and unwinds it. "Remember that song?" the man who hadn't thrown up enquires, "Ya'll know it. Twelve days of Christmas. On the first day of Christmas my true gave to me, a partridge in a pear tree."

"Shit that's what the woman was in the freight container!" the commissioner says. "What's this then?"

"Five gold rings." Answers Kim as she studies the hands.

"And yesterday was four calling birds." The agent with the spiked hair remarks.

Kim wonders about that. calling? that's wrong, and a common misconception. The song's 'colly' bird. Colly as in black. Liam used to complain about it when the carolers would show up at the door.

She keeps that thought to herself.

He said he didn't do it and she believes him. there is no way she's going to tell anyone that. they'll just keep him locked up for longer.

Innocent men being held is as much a crime as that to which they are being accused.
Now—December 25, 9:47 PM

Deck the halls with bells of holly. Tra-lalala-lala-la-la. 'Tis the season to be jolly. Tra-lalala-lala-la-ugh! What-the-fuck-ever.

Liam chuckles to himself as finishes assembling the rifle. God, he loves Christmas Carols. About as much as he loves blowing the top off of his head with this pretty little Russian made rifle.

He looks through the scope for a minute. His father-in-law is pacing out front of the hospital's main entrance. He could pop the man off right now. Lean back, maneuver himself only slightly to the left. Reposition the rifle only a bit and pop! There goes the head. It's just too damn easy.

And that is a concern.

Where are all of the agents, the undercover cops and bodyguards? Where's the man's protection? This shit just isn't right.

Taking the Stetson and placing it on the concrete of the multi level parking lot's roof he brushes his fingers through his bleached blond hair, attempting to stifle his frustrated confusion.

He runs his vision around the exterior of the building. Watching the roof. Draped windows of hospital rooms, various wards.

Spotting the man's protection he quickly dismantles the rifle, shoves it in his duffle bag, and dons his Stetson while chuckling before getting the hell out of dodge.

***

Commissioner Roberts listens to the voice in the earpiece telling him that Liam isn't here. That there's no sight of him. not even a whisper of the man, or a squeak of a fart.

Come on Liam, I'm waiting for you.

***

Walking slowly, casually, in a loping gait now his usual, although yesterday it would have been unthought-of to walk in such a manner, Liam exits the parking garage and heads towards the city centre. He passes everyday folk with glassy eyes high on weed or some bullshit drug, perhaps maybe just pissed off their faces. Some stand too close to him, invading his personal space. Once upon a time he wouldn't have thought twice about snapping necks, breaking bones, killing the arsehole who has just now bumped into him and not so much as offered a grunt of an apology. Sadly, he knows those days are gone. Change your patterns not just your appearance and you'll stay hidden for years.

Mayhap indefinitely?

People pass him not knowing who he is, what he's done or what he's capable of doing. He's a nobody now. He's not a father, a husband, a brother, a soldier, nor is he a jeweler. He's a nobody in a cowboy hat in a city filled of nobodies who want desperately to be somebodies.
Then—December 18, 9:45 AM—Police Station interview room 2

"Take a look at these pictures." An assortment of stills are placed on the table top in front of him. Sixteen. There are sixteen photos. Various angles and close ups of the same scene.

It's comical just how decayed the bodies are. The bedspread is yellow. The carpet is a silvery grey and the blood is... not there. But then he thinks about it and why would it be? He didn't cut the three prostitutes. Nor did he shoot them, so blood wouldn't have been spilt to end up anywhere. He imagined bloodied eye sockets and noses dripping the stuff. Obviously that didn't happen.

It appears the poison didn't have that effect on the bodies. That's interesting.

He was rather interested in how the bodies turned out, well at least now he knows. They turned out as grey and lifelessly dull as the carpet beneath them. at least the outfits are pretty. it takes away from the overwhelming disappointment, the dismay of a bloodied hotel suite that never existed. So much for fantasies.

He's glad to know the truth.

"What am I supposed to see here?" he pushes the photos around on the wooden surface. Idly shifting one picture from one space to abandon it in another before starting again with another of the sixteen.

"Look at the girls and tell me what you see in the picture. What does it remind you of?"

He studies the pictures, although he doesn't need to. "Am I looking at a slumber party gone wrong?"

The quiet that follows the question is disturbed only by the removal of the photos.

"Look at these and tell me what you see?"

He studies the pictures of the rude McDonalds worker. Christ that was beautiful. It still looks that way now, so many weeks after having first made the scene and dressing the table. "A cannibal's Christmas wish?"

Again the photos are removed, replaced by new ones. He continues with the tedium.

"Now that's fucked up. Why are you showing me this shit for?" it's come to the heads.

Again, removal, replace.

God, that wreath turned out well. he remembers making it. pulling up beside his victims in the street and pretending to be a lost tourist. Asking where this is, or that is, or if this or that still exists glancing at the hands quickly to ascertain if they had wedding bands on. Two of his victims he drowned in ether the other three he simply killed as they bent over, crouched or leant away from the car. A shot to the head for each of them. who needs a head anyway? He was only ever interested in the left hands.

One of his victims lost their hand right there in the street as their headless bodies oozed red cells, white cells, plasma and platelets onto the footpath. He left the body where it fell. Not bothering with the hassle of disposal figuring that the government has teams of CBI, CSI or what the fuck abbreviation they have to take care of that detail for him. the remaining two bodies were placed into his trunk or the backseat of his pickup for organ donation at a later time and venue.

The two he hadn't killed?

Now, they were fun.

Riding a bike and making sure the first body didn't fall off wasn't easy. He'd say it was a straight up bitch and a half if he were honest. Something he learnt from and rectified the following day. Do not take the hog when you are planning to knock someone out for ease of transportation, makes the ordeal a bitch.

Can anyone say, 'Lesson Learnt'?

Liam stifles the smile as he remembers the bulk, the slim, the abundance of his victims as he strapped them to the gurney. Waiting for them to come around if he had only knocked them out. Watching the terror in their expressions as they took in their surroundings.

To come to inside of a warehouse surrounded by pelleted cardboard boxes and broken machines, dust covered floors and wrists trapped inside of large mechanical guillotines must have been frightening. He wouldn't know it didn't happen to him but the expressions on their faces sure were a sight. Delicious.

He sat and watched them. their eyes opening drowsily, the fog of bewilderment dissipating, replaced by a frightening- or for him an intoxicating- comprehension.

"Gentlemen," he told them as their eyes dragged to the second level of scaffolding and stored pellets to find him sitting with legs dangling, "The two of you find yourselves in you current position because you couldn't very well keep your hands to yourselves.

"I've spent the last four weeks watching you two day in day out, having your actions documented, photographed, recorded. So I know very well that you're both noting more than petty shoplifters. The problem with shoplifting though is that it's theft. And theft, in it's illicit nature is addictive if you get away with it for long enough.

"I know you've both stolen nothing of merit, or substantial value. Just a sandwich here, a pair of shoes there, a pregnancy test from this place.

"You'll steal a car next week. Rob a bank tomorrow. I can't let that happen so I'm going to stop it. stifle that shit in it's infancy.

"You're probably waiting for me to tell you that there's some sort of action... some feat you must perform and the ticking you can hear coming from the guillotine will stop, the device will disintegrate releasing your hands and you'll be free to go."

He smiled at the two men.

"I'm not Jigsaw, this isn't a Saw movie. I'm just telling you why you're going to lose your hands, nothing else. There's no way around it. I'm sorry to say, you both will lose your hands. When... When will it happen?" his smile, was sick, devious, enslaving his entire face. "Now."

The blades fell and shortly thereafter so too did the hands and the guillotines. The bodies fell shortly after that as he raised his gun and pulled the trigger twice.

Jumping from the scaffolding to land sharply on the concrete floor hurt more than he expected it to. Obviously didn't take the time to bend his knees enough, oh well, just another thing to be mindful of.

Limping with each step he took was a small and delectably tolerable price to pay for the joy of entertainment. Entertainment? That's not the right word. Fulfillment. He thought on that for a moment as he made his way across the blood covered warehouse floor.

To feel satisfied with what you are doing or realize your expectations or ambitions. At least that's the definition he got googling the word on his phone. Seemed closest to what he felt at the time yet pondering that statement he could've added frustrated to the mix of emotions now.

Shaking his head at the pure inanity of his thoughts he reached back grabbed the latex gloves from his back pocket before reaching down for the hands.

He'd think back on it and be amazed at the surgical way he approached the construction of his wreath. Standing in the centre of the empty warehouse 'The Hunter' licking his eardrums from the small earbuds piercing them, the song filling him with an ironic elation as he twisted wire onto the end of a string of green tinsel. He pierced the middle finger on a pale brown hand getting the wire firmly through the skin rather much like a homemade sowing needle. The tinsel didn't exactly stay intact as he pulled it through. The plastic needles falling off in a clump, the string snapping, clinging to the flesh. This was the finger and an obvious waste of product.

Screw that!

He grabbed the broken off seven pieces to use as twist ties to join Middle Finger 'A' to Wrist 'B' working his way clockwise around the five hands.

A far better idea to which he added the tinsel to afterwards. Bells and holly just an afterthought to provide some Christmas cheer and liven up the design. The final touches.

Putting the song in the centre was just icing on the cake. But having it 'magically' appear on the busy police station doorstep was pure genius.

"What's going to happen tomorrow?" the agent in front of him asks.

"The way things are going I'll be going to three days with no sleep. You'll ask me some stupid question to which I'll tell you I want a glass of water." He leans back in his chair. "Could you make sure it's bottled water too? I prefer the taste. Oh, and a chilled glass. A lime wedge might be nice too."

December 18, 12:00 Noon, Police Station Interview Room 2

"Are you hungry Corporal?" the prick has a fucking cheeseburger. Good on him.

"Not particularly, why, are you offering?"

"It says here that you were a Special Forces Weapons Sergeant? So you had experience with explosives. You said you were a sniper."

"And? Is a sniper rifle not a weapon?"

This four-eyed bastard doesn't find the question as amusing as Liam did.

"You lied to us."

"No I didn't." on the defensive, Liam can feel his heart-rate starting to accelerate. Mentally he counts backwards from ten. "It's not my fault you clowns didn't read your own pieces of paper properly. Don't try to put the blame onto me for your own fuck ups."

"Why so defensive Corporal?"

"Why? Are you seriously so stupid that you had to ask that question? I don't believe you're an FBI agent. You're too damned stupid. Where did the bureau find you, in a fucking unemployment line?"

"Now, look here."

"Maybe you're a CIA reject. Yeah, that makes more sense. Look at you with your spiky hair and glasses. You look like a fucking idiot. Matches your intelligence really."

"You stupid–" he pulls back his fist as if to strike him.

Liam smirks, shrugs, daring him to hit him. "Mason, think of Thomas before you hit me."

The fist tightens but falls to the man's hip. "I'm done playing with you Corporal." It's the kid's turn to smile as the door to the interview room opens. Liam can hear screaming and pleading from his wife as someone yells to get her out of the building. He can only assume it's his father-in-law giving the order.

"Now, that I think about it," the agent chuckles, actually fucking chuckles. "I think I've only just started to play. But it's my game now."

***

"Don't do this, please don't do this."

"He did it Kim. I know he did, we've just got to prove it. get him to confess."

"He hasn't done anything.

"But they'll torture him. if he says anything it'll be lies."

***

"Oh, ok. I see what you're doing." This is going to be fun. Liam thinks as they cover his eyes with a blindfold. Couldn't they come up with something original?

"Admit everything right now and we'll let you walk out of here."

"No, you won't."

"You're right. Strip."

"Get fucked."

Five men push both he and his chair over. Great thing being shackled to a goddamned chair. His clothes are torn from him. the tightening and tearing of material is rather unpleasant. A metal clamp is placed on his prick. Yeah, original. The steel of the chair becomes threatening and he remembers that thing about electrical conductors. Fucking great!

"TELL ME YOU DID IT!"

"I did it," Liam closes his eyes as he hears the loud wail of his wife's cry. What the fuck is she still doing here? "I fucked your mother."

A switch is thrown and the metal electrode is touched to his thigh.

Wow.

Hahahaha. Holy shit.

He jerks. Fucking shit's worse than the blasted taser. Filled with electricity he can't describe the pain.

Hurts; that's all he thinks.

Like lightning striking his balls. He has the urge to vomit but he can't. he wants to scream but he's in too much pain to let the noise out. His limbs are bound too tightly to let him curl up into a little ball like his body wants desperately. All he can do is lie there, attached to the metal chair lying sideways on the concrete ground as his entire body jerks and strains against the bindings.

Tightened legs, flexing arms and violent spasms all contained by the fierce rope and chains wrapped around him. the sound, the scream builds in his chest, the words, 'I am the Clergyman,' fill his lungs but the electricity stops the words from flowing forth. That and his own desire not to speak, to admit nothing. they'll have to try harder than this.

The initial pain passes but the muscles still spasm his body still screams. He'll say nothing now, but insults and smart-alec comments. Fuck them. fuck them all.

"A simple confession of guilt is all we're after, and you'll go free."

"I-I-I want a drink."

Time passes, he doesn't know how much. Not really, he lost count some time ago at which would have been two hours. It could very well be three in the afternoon.

He finds himself being dragged from the building, his body still shaking with the aftermath of the volts that were administered. Still blindfolded yet now he has a pillowcase over his head to hide his identity from the outside world he knows that his life is going to get a hell of a lot worse from here on.

It was bound to happen eventually, this new private, undisclosed location bullshit, whether he spoke or not. As soon as they attached the fucking clamp and electrode to him he knew it'd come to this. He'll kill them for this.

If they are as smart as they think they are they wouldn't be treating him like this. Do you really want to piss of a man responsible for the deaths of hundreds of people over the last eight years? Whether directly or indirectly, he killed, and they're going to torture him for a confession.

It's the brightest thing in the world. Really, it's plain stupid.
Then—0:00 AM/PM—Somewhere

Cold. It's so cold. Someone needs to turn the fucking AC off. It's too damned cold. It's a freezer. Fucking FBI, his arse! This is CIA tactics. Ice box. It's so cold. Someone, please turn the AC off.

Liam keeps his eyes closed. It's the only way he can think to stay sane. Opening his eyes exposes him to a world of white paper. White paper walls, white floors, ceilings. There are no windows, no noise. Everything's white. Everything. White, white, white, white, white. He can't even piss because he'll get electrocuted but it's too cold not to want to.

Bastards.

He imagines carebears and rainbows, mylittlepony's and fluorescent colours. Not because it's something pleasant to think about but because they're made up of bright lively colours.

Colours, colours everywhere. The whole world is filled with them yet all he can see is the plain, blinding white.

White, white, white, white, white.

December 19, 2:22 AM—Corridor, Somewhere

"He's not gonna break, sir."

"Everybody breaks. Just give it time."

"Should we dowse him again?"

"Immediately."

10:22 AM—Cinema

The film plays onscreen. Explosions and car chases filled with adrenaline pumping music or atmosphere creating tones. Their hearts are pumping, the two lovers as they try to reconnect to such a way to bring their relationship back from the brink.

They worry, not about the characters on screen but about eachother, have they come too far in the wrong direction? there's no point in going through all of the effort. Maybe they should just call it a day and kiss eachother goodbye. Although it'd break their hearts there are just some things that are too difficult to get past.

Maybe she should have told him that she made movies when they started dating. He was so sweet, so nice and polite, so, dare she say it, chivalrous that she didn't want to take the risk. It's not easy to find a guy whose main purpose isn't simply to get inside her knickers. Not that he didn't want that, not that she wouldn't have let him, it's just that he wanted to get to know her intimately before they took that step. It was endearingly refreshing.

God, she loves him. So much. Too much when it comes right down to it. she knows he deserves better than some slut who puts out in front of a camera, but dammit, she wants him. He's hers. She's not giving him up.

They will get past this. She's already given up her job. She's not going to make movies like that anymore. He's worth too much to her for her to lose. They just have to get past this.

"Sid," She murmurs, her heart beating a mile a minute. Did she sound panicky and desperate?

"Not now, Lisa. Ok?"

"Sid, I've quit. I've retired."

"Jesus, what part of not now had you confused? We'll talk about it after the movie, alright? I'm kinda into this."

He used to be kinda into her too. Although he hasn't been much into any part of her recently. She's starting to wonder how wise she was in retiring. At least she was getting some action. Even if it was destroying her relationship.

"Sid, please."

"Not now."

"Sid."

"Jesus, Lisa. Not now!"

Maybe it was timing. Divine intervention or inception. Maybe it was all a terrible coincidence that the building shook and the air became hot. Or maybe, just maybe, it had to do with the scene that was playing on the screen. There's no one inside the cinema complex who could tell you for sure.

Smoke, dust, and bricks filled the air. Metal pillars bend and melt under the force of the explosion. The chairs go up, people are blow to pieces, sitting happily upon the cushioned seats their lives end as they are captivated by the onscreen antics of fast moving cars and faster looking chicks. Lives end in seconds.

Breathing becomes difficult. People scream and huddle down into the aisles or between chairs. Though few survivors there are.

Lisa and Sid. She lays upon the aisle in the darkened cinema reaching out for his hand, unable to move her legs, legs that are no longer whole. Legs that are missing from the knees down. Her fingers desperately seeking, stretching for his as he lies feet from her with his eyes open and pale. Vacant. He's dead. She knows it. can see it. the assortment of body parts littering the floor around her trapped beneath pieces of metal and ripped carpet. she's got nothing without him. the nightmare of him leaving her yesterday has been forced into shocking reality today.

"Sid," she sobs, continuing to reach for his fingers as he stares unblinkingly at her from dead pools of glossy blue. "Sid."

0:00 AM/PM—Somewhere.

Bring me a heater. A hotwater bottle. A fucking match. Anything. Give me warmth. Turn off this fucking AC.

"Tell us how you did it."

"Did? Did what?"

"The cinema. How?"

So it's the 19th. Brilliant. Thanks for telling me the date. "What happened to the cinema?"

"Don't play stupid with us."

"I don't know what you're..."Holy fucking hell. Stop. Stop this shit now! Please.

He shakes, pants, twitches as the current surges through him.

"Talk to me. How did you do it all? Who's helping you? How did the parcel get delivered? Who's setting off the bombs?"

He has no idea how many people are in the room with him now. He knows it's more than three. Probably closer to seven. Seven, eight... yeah that'd be more like it. eight people, a fucking team of wankers trying to torture a confession out of him.

Good luck.

1:47 PM.

Sometimes life throws us curveballs and a faulty bat. Sometimes it hands you lemons but removes every last juicer. Sometimes, life is a harsh mistress that rejoices in shafting you hard up the arsehole. There is no god and if there is well he obviously doesn't give a damn about anything or anyone.

In all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Like hell, Jesus is love, right? Sure. And whosoever believes in him shall have everlasting life for God did not send his son into the world to condemn the world but to save it.

From what exactly? From terrorist groups ready wiling, eager to blow the shit out of themselves and anyone around them for no good reason whatsoever. From whoever is making these grotesque Christmas trinkets? From AIDS? Obesity? Famine?

The man smiles to himself at the thought. Right, like god can save the world from obesity. Put salvation and a happy meal in front of a fat woman and see which one she chooses. That lady's going to hell and everyone knows it.

He stares at the half empty bottle of bourbon upon the glass tabletop. He's meant to quit drinking. Today. This was meant to be the last day of his life as a drinker. The first day of forever, the first day sober.

The thought of it was a easy one. Bringing it to fruition though was harder than he could have believed. Was? What's with this past tense bullshit?

Every nerve, every fiber of his being is pulsing with the desire to get plastered. He's constantly on edge, near tears, frustrated, physically hurting, aching, he needs a drink.

Why can't God save him from alcoholism?

When he was a child, life was simple, nothing was impossible and if he wanted to be something all he had to do was study and want it enough. Then lo and behold, he would become it.

Never once did he ever dream that he'd grow up to be a hypocrite. He never thought he'd be standing at the pulpit every Sunday giving a sermon whilst suffering from one hell of a hangover. Or more often than not he'd be still half cut.

Life was good however.

His wife was a cheating whore who spent time on her back earning her living in a seedy motel. His twins-hah, that's a laugh! His twins.- were little terrors who spent too much time emulating Uncle Liam. We want to be soldiers too. They'd tell him. the two little nigger babies would rush around shooting each other with combs and hairbrushes.

He has nothing against Liam. Absolutely nothing. Liam can be at times, the most loving person you'd ever meet. Then at other times, absolutely ruthless. Especially when he feels he's been wronged. Liam was always like that though. He can't think back to a time when there wasn't that intensity to him.

Screw it though, what does it matter? Liam's Liam who cares at the end of the day.

He kicks the lawnmower, frustrated as he walks on shaking legs to the metal and glass patio furniture. Just one drink won't hurt anybody. It's only one drink. Fuck off he'll head to confession tomorrow. After he has a drink.

"Excuse me, Padre?"

Not now, Jesus. Not fucking now. "Yes, my... Kim?" he tucks the bottle behind his back.

"Could we talk for a moment, Padre?"

Hijo de puta! "Um... sure. Quit with the padre stuff."

"You've known Liam for a long time."

"Come on, Kim. You already know the answer to that."

"I know, but humour me."

"Fine. go on then."

"You knew him from before he joined the military."

"Yeah. I met him as a scrawny little kid but five weeks old. Not that I can remember it though. What's going on Kim?"

"Just answer my questions."

"Seriously, Kim. What's going on? This isn't the first time I've been questioned over the past week, you know that right?"

"Did he ever tell you anything about his deployments?"

"What do they... do they think he's responsible for the attacks that have been happening the past week? What? Are you serious? This is too funny."

"This isn't a joke."

"Sure it is."

"No, its not."

"Sure it is. Liam can be a cold son of a... but that doesn't mean he's a killer. I know what he did in the military. I know all of his little secrets. I remember Debbie, his first wife. And the gags she used to play on him all the time. I shouldn't say this, hell I shouldn't even think it, but gracias a dios! Whoever killed that bit- woman did him a favour. Ever notice how upset he was at the funeral? Even I knew it was a put on."
Now—December 25, 10:58 PM

"I love you, Kim." Liam whispers as he walks over to the bed. She doesn't react. She doesn't stir. She doesn't look like her. Not the her he has in his mind whenever he thinks of her but some strange overcooked cut of beef. Delicious to be sure, he loves his wife regardless of her appearance but still, she's burnt beyond recognition. "God, baby, I love you so much."

Liam wipes his sleeve across his eyes pushing his tears deep into the plaid cotton.

She's fried covered in wires and seeping wounds. Bandages cover her face. A machine beeps beside the bed. Another compresses, it must be keeping her lungs working. He wonders, hating himself for it, if it would be more humane to kill her.

What a fucking paradox to find himself in.

Never did he imagine he'd ever find himself in a position where he would be seriously considering taking his wife's life. What husband would even consider doing such a thing? He runs his hands over his face as he inhales deeply, shuddering out a breath.

"I love you, so much. So fucking much." too scared to kiss her comatose form he runs his hand along the side of hospital bed before looking at the vase of flowers and the 'special' teddy bear he bought with him before leaving the room.
Then—Somewhere.

"Hello Liam, remember me?"

"Nope. Should I, are you important somehow?"

"Did you know that Kimmie has a little rosebud tattoo on her hip?"

He's just trying to provoke you. Do not react.

"And those little noises she makes when you hit her pussy just right, mmm, scrumptious."

Liam, I'm warning you. Do not react

"She's a hot one, is our little Kimmie." The smirk in his voice is supremely evident. "Sucks cock like a two buck whore working for a twenty buck tip."

Breathe, Liam. Slowly.

"And when I put my cock in her arse. She loves that doesn't she, Liam? Squealed like a pig. She fucking squealed and squirted. Sorry 'bout the couch by the way. She made a bit of a mess."

Through some herculean feat Liam barely manages to keep his temper restrained.

He wants to sleep. It's been, he has no idea how long it has been since he last closed his eyes and drifted off without being shocked back into consciousness. Isn't that a prick of a thing? How long has it been now. Hilarious. The laughter bubbles up inside him, tickling his ribs as the word 'clergyman' rotates on a spindle.

Burn these clowns where they stand. Strip their bodies of their flesh to make a coat. Mink. Pink, with feathers and tassels from where the nipples hang. No, better, use the nipples as buttonholes. Brilliant. He always wanted a white leather skin jacket.

He could be Ed Gein, and construct masks from the faces of his victims. Wait, good old Eddie used women didn't he? Women, bitches, the difference is what? Four inches and some ping pong balls. Not much in it to differentiate.

If he were thusly inclined he'd butcher this motherfucker and go all Mafioso on his arse. You hungry puppy? Bon appétit.

He'd sit back and enjoy his cigar while his pup had himself a feast. Of course he doesn't a cigar let alone a pup. All he's got is a door opening and room filling with bitches carrying hoses and a fucking board.

Can I out last this one? I'm just going to have to.

2:01 PM

It's hard to understand how something like this can happen. It's hard to come to terms with it. everything just seems so pointless now. Everything turns black and white in a heartbeat. We like to think that world is made up of grey areas but really there is none. The world views things in black and white. There is no leeway, no understanding, no give. But there sure as a hell is a lot of take. Fuck up once, just once and you find yourself standing in a queue begging for a handout with a lot of other losers.

"Fanks," she mumbles as accepts the paper bowl filled with soup and a bread roll, somewhat fresh. What she's really thinking is, fuck you. She can see the looks on their faces. So fucking high and mighty, so pitying, unless you're going to give her some money in exchange for a blowjob or a quick roll on your backseat you can piss right the hell off.

Only twenty and living on the streets. She's been raped four times in the last three days. Just a hazard of the life really. not that it's okay, it's not. She made that abundantly clear afterwards when she fucked the two wankers and one wankette up.

She hates killing. But for her it's kill or be killed. Whether to see the next day in or for something to eat it makes no difference. Kill, or wake up dead in the morning. She smiles as she gobbles down the soup. She always liked that saying. How can you wake up dead? If you're dead you sure as fuck ain't waking up anytime soon.

Dipping the bread into her soup she imagines that it's her father's pea and ham, bitterly, I makes her meal only slightly more tolerable.

00:00—Somewhere.

He isn't drowning. He knows this. Intellectually. Doesn't mean it doesn't feel that way.

"How long was that?" Liam grins, it's forced, he knows that they know it. he also knows it's pissing them off.

"Again."

The towel is draped over his face and the hose is turned on, allowing the water to fall. Flooding his nose and mouth as his legs are elevated slightly above his head. He thrashes and gags. His body believing what he knows isn't the case.

He can't take much more of this. Nobody could. It's not possible. He knows it's not going to be much longer that this 'interrogation' is continued but hell, this has gone on long enough. Breathing, shit breathing is fucking difficult. The fucking towel is impeding his ability to do so. Damp, seeping water into his nostrils and mouth. There's nothing he can do to change his circumstances. He's screwed and he knows it.

The towel is removed, finally. Two, three deep breaths and it's back. So too is the water. Tears of frustration sting his eyes as his mouth opens to get out the words he doesn't want to say. He chokes them back as the tears fill, as his body jerks, as he tries desperately to keep himself from snapping like a dry twig underfoot.

2:45 PM

It's starting to rain. The drop hit her flat on the nose. She huddles behind a restaurant's skip as she wipes her chin with the back of her hand. Ejaculate on the face, why on punters always think that they're in the middle of a porn shoot?

This guy could've been her grandfather as far as she was aware, he sure was old enough. God, wrinkly smelly old man testicles with grey hairs and foreskin. Revolting.

"Y'all far too purdy ta be on da street, girl. Should get y'all self a job in the films." He'd said as he zipped himself up and handing her a ten dollar note.

"Ya," she'd agreed offhandedly. Only interested in the money she was tucking down her bra as he continued to prattle away nonsensically.

Ten whole dollars, wow, she could buy... a... shit! Ten whole dollars.

Starting to sob she wiped her face and walked away from granpa as fast as could without being obvious. She needs more than this. A hell of a lot more than ten fucking dollars.

Blinded by tears the young, pale, dirty, blond child sat at the street corner and cried.

00:00—somewhere

"What was that?"

"Whatever I said, whatever I did, I didn't...didn't mean it." he sings yet the agents don't realize.

They're getting excited. In their desperation they've almost succeeded in breaking him, which upon realization has only made him that much more desperate to keep his mouth shut.

"I just want you back for good." Liam giggles much to the chagrin of the interrogators.

"Kill him, we'll manufacture a confession." Someone says disgustedly. Sounding a little impressed.
Then—somewhere

"She's due any day now."

He smiles, hiding his disinterest well from his collegue as they sit in the back of the plane.

"You're a very lucky man. Have you guys chosen names?"

The name beside him tucks the polaroid back into one of the many pockets on his jacket as the rear door starts to open and descend.

"Susan, Suzy for short, or Mickey if it's a boy."

"As in mouse, that Mickey?"

"Hmm, yea, well i want a girl anyway. So who gives?"

Liam patted the other man on his camoflagued back as they and others rose and got ready to jump.

́́

7:18 PM

Red flows forth across the concrete floor. An abundance of it. plasma, o negative, b positive, metallic scented. Warm over frozen concrete.

Sitting upon the metal chair, he sobs, whimpers, "I did it! I fucking did it; are you happy now?" his cries are loud and pitiful. "I killed them all. I did all of it."

He puts his face in his hands, breaking down completely. A broken shell. The clock face has finally fallen to pieces.

"I am the clergyman." Liam smiles as he stretches his neck, holding the knife ruthlessly close to his face.

"You wanted a confession, a simple little confession, you goddamned sons of bitches! I am the fucking clergyman!" he smiles maniacally, dropping the knife to the floor as he smiles down into the face of the dead agents hacked to pieces, shot, destroyed.

Their headstones, memorial plaques will say 'sleeping' or 'rest in peace'. Fuck off, 'dead'. They can't be sleeping when their heads aren't connected to their bodies.
Epilogue—Now, December 25, a year after. 4:29 PM

Soft, cool and slightly wet, the wind and rain fall down upon him as he climbs out of the Mercedes. The concrete beneath his polished shoes is a dark wet poisonous grey. Depressed the old man climbs from the driver's seat closing the door behind him as he uses the walking stick to keep his balance. The missing portion of muscle on his lower left leg will never be regained. He'll have to live with the pain for the rest of his life. Always knowing that a part of him is missing.

He grasps the bouquet of lilies in his free hand as he struggles with each movement, each step he takes.

Everyday he comes here to spend time with his daughter and grandchildren. Everyday he walks the few meters from the drive and over the grass to spend his afternoons with the ones he loves. Everyday he cries silently when it's time for him to leave.

He'll sit in the grass and talk to Kim about the progress he's making in tracking Liam. He's not sure that his son-in-law is even still in the country, Liam could be dead for all he knows. Lord, he hopes so, but he lies to her and watches her smiling face as he talks, glancing sorrowfully over at Richard and Lyra as they lounge around in the sun. Elizabeth's here too. Always here. Lying beside Richard, cuddled up to his side as they snooze beneath the weather.

He removes the old flowers from his previous visit from the vase as Kim listens to him prattle on. She tells him to give up. to stop pursuing Liam. It's a lost cause. He'll never be caught. He remembers what she told him on Christmas day, something about only catching him because he's let them. As time goes by that sure seems to be a reality.

He drags his left foot as he walks. Pain shooting through him with each step he takes as he weaves his way between grass and concrete, between pillars and plaques.

It's a memorized process now, he'll be able to find them in his sleep. They're always waiting there for him. Right there beneath six feet of earth and concrete.

His vision blurs as he sees their smiling faces, the photographs under glass embedded in the cold marble headstones.

Kim, his baby, his daughter, his life. Richard and Lyra. Even Elizabeth and her never-to-be-born baby. All dead. A failed sting operation concocted on the fly to draw Liam into the open.

He should have listened to Kim when she was telling him nothing would work. He should have fucking listened.

He crouches down beside his baby's grave, weeping openly now, not paying attention to much but his sorrow and regret, he reaches out for yesterday's lilies, today's weeds his hand coming into contact with something metallic.

He should've heard the noise of the clockwork coils spinning making the arms of the silver soldier lift its arm to strike the small gold drum. But his depression, and self-pity was so overwhelming he didn't hear a thing.

Otherwise he would hear the sound of cowboy boots sinking into muddied grass approaching from behind long before the shadow of a cowboy blocked the sun. he could smell the stench of Marlborough cigarettes and Bourbon long before the soft whistling of the carol 'Twelve days of Christmas' came from right behind him and a soaking cloth pressed against his face.

###
