The Day-After-Christmas Day Massacre Part III – The Road To Sporting Goods

Author’s note:  If you are not starting from the beginning, please click here to go back to how the story began.

Misty and I sprinted frantically across the store, dodging over-turned shopping carts and fallen shoppers.  The floor was littered with debris.  An exploded pack of Cheez-Its.  A toppled display of Star Wars Legos (only $16.99 – whadda bargain!).  Snack-Pack pudding and blood smeared across the tiles floor.  Acrid smoke billowed up between the aisles somewhere near the cosmetics.  A larger-than-life sized poster of Ellen Degeneres-apparently the covergirl for our generation (a true sign of society’s collapse)-smiled pleasantly thru the haze.  I could see the Sporting Goods section up ahead. 

We rounded an aisle and came to a halt.  Two portly women and a preacher were fighting over a treadmill.  Purses were swinging and cuss words were flying.  I almost felt sorry for the Father.

“This treadmill is for the orphans,” the preacher pleaded.  His black shirt and white collar were filthy with a gray powerdy substance.  Must’ve come from Cosmetics, I thought.  He had his arms wrapped around one of the treadmill’s braces and hung on for dear life.  His chunky attackers were doing their damnedest to separate the holy man from the exercise machine.

“Give it a rest, Father,” the heavier of the two women snarled.  The armpits of her mauve moo-moo were stained with sweat.  The curls of her sandy blonde fading to black hair (the drapes didn’t match the carpet if you know what I mean) were plastered to the side of her damp and glistening face. This epic battle had been raging for some time.  With an impatient growl, she bent and grabbed the preacher by his ankles.  He cried out in a mix of surprise and anger.  His fingers clamped tighter around the cheap metal supports of the treadmill, his arms outstretch as the rotund gorillas in night gowns attempted to pull him from his prize. 

“C’mon Padre,” chuckled the second lady, “don’t make this harder than it has to be.  Be a good little man and let go a’ this walkin’ machine.”

Her amusement in the situation must’ve sparked something in him.  As he flailed, he managed to free one foot from their pudgy grasp.  His eyes flashed with rage.  A burning anger targeted at the women still clamped on to his one leg.  A look so fiery and intense that it seemed to make the rest of the room dim around it in comparison.  The Chub Twins seemed to lose some of their resolve in light of it.

“Oh damn,” I muttered, nudging Misty and giggling childishly, “he’s about to lose his shit!”

And lose his shit, he did. 

“In the name of the Father,” the preacher spat, now filled with fire and brimstone, “I KICK THINE ASS!!!” 

His free foot shot up like a missile, connecting with the alpha-hog’s face. Blood exploded under the sole of his shoe as her nose collapsed.  She fell back hard on her ample ass, her hands pressed to her gushing face in an attempt to stop the bleeding.  The other woman turned towards her partner, staring in shock at the damage the preacher had done.   Her face was a round white moon of amazement one second, a wrinkled twist of anger the next. 

“Look what you done to my sister,” she screeched, “I’m gonna kill you, you mother fu-” 

And that was all she had time to utter.  In her distraction, the Holy Warrior had time to reach for two brightly-colored 20lb hand weights.  With each barbell in hand, he spread his arms back behind him and swung full force.  The barbells crashed into both of her ears, sandwiching her head with a meaty thud. 

“OH!!!” I exclaimed, jumping back a step. Misty hid her face in my shoulder. 

Father McAsskicker stepped back and stared intensely at his victim as if she would suddenly lunge forward at him.  Instead, her lips moved, trying to form words that just wouldn’t come.  Finally her eyes rolled back, exposing the whites as her body swayed drunkenly.

“Schnauzer,” she gurgled, shuffling a few steps forward.  Then her legs collapsed beneath her and she crumpled into a pile on the floor.

The preacher dropped the weights to the ground, dusted off the front of his shirt, adjusted his collar and said “go with God, bitches.”

“Whoo-hooo-hooaaa,” I said, the word dragging out thru my laughter and amazement.  Misty sighed, grabbing my arm and pulling me in the direction of the Sporting Goods.

“Oh, come on,” I bellowed.  “THAT was awesome.  You gotta admit that was awesome!”