A Somewhat Gung-Ho Christmas
I own nothing, and make no profit from the writing of this story.
Spawned from hatred of the human race, yay! I made it five drabbles deep before I felt better.
Warnings as follow: violence and a downright bah humbug sort of mood.
Red. Christmas color.
Not like Christmas mattered, not like it had ever had anything to do with Legato's life. Just another day, in a hellish succession of day after day.
However, in recent years the general feel of the "Christmas Season" had insidiously gnawed into Legato's brain, and dug deep beneath his skin. Therefore, it was with great satisfaction that Legato laughed, as he made the bar-keep stab herself in the face repeatedly.
She screamed in terror, and Legato had to admit, she had an amazing soprano. Perhaps, at this rate, it may be a holly jolly night after all.
Sand swirled like snow, or at least how Legato imagined snow would swirl. He sometimes did let his imagination get the better of him after all, having inadvertently or intentionally entered all the other imaginations he'd ever come across.
Regardless, he liked the little bit of art he'd created, the desert as his canvas… hatchet and field-knife medium. There wasn't too much left to be imagined, as the two vagrants Legato had come across had hacked and stabbed each other to bits, and lay gargling at his feet.
"Well, that should teach you two to tell a stranger 'Merry Christmas'."
All day long, it was "Merry Christmas" "Merry Christmas". Wolfwood pasted on the smile, and played nice for everybody around him. He didn't want to think realistically, he just wanted to see the kids smiling. These kids deserved this. They didn't need to know that Christmas was a lie, that there was no good-will toward man, that God never came down off his clouds to help you, you had to help yourself. These kids had seen enough, and that was why something so fake was also so important. Nicholas D. Wolfwood wanted to believe, he wanted to believe so badly.
Filthy stupid spiders. So full of lies, so ignorant and idealistic. Thinking about them out there, smiling, laughing, singing… Knives felt he may actually be ill. Morons, the lot of them. An entire worthless species, coming together and pretending to be something other than parasitic, their mockery of love left in tattered mementos of crumpled paper and plastic bows, then back to the violence, the hatred. None of it was real, the love, the giving, least of all, a loving and forgiving messiah. Knives didn't really believe in divine intervention, and it would take more than God to stop him.
Midvalley the Hornfreak buried his head as deeply into his pillows as he could, dreading the day. Beyond his blankets and his bed, outside and away from this bunker, it was Christmas. He had no loved ones, no family, and it's not as though you can really buy a gift for a saxophone. Typically, he opted instead to spend the day drinking alone, unable to face a world he didn't care at all for, and actively spent his time working to destroy. He had, after all, always been a rather naughty boy. There was no reason to even get up.