Danny Tanner staggered into his spotless kitchen and slumped against a wall. The noise echoed across the house. For the first time in years, the house was empty. The girls were at school, Joey was doing standup at the corner café, Jesse was at a gig. And Rebecca was doing Wake Up San Francisco. Without him.
"No charisma?" he shouted at no one in particular. "I'll show you fucking charisma." his hand stumbled for the closest object, which was a dish on the kitchen table. He threw it, and it landed pitifully two feet in front of him. He swore again, under his breath. Danny threw like a girl.
His other hand was still clutching his bottle of light beer. He took a pull at it, and for a couple of seconds it made him feel better.
He got the bottle at a liquor store he'd been avoiding like a plague. After going in and asking for something hard to get drunk fast, the man suggested vodka, then scotch, and a number of others that Danny just wasn't comfortable with. He finally argued the man down to light beer. In the meantime he'd been stumbling home, drinking himself into a bloody stupor. Suddenly, his thoughts were interrupted by an annoying voice.
"What's the matter, Mr. Tanner?" it said. He dropped the bottle and it smashed. Beer flooded his clean floor, and shards of glass pelted his feet. That damned voice. Will it never shut up?
Adrenaline flared like electricity from his foot to his head and back through his entire body. He managed to force it down, and slowly deliberately, turned to face the voice. Gibler. Kimmy Gibler.
His head tilted inhumanly and he opened his mouth. "Aren't you...?"
"Supposed to be at school?" She answered, matter-of-factly. "I was sick." She sneezed. In an instant, little globules of mucous splashed against his nice clean sweater. They contaminated it with tiny putrid bits of Gibler DNA. One hit his chin.
Rage. He didn't know where it came from, but it might as well have been everywhere at once. His fury engulfed him and shot through his entire body until it welled up in his arms, which moved with impossible speed at the girl in front of him.
She opened her mouth and tried to gasp. A tiny choke managed to escape her throat as he squeezed with thirty years of bottled anger. She was against a wall, and he slowly raised her, supporting her weight against it and his thumbs.
She made another noise, and went limp as a small crack sounded.
"What the hell?" he dropped her. She dropped onto the floor with a loud crash and a random spray of arms and legs, finally lying still. Her right arm was pinned under her body while her left arm slumped limply against the wall. Her left foot propped her knee in the air, while her other remained straight. She was dead. Her neck had been broken, before he was finished strangling her.
"Damn it!" he screamed. She couldn't be dead. He felt her wrist. Nothing. Throat? No pulse whatsoever. He checked again. Maybe he wasn't doing it right. She couldn't really be . . .
Her eyes told him otherwise. They stared at the ceiling, unblinking, unmoving.
Of course she was dead. Who was he fooling? He slumped down on the floor next to her. Her left leg dropped as he did so. He jumped back and hit his head on the table.
"Damn you!" he shouted at her. Why did it have to be him who would kill her? He was going to go to jail over her now. And maybe the chair. His life was over.
This wasn't his fault. It couldn't have been. His wife died. Yes, that was it. He went crazy because his wife died so long ago. And now he didn't have a job. And no talent. No prospective employers, because no one would hire someone like him. His friends didn't take him seriously, obviously. In fact, his only friends were his relatives. And they were all making fun of him. And driving him crazy. Michelle's energy level alone might have driven him crazy. It was like there was two of her. Joey, the big comedian, had no wit and listening to his tired jokes and two-word impressions was . . . and if Jesse said "Have mercy" one more fucking time . . .
What? He'd kill Jesse too? And who else? Where would he stop? What was he doing?
He needed a drink badly. But he had just smashed it. The first time ever that he really wanted a drink and it was lying there in front of him in a big ugly mess. There were so many messes in his immaculate kitchen it was depressing.
He crawled away from the table. Pain flared through his hands. He lifted them to find shards of glass all over him. Blood trickled down his palms, letting fall little droplets of blood, further ruining his kitchen.
And that's when he rolled on his back and started to cry.
"No charisma?" he shouted at no one in particular. "I'll show you fucking charisma." his hand stumbled for the closest object, which was a dish on the kitchen table. He threw it, and it landed pitifully two feet in front of him. He swore again, under his breath. Danny threw like a girl.
His other hand was still clutching his bottle of light beer. He took a pull at it, and for a couple of seconds it made him feel better.
He got the bottle at a liquor store he'd been avoiding like a plague. After going in and asking for something hard to get drunk fast, the man suggested vodka, then scotch, and a number of others that Danny just wasn't comfortable with. He finally argued the man down to light beer. In the meantime he'd been stumbling home, drinking himself into a bloody stupor. Suddenly, his thoughts were interrupted by an annoying voice.
"What's the matter, Mr. Tanner?" it said. He dropped the bottle and it smashed. Beer flooded his clean floor, and shards of glass pelted his feet. That damned voice. Will it never shut up?
Adrenaline flared like electricity from his foot to his head and back through his entire body. He managed to force it down, and slowly deliberately, turned to face the voice. Gibler. Kimmy Gibler.
His head tilted inhumanly and he opened his mouth. "Aren't you...?"
"Supposed to be at school?" She answered, matter-of-factly. "I was sick." She sneezed. In an instant, little globules of mucous splashed against his nice clean sweater. They contaminated it with tiny putrid bits of Gibler DNA. One hit his chin.
Rage. He didn't know where it came from, but it might as well have been everywhere at once. His fury engulfed him and shot through his entire body until it welled up in his arms, which moved with impossible speed at the girl in front of him.
She opened her mouth and tried to gasp. A tiny choke managed to escape her throat as he squeezed with thirty years of bottled anger. She was against a wall, and he slowly raised her, supporting her weight against it and his thumbs.
She made another noise, and went limp as a small crack sounded.
"What the hell?" he dropped her. She dropped onto the floor with a loud crash and a random spray of arms and legs, finally lying still. Her right arm was pinned under her body while her left arm slumped limply against the wall. Her left foot propped her knee in the air, while her other remained straight. She was dead. Her neck had been broken, before he was finished strangling her.
"Damn it!" he screamed. She couldn't be dead. He felt her wrist. Nothing. Throat? No pulse whatsoever. He checked again. Maybe he wasn't doing it right. She couldn't really be . . .
Her eyes told him otherwise. They stared at the ceiling, unblinking, unmoving.
Of course she was dead. Who was he fooling? He slumped down on the floor next to her. Her left leg dropped as he did so. He jumped back and hit his head on the table.
"Damn you!" he shouted at her. Why did it have to be him who would kill her? He was going to go to jail over her now. And maybe the chair. His life was over.
This wasn't his fault. It couldn't have been. His wife died. Yes, that was it. He went crazy because his wife died so long ago. And now he didn't have a job. And no talent. No prospective employers, because no one would hire someone like him. His friends didn't take him seriously, obviously. In fact, his only friends were his relatives. And they were all making fun of him. And driving him crazy. Michelle's energy level alone might have driven him crazy. It was like there was two of her. Joey, the big comedian, had no wit and listening to his tired jokes and two-word impressions was . . . and if Jesse said "Have mercy" one more fucking time . . .
What? He'd kill Jesse too? And who else? Where would he stop? What was he doing?
He needed a drink badly. But he had just smashed it. The first time ever that he really wanted a drink and it was lying there in front of him in a big ugly mess. There were so many messes in his immaculate kitchen it was depressing.
He crawled away from the table. Pain flared through his hands. He lifted them to find shards of glass all over him. Blood trickled down his palms, letting fall little droplets of blood, further ruining his kitchen.
And that's when he rolled on his back and started to cry.