Call Of Duty By Kyle Scott

I look over at Austin. He sits slouched across the couch toggling his Xbox controller. “Dude,” I say, “this is fucking boring…It’s a Friday night.” He pays no mind; continues on, reloading his weapon while tea bagging a downed player. I stare on, as if to somehow move him with my mind. Finally, he glances back,- “What do you want me to do little bitch? There ain’t shit to do.”-and turns back to the TV. “Hmmm,” I groan, standing up and walk over into his path of vision. “Fuck you,” I grin. “What the fuck!? Get out of the way little bitch!” , he yelps, lifting his heel up off the recliner and kicking me away. I smile harder. “Who’s the little bitch? Kristen dumped your ass 2 weeks ago and now look at you- lying around playing halo. ‘The fuck is wrong with you? She’s out fucking Josh Spears right now!” I kneel down and flick off the Xbox. “What the fuck?!?” Austin screams; throws down the controller and charges me, “you asked for this little bitch.” He rushes in for the tackle but I cut him off, drop low and wrap my arm around his neck; then throw a knee. “Now little bitch,” I grunt in his ear, “what are you gonna’ do?” He yanks out of the hold and rises with an uppercut. I stagger a bit, but regain composure; then step back to deliver a right cross. He’s rocked but wildly throws a right. I duck it and deliver one final elbow. He crumples onto the carpet in front of the TV. I step over him and into the kitchen…”I told you not to fuck with me.” I yank open the refrigerator and pour myself a drink, Jack and Coke, then walk back into the living room. He sits up on the couch nursing a busted lip.

“Here,” I toss over an icepack. “I’m trying to help you dude,-” I say, “really.“ He looks on at the blue analog screen. “’Could’ve fooled me.” I drain the drink. “Look, man, Kristen is out there fucking Josh Spears right now.-Dude, can you fucking look at me?- This is serious.” He looks upward. “Good, now; we have to form a comprehensive attack plan with impenetrable countermeasures.” He shakes his head. “Dude, why do you talk like that? You sound like a fucking sociopath, like Patrick Bateman or some shit.” I intensify, “Dude, is this a fucking joke to you? Spears is a fuckboy DOUCHE-BAG, ok? I thought you and Kristen would be together forever, and that Josh would die of AIDS from dirty heroin needles. But that’s not how it worked out because Kristen is a dirty whore and you have no sack.” He stands again ready to charge, but I lift my arm in a peaceful gesture. I smile, “this means war soldier.-” He grins and raises an ecstatic eyebrow, “What do you mean?” I hand him the glass. “I mean that Kristen and Josh will rue the day my friend” I extend a hand as he quizzically purses his lips, “come on dude, this is your fight.” I laugh and so does he. “Alright man,” he mutters, “let’s fuck shit up.”

“Ok,” I say, “here’s what we’re gonna’ do…Follow me.” We limp into the kitchen together. I pull open a drawer and emerge with a kitchen knife. Austin glares down at it. “Dude, what the fuck? We’re not gonna kill them.” I pull out another knife and hand it to him. “Jesus, haven’t I taught you anything? You lack all creativity.” He examines the knife. “What’s today’s date,” I ask. “Uhh, December 12.” I close the drawer. “Yes, you are correct. It is the twelfth… One more question: does Kristen have any Christmas decorations?” He grips the knife and widens his eyes. “Dude, you are a fucking genius.” We exchange devilish grins… “ I’ll grab the keys.”

“Alright man, we’re gonna leave it idle. Ok? Park 4 houses down so no one looks out the window to see the truck. All they’ll see is two guys in pantyhose masks.” Austin nods his head, “I got you, man. I can hardly breathe in this fucking thing; or see, it’s all fucking black.” I flick my ash out the window, “just try not to get us killed. Keep your eyes on the road.” I drag on my cigarette, “hey, when’s the last time your mother washed this thing? It stinks. ” Austin drives on. “I wonder if John wears ‘em like this, ya’ know? Like if him and your mom fantasy roleplay.” Austin pulls his right hand off the wheel and hammers it over. “Alright;-“ I say, “ alright, Chill man, we’re almost there.”

We make one pass, then go around the block, parking 4 houses down. I look over at Austin, “Turn down the music.” He turns it off. “You ready man? Pull out your knife.” We both clutch our weapons and look forward. Kristen’s bedroom light is on. In front of the house sits 2 inflatable Christmas decorations-Bart Simpson with a Santa hat on and frosty the snowman with a large snow globe in front of him. “Oh,” I gasp, “I have one more surprise dude. I swiped some stuff from your garage.” I reach into the right-hand pocket of my cargo pants and emerge with an empty beer bottle; then reach the other side and come back with a can of Zippo lighter fluid. “We’re gonna’ burn this motherfucker down.” I chuckle and pull off my mask. I pour the gas into the empty bottle and stuff the nylon into it. “Ok,” I laugh, “when we run up to the house, I’m gonna light this and throw it into the living room window. Then we’ll go to work on the blowup decorations.” Austin gives me a look of concern. “Just chill out dude,” I say, “think about what she’s doing up there with Josh on the second floor.” He hesitantly looks up at the house for a moment, then at me. “Let’s do it, man,” he says. I smile, “atta boy.” We both look forward again. “Alright man,” I say, “on the count of three, 1…2…3.“ And we go sprinting down the icy sidewalk. I clutch the Molotov cocktail in one hand with the knife in the other. Austin lurks around the bushes. I leap onto the lawn; light and chuck the bottle. It flies over the first-floor window and connects onto the yellow siding. The panels explode into a mix of orange and yellow flames, expanding before the bushes. “Alright,” I yell to Austin, “let’s go!” And we unleash onto the balloons. Knife in hand, I go pushing and slicing at Bark Simpson’s throat and torso. ‘phew.. phew…. phew,’ it hisses while exhaling the co2. I look over as Austin rapes Frosty the Snowman and start into a maniacal fit of laughter. “Woooooooh woop!” I roar and hack away until hitting a line conducting electricity. A flurry of sparks shoots through the black air, getting lost somewhere in descent to earth. I look up toward the house. Lights flick on. “C’mon,” Austin screams, “we gotta go!” I hack on at Bart’s deflated carcass. Before I know it, Austin’s truck is pulled before the front of the house. He’s pushed the passenger side door open and is screaming for me to get in. I look up and back to the 2nd-floor window. Josh’s face peers down at me. I sprint to the truck, pausing to turn around at the curbside. I lob the knife at the second-floor window, hoping to hit Josh’s face. It crashes through perfectly, but misses, floating just past the shadow of a head.

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