The Reckoning

The day dawned dark and dreary (and with an apparent affinity for alliteration). It was cold and windy and already I was glad I had unearthed my winter coat for this trip - and I was barely above sea level. It was unclear what genius was behind the scheduling of this early AM flight, but I had to give them credit, they were truly diabolical. I was fortunate enough to have enlisted the assistance of my lovely...assistant for a ride to the airport. Without my assistant's...assistance, an alarm of at least an hour and a half earlier would have been necessary, and getting up that early has been shown to cause cancer. I made my way through ticketing and security to my departure gate and warmly greeted my traveling companion. Eagerly we laid out plans for our forty-six hour trip to the Rockies. It would later occur to me, as we waited for my companion's checked luggage, that he did not quite grasp the significance of having ONLY FORTY-SIX HOURS, NO, WE CAN'T WAIT FOR YOU TO GO TO THE BATHROOM!

We were met at the airport by two local gypsies that we counted amongst our friends. I calmly relayed to them how much I was looking forward to the weekend and how well the flight had gone. I should have known they would be in no mood for MY stories as the vicious harpies glowered at me and threatened untold torturous deeds. I cowered in the backseat as their magic caused my seat belt to lock and tighten around my terrified torso. Soon we arrived in the western suburbs of the Mile High city and loaded up on drinks and party snacks (for Super Sunday) and Good Times burgers (for immediate consumption). Little did I know this was simply a ruse to lure me into a false sense of security.

Barely had we arrived at our housing destination than the girls began to discuss, touch, and even comb my hair. This activity should've piqued my suspicion, but my new hobby was pretending to be completely color blind and ignoring any and all red flags (ominous clouds, glowing red, harpy eyes, then niceness and burgers, then feigned interest in the hair). The attention to hairstyle continued and it was combed, pulled, photographed, and even done up into braids under the auspices that it would be "fun". Then it was decided it would be more fun out in the garage. It sounded like a good idea at the time and I obliged. There were cameras and beer and I was drunk on attention.

In my inebriation I was vaguely aware of the danger that lurked on the counter, a primitive pair of needle-nose pliers whose sides had, for whatever reason, been sharpened to form a cutting edge. Again, my new hobby kicked in and I conveniently ignored yet another warning. Shortly thereafter disaster struck:



The massacre continued. There was no hope. The monsters even took pictures.