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Oh you’re definitely the killer. Muahahaha!

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You had me at bang this one out

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Figure this may be useful question to ask:

The limit is one story per person, right?

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I got one in my head already.

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This coincides curiously with a current re-read of a short but beloved book from my childhood shelf, "The Dollhouse Caper" by Jean S. O'Connell. (In which a spot of blood briefly figures.)

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founding
Dec 4, 2023Liked by Chuck Palahniuk

This prompt sings to me!

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Dec 4, 2023·edited Dec 4, 2023

I have only about 100 words to say about this:

It never pays to do anything nice for anybody.

You know those little people that you buy at the arts-and-crafts store? I figured, okay, it’s Christmas, the little buggers would probably enjoy hanging around in a nice Christmas village instead of on a hook in Jolie’s Art Barn.

So, I build them this whole big thing with cottages and stores and whatnot, and I put them in there, thinking they’d be grateful and get some holiday spirit.

Next thing I know, the little fuckers are stabbing each other. What the shit?

I picked up the entire display and threw it in the dumpster behind my apartment building. Some people don’t deserve nice things.

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mm sounds yummy...got like 200 words, will see if it will lead somwhere

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Real blood doesn't melt fake snow. From the adam’s apple down, the train conductor was in the gazebo. A ring of blood ran around the circle of track. His body was still driving the train headless for at least one lap. I still haven't found the head. The track switcher went for a shorter ride. His shin and foot were pinched between two rails. Body, armless, a few inches away. I still haven’t found the arms. But the bruises indicate that someone or something beat him with his arms after he ripped them off. Something smells like iron.

It wasn’t the milk maid or the postman or any of the other tiny townspeople. They’re miniatures. Figurines, you kook. Someone went through a lot of trouble to stage those tiny murders, and to mess with me. At christmastime. It has to be my husband. He’s the only person twisted enough to do something like this. He’s sweet, but loves to scare me. I appreciate the effort. If only he would put that effort into decorations. We’d have the best house on the block. At Halloween, he hid in the coat closet for long enough to have carved ten pumpkins just to scare me.

I cleaned up the blood with a wet paper towel, and gave it a sniff. Iron. It was real. I hope he didn’t hurt himself just to use real blood. Took the plastic body parts I could find and placed them into his stocking so he’d know that I know come tomorrow.

The creepy elf that judges us is off its shelf. It's supposed to be on the mantle. I look on the bookcase, on top of the cabinets, then in our room. He moved it onto my night stand. Its hands are red, and textured. He sure went through a lot of trouble to scare me. I pick up the little creep, and smell his hands. Iron. Where did he get real blood? I place the elf on his pillow so he knows that I know when he gets home. I’m exhausted from preparing dinner for tomorrow, and he will be home in an hour. I lay down on the bed with my back to the little creep elf watching over me. Need some rest before I hide in the coat closet and repay my husband. I still smell iron.

I wake, and the elf is back on the nightstand. Bryan must be home. It still smells of iron. Peek through the blinds. His truck isn’t in the driveway. I appreciate the effort. Search the house. He’s hiding in the closet again. Take off my shoes and tiptoe in socked feet toward the front door, and swing the coat closet open. The coats are gone, but there are buckets on the floor. I pry one of the lids off, one tab at a time. Now all I can smell is iron. Found the missing plastic arms. Bryan’s ring is still on his finger. A drip falls into the bucket. The elf is on the closet shelf with red, wet hands.

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“There is a killer on the loose.”

It was a strange feeling that came over me as I stood above his dead body. The man I knew for many years, the milkman Mike. I should have felt terror, or at least sadness, yet I felt none. I slowly raised my left hand and looked at the blood covering two of the fingers. In the distance there was the sound of sirens, I turned my head and watched the darkness between the two lines of glorious Christmas lights. Someone behind me was calling my name. As the fog in my mind cleared I turned around and saw my wife yelling at me in the doorway. Yes, better get back inside. There is a killer on the loose.

I shut the door tight, took off my jacket and sat by the fireplace.

On the table stood a framed photo of my lovely wife, who had passed years ago. How was she calling me to come back in then?

As I added some fresh logs into the fire something caught my eyes upon the smooth wooden coffee table. I rose up and looked at it. It was a knife. Tip of it was covered in blood.

There is a killer on the loose…

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My daughter can't wait to set up the Christmas decorations every year. Part of her morning routine in the fall is to wake up and ask me if it is time to set up the village. Her favorite part of the entire process revolves around flipping on the metal rocker switch that controls the flow of electricity to all buildings and lights.

This year we added a 1/48 scale ice skating rink that I got on special order from Japan. A perfect replica of the one you see in the opening shot of "The Christmas Story" toy store scene. The same one where all sorts of villagers zip and spin around on blue plastic ice. They use these special rare earth magnets to move the people around.

As soon as she flipped the switch it smelled like Grandma's beehive hairdoo got caught in the hairdryer heating element again. The same hairdoo she maintains with an entire can of Aqua Net as part of her fall morning routine. Thick black smoke rippled up from the center of the ice skating ring. The blue plastic ice shriveled and split open to reveal the blackened wood underneath. I swear if I hadn't caught everything on my iPhone 15 ProMax HD camera I would have thought I lost it. At first it looked like the burnt wood split open for a group of rats that had their tails stuck together. My daughter says I am supposed to call it a "Rat King." Evidently something she learned about it history class. One of the few things the Pilgrims brought over on the Mayflower with them besides Smallpox. As the 4K video feed from my Titanium Natural iPhone 15 auto-focused in on the "Rat King" shaped blob, I noticed that a 1/72 scale replica of Godzilla of all things emerged from the ice rink. I specifically remember telling the seller on eBay that I had a 1/48th scale town and the kaiju needed to match that scale or everything would be ruined. My daughter says it serves me right for using Google translate to communicate with the seller.

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Prefer. She looked out the window. Lit psych interior monologue. Plot outs me to sleep unless done not at beginning

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Need some brown noise to jog the noggin

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I'm excited to work on this! I've been looking on Amazon at these tiny houses for the villages, this shit is pricey! Some are 100 dollars. You gotta be rich to form a village lol

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THE MINIATURE VILLAGE MURDERS

I was going to need a magnifying glass.

If I could just read the addresses on the last set of letters the postman had in his satchel and the houses on the milkman's customer list I could figure out where they were heading. My hunch was that they were both going to the same place, and someone, or something, wanted to stop them before they could get there.

I rummaged in drawers and rifled through cupboards till I eventually came across something tucked inside a velvet pouch that felt like the right shape. Carefully, I slid the object out. It looked like something out of 'Sherlock Holmes', with a worn wooden handle that had probably not been held in decades. But it would do the job.

I picked up the tiny postman and the tiny milkman together and held them in one hand as I raised the magnifying glass up to one of my eyes with the other. The writing on the letters and the customer list was very small - almost too small, even for the magnifying glass to be of any use. But if I squinted hard enough I could just about see two words starting to come into focus that seemed to be part of both their journeys that day. A location they had in common.

TOY SHOP.

Respectfully, I placed the postman and the milkman back where I found them, hidden behind the bandstand. The Toy Shop was only a short distance away. A single light was flickering slightly, just beyond the large display window which was full of neatly arranged teddies and trains ready to be bought by eager Christmas shoppers. Using the magnifying glass I was still holding, I inspected the window more closely and that's when I saw him. There by the counter, crumpled in a ball on the floor, was the owner of the shop clutching a tiny set of documents, covered in red writing that was plain to see even without the benefit of magnification. He was ruined and about to lose everything.

But what was far more concerning, was what I could see in the room next door. The kitchen. Another group of tiny people, all tied to chairs. It looked like some of them were coughing. There was something wrong with the atmosphere in the room, the light was bending in a strange way, making things look wavy. It was gas. He had turned on the gas and left it on. He was going to kill them all and probably himself, and had killed the postman and the milkman to stop them raising the alarm when they arrived on their morning rounds. Frantically, I tried breaking the door with the handle of my magnifying glass, but he had sealed it shut from the inside. The noise disturbed him and he rose to his feet. There was nothing I could do but watch as he stared straight at me out of the display window and lit a tiny match...

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