Bryant O'Neill (corpseofaction) wrote in horror_story, @ 2012-12-28 03:45:00 |
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Entry tags: | alternate universe, bryant, complete, holiday: christmas |
Christmas AU: Beat That, Grinch
WHO: Bryant, with mention of the entire company
WHEN: AU Christmas Eve
WHERE: Crows Landing
WHAT: holiday crack!poetry
WARNING: I don’t... I don’t even...
Everyone in Crows Landing liked Christmas... okay.
Although some said “Bah, humbug!” many others said “Yay!”
This tale’s of a fellow who cared not a whit.
He was Bryant O’Neill (...or Doc Frankenbrit).
By outward appearance, the doctor seemed jolly;
the funeral home decked out with spruce and with holly.
But beneath the decor that told tidings of glee
lay a dark, angry heart. It was black as could be.
Bryant was tired of his pained nervous grin
going largely unnoticed, having no kith or kin.
He’d lived in this town for decades, at least,
but no one in town let him carve their roast beast.
It should also be mentioned, as we mark his fall,
that his new scalpel blades were two sizes too small.
This might seem a little thing, to those untrained.
To Bryant? Disaster. He truly was pained.
Whatever the reason -- seclusion or blades --
he seethed and he roiled and he grumbled in spades:
“Oh, this town,” Bryant hissed, “I-I cannot endure.
It m-must, ah, that is... it must be made pure!
“No more bullies or vandals or smiles full of pity.
Th-the time has come to take out the whole city!”
With relief in his countenance, the tiniest smirk,
Dr. Bryant O’Neill gathered tools, went to work.
The first one to die was his hapless assistant.
Just great for Bryant. Charlie wouldn’t be resistant.
Though wielding a knife and cheerfully humming,
the doc could sneak up; Charlie didn’t hear him coming.
After stabbing poor Charlie (which, gosh, must’ve hurt),
Bryant paused but a moment to watch the blood spurt.
Then he turned and walked off as the young man bled...
he came back, tied a horn atop Charlie’s head.
Watched his new reindeer perish, all morbid fascination,
and -- for effect -- did an impromptu castration.
This one death was thrilling. Bryant really felt high.
There were many more people that just had to die.
He killed Gilman and Wren, ended Jenny and Sue.
He slayed Avery, Jonathan, and Emma too.
In the trailer park, Bryant found Mike and Susanna.
He murdered them, too, did our bloodthirsty Santa.
Jauntily whistling a tune to the cold winter air
Bryant happened upon Miss Sullivan St. Claire.
Out came the knife; Sully hit the snow with a ‘plop’
and Bryant satisfied curiosity: was she pre- or post-op?
Nona and Ian? Found copulating in the bar’s back room.
Before slicing them up, Bryant made them resume.
Ian managed one thrust before he broke down crying,
Frankenbrit killed them painlessly for complying.
Not everyone was so lucky. Bryant had his fun.
Christmas Eve, after all, had only just begun.
He killed quietly, though, so as not to raise alarm,
only stopping at a hardware store so he could rearm.
He bought drills! He bought chisels and hammers and nails!
There were screwdrivers and screws, for he liked these details.
Oh, Bryant bought a crowbar and rope, for restraint.
And for no real good reason, he even bought paint.
Thus armed to the teeth did our killer go on,
the electric screwdriver to Ophelia, the crowbar to Fawn.
He hung CJ and Tatum and Teagan holding joints
(and he did this part naked, just for bonus points).
Bryant dragged Casper along, her eyes gouged by sporks.
One by one, giggling slightly, he killed all the Yorks
then arranged them artistically like a portrait display.
Which is how the feds found them the very next day:
Casper hugging Christine as she hadn’t in life,
Rob’s arm around Eden, like she was his wife.
With some servants and others to fill in the frame,
Bryant admired his masterpiece, in blood signed his name.
The cops were the tricky part, Bryant could admit.
He paused a block from the station, rifled through his kit.
He came up with the plan, oh, a wonderful thought.
“I shall masque as a clown! The paint wasn’t for naught!”
So he used his smart purchase to alter his face.
Bryant prepared himself well, then closed his case.
He sauntered right in, yes, right through the front door.
When O’Brien screamed, Bryant tackled him to the floor.
With the drill, Bryant bored through the deputy’s skull
with an ear out for Archer, when there was a lull.
But Archer moved silently, and thus silently sprung.
As they grappled, Bryant rejoiced in cutting his tongue.
It nearly ended there, for the sheriff fought well.
But he couldn’t get to his gun, couldn’t let out a yell.
Bryant finally managed to get his chisel to hand,
used that and the hammer exactly as planned.
Dead Archer, dead O’Brien, dead rest of the force.
Though wounded, Bryant thought this a win, of course.
On his way out, Frankenbrit ran into Hunter.
The back of her head made his chisel blunter.
Yet it did the job. Bryant was nearly finished.
He limped through the streets, his strength diminished.
There was one more place that he thought to go:
The house of one Marcus Caravahlo.
At the duplex, Bryant stopped and straightened his tie.
As he knocked on the door, he prepared to die.
“I’m s-sorry, Marcus,” his very last quote:
with his number ten scalpel, Bryant slit his own throat.
Welcome, Christmas, to this charming town.
See bodies cooling, dried blood gone brown.
Welcome, welcome, to Crows Landing:
a nice place to live (these deaths notwithstanding).