Like Father, like son

That old broken home, with a stench too familiar, sat still in a withered night. I entered, disregarding the pungent sulfur-like smell. The furniture was frozen, untouched for years. I crept through each room—empty, save for the occasional wasp nest or corpse, hanging by a meathook—either by the testicles, mouth, or lynched and charred. Each room reset. Something new. New body. New meathook. New—oh, this one’s seizing.

Possible overdose. Neat... God, I hope I find that insufferable screeching. Need her to shut up. It was a female, clearly in agony. The walls pulsed and bulged; suddenly—blood sprayed violently. Dead tongues, not spoken since the dawn of time, screamed in my mind as my body began to rot and scar.

I tripped into a room, weaker than ever. The screeching of a woman in labor deafened my silence. Fucking hell—I just wanted peace. She was skinless, her face pure muscle and bone-thin. I tried to smack her silent, but it was no use. The baby came out hung by the umbilical cord. It unraveled as it dropped—was it sleeping, or dead, or...? Oh. Stillbirth. Dead upon entry into this world.

Though something was off. The head resembled a coyote—eyeless, with extra teeth. With a snap of the neck, it screeched to high hell, smacking me, constantly kicking at my chest—

I opened my eyes, rubbed the sleep out. The sun was shining—too bright. The clock read 8:52 AM. And then—thump. That familiar jumping on my chest from my soon-to-be middle daughter, Diana. Her usual wake-up routine.

“Wake up, wake up!” she giddily exclaimed. It was her 7th birthday. This one was special. We were going to have fun—extra fun. My eldest son, Adam, was 15, texting a friend. I’m always curious, but it’s never my business to snoop. My pregnant wife, Natalia, had burned some eggs earlier that stunk up the place. She’s not the one who usually cooks, so it wasn’t her fault.

My name is Mark. Mark DeSantis. I’m 35 years old. I work as a therapist at Gold Prairie Hills Behavioral Institution, specializing in psychoanalysis and forensic therapy. My wife is 38 and the school principal at Ridgevale High, where our son attends. He’s an honor roll student, perfect in every measurable way.

My daughter Diana attends St. Frances Xavier Cabrini Elementary, a private Christian school. I’ve never liked the staff, though my wife insists our children live under God. I allow this. I consider it her safest delusion. The savages of her people make me sick. Today’s my one guaranteed off day. I can’t be called in.

My daughter’s been dropping not-so-subtle hints about where she wants to go—Red Dragon’s. A kid-style arcade with cheap prizes and worse pizza. I packed her presents in the back of my wife’s SUV. We had to pick up some of her friends because their parents are lazy cunts who couldn’t be bothered to take them themselves. Nope. I’m the chauffeur today. After breaking a few traffic laws and playing a lowly cop like a puppet, we made it—no bribes needed.

“Thank you for taking us, Mr. DeSantis,” her little friend piped up. The rest followed in gratitude.

I had to pretend I wasn’t annoyed. Their parents couldn’t even stop by. Couldn’t be bothered. All while spouting their “faith and values.” “Ah, of course,” I said, grinning with a very practiced smile. “I’ll be watching, so behave and have fun.” Rehearsed. Perfect.

They ran in without chaos. I bought pizza and game passes. Jesus fuck, these games are designed to be addictive.

Thirty minutes in, a family of four kids stumbled in like a bad sitcom. You just knew they’d been kicked out of better places. The dad—wiry, puffed up like anyone gave a shit. Probably the kind of guy who sits in a recliner while his wife gets railed by strangers. And her—skin taut, eyes twitching, face buried in a cracked phone. Probably hadn’t been sober since her first C-section. The kids? Loud. Feral. No control.

Diana, in her pink hoodie and oversized sneakers, ran to the skee-ball lane, glowing with joy. Innocence incarnate. As she passed the oldest of their vermin brood—some tall, acne-dusted gremlin in a wife-beater—he stuck out his foot like it was instinct. She went down hard. Her knee hit the carpet like a hammer to fruit.

She got up bravely, biting back tears, and came to me.

That’s when I moved.

I approached the mother—if that’s what she was.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” I said, smiling like I always do when I’m about to fix something broken. “Your son just tripped my daughter and is bullying another kid.” I pointed to the little shit stealing someone’s tickets.

She looked at me like I was an ad she didn’t remember clicking on. Then her face twisted into this smug, discount-store snarl. “Are you seriously telling me how to raise my kids?” she barked, snapping gum. “Maybe worry about your own before someone calls CPS, creep!”

Then she slapped me.

She actually slapped me.

That fucking bitch.

I didn’t react. That’s the difference between people like her and people like me. I know when to respond. And how.

I turned to Diana. “Stay here, sweetie,” I said, kissing her hair. “Daddy just needs a minute.”

I watched him—too proud, too unaware. Left side exposed. Sweat dripping from existing. Probably the only cardio he gets is jerking off his micropenis. If he can even get it up.

I put a hand on his shoulder. “Hey there, boss man. Having fun? Or just fueling your ego by preying on little girls?” I smiled like a proud father.

“Fuck off, gay boy,” he scoffed.

I moved to the number one lane. He stood near the basketballs by lane seven. I studied him for a full minute.

Then—thwack.

The ball connected with the side of his head. Perfectly.

His knees buckled. He collapsed into the photo booth with my help. Slumped like a broken doll. A vegetable now. Quiet. Finally.

I posed him like he was asleep. People always assume the best when they see stillness. The world’s too lazy to question silence.

And honestly? I did them all a favor.

After cheering up my daughter with cake, ice cream, and gifts that cost more than my first car’s down payment, we headed home. I dozed into memory—Logan. My first hunt.

At 16, he was a good friend. Same classes. Same lunch. Same crushes, apparently.

I told him about Gracie. He helped me win her over. We dated until senior year. Just a few months until graduation—when I caught the two of them making out in the band hall. They didn’t notice me. But I saw them. Him. Her. His fingers, deep inside her panties playing with her..

I waited. Her parents were gone. The three of us, together.

“I know what you did, Logan. Gracie,” I said. They sat laughing at trash TV.

Logan went still. Gracie broke into tears. “Please, I didn’t mean to—” the excuses poured out like punches from a desperate boxer.

I walked upstairs. A million thoughts. Her parents would be gone for days. I had to act with precision.

In her room, I studied the walls. “Her father’s hunting knife,” I muttered. I pulled it from its leather holster—one I had handcrafted for him. Norse runes. Symbols of gods.

They sat, still laughing. I approached with the hammer I’d snuck from home. Why I brought it, I don’t know. I’d never allowed myself to indulge.

“Let’s talk, why don’t we?” I said calmly, a dead smile just barely rising.

“It was a one-time thing!” Logan stammered.

“Why him and not me?” I asked.

Gracie shriveled. “I didn’t want my first time to be with you. I don’t know why…”

Thwack. The hammer met Logan’s head.

Gracie screamed. I struck her foot. Forced her face into the kitchen counter.

I tied them both. Sat them facing each other. “Let’s not concern ourselves with what doesn’t matter,” I whispered, kissing Gracie’s forehead.

With pliers in hand, I jolted Logan awake with his insulin. “Wakey, wakey…” I sang.

I ripped off his thumbnails, salted the nerves. He shrieked.

“sToP YoU’rE hUrtInG hIm, waaah waah,” I mocked Gracie.

I nailed Logan’s tongue to the table.

Gracie? I shattered her jaw with a wrench. The cracking sound—erotica.

Five whacks. Drooling. Done.

I made her look at me. “I forgive you,” I whispered.

Her death was quick. Not worth more effort.

Logan? The ice pick slid through his eye. Lobotomy.

Dead. Both.

I gathered cash, a flip phone, a tooth from each. Took their cat, Lucine. Mixed a Molotov. Liquor, rag, match.

Set the house ablaze.

They called it a freak attack.

But that day? That first day?

That was the day I discovered that spilling blood made me feel…

Whole.