The Ugliest Ugly Sweater

A snowflake splatters against a frosted window as someone spins on their toes, then turns on the radio.

“…It’s a winter wonder land, baby, oh, yeah, it’s so cold outside…frightful…”

Muffled words squeeze through a closed door.

“Hey Bud! The party is about to start! Get your sweater on and let’s go sip some peppermint Schnapps in the elevator.”

Bud turns down the radio.

“Yeah, damn it, I’m almost ready! Jeez. I’ll meet you in the elevator in a few minutes.”

He turns the radio up.

“…Baby won’t you ride my sleigh tonight, yeah, oh, ’tis the season…”

Bud looks at his reflection in a nearby mirror and watches himself laugh.

“They’re not going to believe this.”

He glides a finger along the edge of a kitchen knife.

“Oh…they’ll believe it…”

A gargling burp spews forth a plea.

“Someone please help me! Help! I’m dying. I have a family. Please.”

Bud smiles, then jams the kitchen knife into someone bleeding on the rug next to the television. The repetitive thuds sink into his body, in tune with the radio.

” Jingle…”

THUD!

“Jingle…”

THUD!

“…Jingle all the way!”

Bud drinks in a mouthful while he stares at a warped reflection within the television set. He points the knife at the reflection as ripped bits of meat cling to the serrated edge like pieces of viscera trapped within a bear’s maw.

“You wanna see ugly?”

He wipes the knife along the sweatshirt—a ruby streak of gore smears onto the fabric. Bud drags the other side of the knife across his chest.

“I’ll show you ugly.”

Bud traces the knife along the bloated dead face. A red line glows and oozes a familiar substance. Eyelids flutter open and reveal two watery orbs.

“What are you doing to me…”

He digs his fingernails inside the face’s seams, then peels the fleshy skin from the skull. Bud plasters the face onto the sweater, and then spins around on his toes.

“So, what do you think? Pretty ugly, huh?”