The Fall of the House of Woods

The fun began to coalesce around the time my sister decided it would be a good idea to molest one of our neighbors in the downstairs bathroom. Although, due to the great natural inertia of joy, the fun did not actually begin until my uncle Ben ran in after her to save the unfortunate man from further violation. For an adult male, being molested by a woman is always embarrassing.

When my uncle managed to pry the bewildered neighbor out of the bathroom, and Rachel stumbled out after him drunk as a skunk, that was when the fun really picked up and started to fly. From my quiet place in the corner of the back room reading a book, I sighed. This is why I hate family reunions.

I arrived just in time to put Rachel in a full Nelson before she could punch my uncle Ben in the face. “Fush you, BShee!” Rachel screamed, trying clumsily to get hold of my hair. From the way she was fighting me you would have thought I was a holy man who had laid on hands on a demon.

I looked to either side of me to make sure no one was looking. Being the only sober person in the entire house, and therefore the only person capable of processing information at a normal speed, I very subtly slammed her head against a wall, quick enough that no one noticed. The thud was like holy music. She stopped trying to grab my hair immediately.

“Everyone leave me alone!” Rachel sobbed, trying to kick my nearby uncle. “I have a headache!” I smiled, wishing I had hurt her a little bit more. She wouldn’t be able to remember a thing come morning and she had a lot to answer for. Imagine the dumbest, ugliest, cruelest, most ignorant cunt you have ever met. Then think of the kind of human being that that person would look upon with disdain. That horrible creature, beyond the scope of any decent imagination, is my sister. That she exists is all the proof I have ever needed that God does not.

“For Christ’s sake Rachel, calm down!” my uncle yelled, drunk and pleading. Uncle Ben is a nice quiet drunk who will only ever get bold enough to hug you and tell you how “much I’ve always respected you, ya know.” Rachel and alcohol combine to form a portal to every level of the underworld.

“You’re out of control!” Uncle Ben shouted, as he watched my sister cuss and twitch like a Jerry Springer guest in an electric chair. I rolled my eyes. Technically, you have to have had some control before you can run out of it.

My sister then began shrieking at the top of her lungs such vile insults at my uncle and the world in general, that even I, with my minimal moral standards, will not write them down. Suffice it to say that my pacifistic Aunt Debbie found these bad enough that she sought fit to run up and slap Rachel full across the mouth. While I could have stopped this, I let it slide. I only make an effort to defend innocent people. My sister is most certainly not innocent. In fact, I would rather say that the bitch had it coming.

“Okay.” I announced to no one. “Time for bed.” I brought Rachel’s hands down behind her pelvis and twisted them until her back arched. Then I drove my knee into the small of her back to prod her forward. Rachel is like one of the crazy people in prison lock down that can never be trusted with any sort of human freedom. Give her an inch, she’ll take your fucking life. “Let’s go upstairs.”

“Fuck you, BShee! I should have killed you back when you were shtill a baby! You fucking virgin losher!” I pinched her in the place between her forefinger and her knuckle just a little bit, but enough to let her know I meant business. If you haven’t had the pleasure of being sober around super drunk people who are severely in need of a beating, I suggest you try it some time. It’s almost exactly like being Neo in the Matrix. Except it’s real!

For those of you who are undoubtedly appalled at my lack of restraint, I would like to state that I was probably exerting more restraint than you have ever been made to summon in the course of your entire life. I have wanted that cunt dead since the first time I realized that it was possible to make someone go so far away that they could never come back. Given this I was doing more than admirably. Let’s put it this way: she collects Nazi memorabilia because she admires Hitler’s evil. Those are her own sincere words. Plus, she tried to murder me pretty consistently for the first five or so years of my life. How much more clear cut do you really want this? Because I can go there.

We were at the foot of the stairs when my father, running ape-like, charged me from behind. He grabbed me around the waist and threw me to the side before I had time to shake him loose. When I turned to face him, Rachel took the opportunity to sit down on the stairs and kick me in the spine. A tingling flame ran up my back and I fell to the ground temporarily immobile. Awesome, I thought, groaning in pain. Just fan-fucking-tastic.

In the time it took me to get back up, my father pounced on my sister, pinned her against the stairs, and was screaming at her to “show him how tough she really was” by letting her punch him in the face over and over again. I rolled my eyes like a man who can’t believe that his wife made peas for dinner again. I’ve been to this particular show a number of times.

I grabbed my father’s hand when it lifted to strike Rachel in the throat, not to save Rachel, but because my father really didn’t deserve to go to prison for the rest of his life just because Rachel needed killing. Then, because I’m as practiced at this as a rodeo clown saving cowboys, I threw my father off my sister, pinned him with my forearm against the nearest wall and told him off-handedly to “cool it.” Then there was the problem with Rachel.

Being as she was on an incline with her feet facing me I first had to grab hold of her ankles before I could grab onto any other part of her. She took this as an opportunity to do one of the few sit ups of her life and only a quick motion backwards on my part stopped her from biting off my nose. I immediately crossed one of her legs over the other and applied pressure till she was flipped over onto her stomach. It’s during times like these that I’m glad my grandfather insisted on getting me Karate lessons. I twisted both of her arms again, held them in place with my first two fingers, then picked her up by the belt using the other three of each hand, and dragged her up the stairs like a sack of flour. If I let her wobble a little too far over the bannister, well… bitch has it coming.

Kicking open the door to her room as she continued to fight me, I backed into Cunthulu’s smelly lair. Ah yes, the sweet aroma of old microwavable food and ass. I threw her down on her bed like a rag doll. She seemed too confused to get back up. “Don’t you fucking test me!” I shouted at her. She tried to do a push up but fell back down. I’d taken most of the fight out of her getting back up the stairs. Knowing she lacked even the most basic of coordination skills I moved several of her larger pieces of furniture in front of the door, in hopes that she’d get up, trip, and break her neck somehow. Then I slammed the door and went back downstairs.

The house was deserted. Everyone had gone over to my uncle Ben’s house. I resumed sitting in my recliner, and picked my book back up. My dad’s friend Steve was hiding in a corner sipping a beer.

“Can you believe they left all this beer here?” Steve asked, holding up a bottle like treasure.

“Yeah, Steve. Yeah I can.” Then I read. Between you and me, I think Steve may be an alcoholic.