Goldilocks slipped silently into the house. Dumb shits had left the door unlocked when they went for a walk. She walked into the dining room. Who the hell goes for a walk between setting food on the table and eating it? Ever hear of blowing on your food? What if there’s a fly in the house? “Here, fly, shit in my soup as much as you want while I go for a walk and it gets too cool to eat.” No wonder Emilio wanted them dead–he was more embarrassed at having set them up to be his distributors in that part of Idaho than he was mad about “Papa Bear” always shorting him on the meth payments.
God, she was weary–it wasn’t just the damn sinus infection, it was 17 years of being a hitwoman, first freelance, then on retainer to those Mexican pricks that was wearing her down. She was wary of signing on with them, but she knew she could watch her beautiful back as much as they liked to watch it, and she liked their unbridled nastiness. She was an equal that way to Emilio and they both knew it. As long as she carried out her work, he left her alone, and she ALWAYS worked alone. She’d never failed him.
She looked down at the bowls of crap on their table–“Probably roadkill”, she thought out loud. She stuck a blood-red fingernail into the huge bowl, big enough to stir up a batch of cookies in, that must have been Papa Bear’s. “Not all that bad, but it could use a little spice.” She pulled a small bottle from her leather jacket and sprinkled about half of it into the bowl. “That oughta knock old Lardass out.” She went to the next bowl, most likely “Mama Bear’s”, because it was pretty big too, but not as big as Dumbass’s. She sprinkled about two-thirds of the remainder into that bowl, then dumped the rest into the regular soup bowl that must have been belonged to “Junior Dumbass”. She’d sneak out of the house, sit in the woods for a while, then come in and finish ’em off while they slept.
In the meantime, she might as well check out the house; after all, it would be on the market soon, and she was looking for a vacation home. It was pretty around there. She walked past their three chairs, all lined up in a row in front of the big screen. She wasn’t about to sit in them–the place looked clean enough, but you never know.
She climbed the ladder to the sleeping loft. What the hell? It was just one big open room, with 3 beds in it. They did look remarkably clean and well-made; it even smelled clean. She laid down on the small one–too soft. She laid down on the giant one, too hard. She pulled her pistol out of one pocket and silencer out of another, screwed them together and laid the gun on fatass’s pillow. Then she laid down on the middle one. Wow, this was comfy. Idly, she felt the pillowcase–were those 1000 thread count sheets? “Looks like Mama Bear knows how to live the good life.”
She was sooooo tired–the morons would go straight to their soup, then pass out at the table and be out for hours, so a little catnap wouldn’t hurt her. She undressed, slipped between the elegant sheets, and fell fast asleep.
The Lard family came back from their stroll a few minutes later. Just before they got to the dining room, Papa and Mama suddenly looked at each other. Was it a smell? or a feeling? It didn’t matter what it was, but something was terribly wrong. They started looking around the house, when suddenly they heard a whisper from Junior, who had climbed up to the sleeping loft to get his I-pod so he didn’t have to listen to the Twin Bores talk about the weather while they fed their fat faces.
Junior waved them upstairs; they both went up and saw Goldilocks lying there, with the gun in the next bed. “That damn Emilio”, thought Papa Bear as he picked up the gun. He looked at the long, golden hair, the curve of her shapely body under “Old Lumpy”‘s sheets, and said “What a waste” as he aimed at her head and pulled the trigger.
“You dumb shit”, cried out Mama Bear, “you could have just as well woke her up and marched her outside to do that.” As she grabbed one end of the bedding, she signaled to him to grab the other end so they could haul her outside. “Junior, gather up some wood and start a fire in the fire ring out back.” As Junior ran off to get the fire going, she growled to Papa, “I hope you’re gonna like being sober for the next month–your beer money is going for some new sheets for me. Dumbass.”
(For Trifecta’s Trifextra weekend thing–retell Goldilocks and the 3 Bears–no word limit this time! I like sweet fairy tales.)