“And today’s top story: There are further reports of more killings related to the Acid Killer in the Midwest. Seven more deaths have been attributed to the serial killer. Victims received a package from a mysterious sender. When the packages were opened the contents would spray the victims with hydrochloric acid.” The newscaster was monotone, his voice showed little appreciation for the execution of a master plan. It was all coming together. They would never realize what was coming. Video footage of the partially dissolved packages played. “We remind our viewers that if you receive a strange package please do not open it.“

A commercial played as they went to break. I usually hate this kind corporate of crap but this one made me smile. “Coming this Christmas!” Blared the incessant announcer, accompanied by clips of a stuff animal being played with by white, happy kids. “Introducing Fluffy Pets. Feed it chocolates! Feed it donuts! And then watch it poop!” Ugh, the idea of gifting defecating toys to children in this country was getting old, which made it easy to fool these consumerist morons that much easier. They’ll never see it coming.

Those devices, those acid spewing surprises were mine, as you might have guessed. All mine, my little precious little man-made monsters. The acid would have dissolved the stuffed animal inside, making it more frustrating to the detectives trying to find me.

When they do, if they do, they’ll be shocked on what they find. I could be cliche and say it was people who fired me, or my ex-wife, or people in general but no it was all of them. They were the first ones to test my little experiments. Now they’re clumps of flesh and scarred bone, lying six feet underground.

The stuffed dinosaurs are strewn about the basement as if it were Santa’s workshop. When the kids gleefully trapse downstairs to their trees this year their greedy hands will tear open a box to find a nasty, acid-spraying surprise. I wasn’t completely mad; I always make sure the acid is pumped through a CO2 tank. That way it’ll finish them quick and put them out of their misery. What kind of parent would allow their child to grow up with so much evil government regulation and exclusionary rules? They’d never suspect an out-of-work toy genius to poison their fun. The tank was inside the belly, hidden well enough to send spray out the dinosaur’s mouth when it detected enough oxygen in the air. If only they took my work badge or notice the modified assembly line, they could prevent the coming massacre.

Am I proud of myself? No, of course not. I’m not a total animal. Who would be proud of ruining Christmas? We are such fragile creatures. So easily we bow to politicians and give up our rights. This will get their attention. Loss tends to do that. And perhaps they’ll unite against pointless consumerism.

Or maybe they’ll just do what they always do and forget. It’s too late to turn back anyways. The toys, or at least my version of the toys, were already in stores and under Christmas trees. Christmas tree, not that “holiday tree” crap. I wouldn’t be the first to poison America.

I was exposed to the discrimination of the authoritative state when I went shopping for my son. The greeters wouldn’t even let me in without scheduling an appointment. Who the hell thought it was a good idea to limit the amount of Christmas shoppers? I was turned away at the door by a mumbling, disgruntled malcontent and when I refused to leave, they threatened to call the police. What an embarrassment that a public retailer would turn customers away. Over what? Public safety? Pathetic.

I tried to charge past but the nutjobs at the front made a fool of me, in front of everyone. Over a toy! A toy I didn’t even get to buy! I refuse to run home with my tails between my legs anymore. I refuse to allow lunatic radicals to scare us into communism. To be candid I always celebrated Christmas with reverence and enlightenment, gifting and decorating with enthusiasm. But this year they stripped me of my mirth, as they did this country.

There was a thump upstairs as a door closed. The kid was home. I guess it was time to make dinner and prepare the Christmas cookies. I wouldn’t dare rob Tommy of the experience of his twelfth and probably last Christmas. He came rushing up to me as I came out of the basement and hugged me tightly. I was reminded of why I did the things I did, for the sake of the future generations and humanity itself. The thought of losing him to the fake news media and the beliefs of a society riddled with a guilty conscious makes me wish I had kept at least one of the dino plushies for him. But I wouldn’t be able to watch his face melt away like the others. He deserved so much more.

I chose to sit at the edge of the tree and admire the crosses and American flag ornaments. Tommy sat beside me and pointed gleefully at the present near the front. He was asking if I had seen it, I responded that I hadn’t. It was Christmas Eve after all so I decided to open it as he clasped his hands together excitedly. I don’t know where I’d be without the little guy. My little creations, all of them, are so very important to me.

The lid of the box popped open. Tommy was saying something about where he had found the gift, something about the basement, but his voice became muted as the realization hit me and the oxygen escaped my lips and traveled to the open mouth of the stuffed dinosaur. There was a click before I said, “Shit.”