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To say Tom was a nuisance around Christmas would be an understatement. Tord didn’t think there was a time of year where they guy got more annoying, more out of hand, more of a pain in the ass.
Tord is mistaken.
It starts out simple. The neighbors are having a “Christmas in July” celebration, and for whatever reason, they decide to invite the whole neighborhood, including, surprisingly, Edd’s entire household. Tom is glaring belligerently on the couch until Edd mentions the theme.
Then he gets some sort of twisted unnatural facial expression halfway between an earnest attempt at a smile and looking like he is being possessed by the devil himself. Edd doesn’t seem to notice.
Until the living room clears out and Tom goes upstairs to go to bed or to drink or whatever the guy does alone in his room at night. Matt trots off as well and it’s just them two alone in the living room.
Edd looks at Tord on his end of the couch, “You know he’s planning to destroy the party?” Edd says conversationally.
“Oh definitely,” Tord snorts.
“Like probably get arrested.”
“Would not be the first time this year.”
The first time this year had been in fact, January first, when Tom had paused his Christmas tirade of terror for the reasonable holiday of New Year’s Day, and had promptly been dragged to the jail house by a very tired and very bitter police team who wanted nothing more to stop working overtime and go home to see their families.
“So what are we going to do?” Edd says, putting his cheek to his fist and looking genuinely concerned.
“Hope he gets life without parole?” Tord shrugs. He doesn’t see a reason why he should give a damn if Tom gets himself into deep shit.
“Very funny Tord, you know he pays a fourth of the rent and we are going to have to cover if he gets put in jail.”
Tord suddenly sees a reason why he should give a shit.
He sighs, “Okay so what’s the plan?”
Edd shrugs, “Well the way I see it there’s really only one thing he probably hates as much as Christmas.”
“A Christmas celebration in July?”
“Well, that too… and you.”
Tord snorts, “And your point is?”
“Maybe you can distract him? Make it so he doesn’t ruin the party?”
“If Tom is going to the party it is already ruined.”
Edd sighs, “Look, how about this, if we aren’t banned from the neighbor’s house and Tom isn’t in jail by the end of the party, I will buy and cook you as much bacon as you can eat for the next month.”
Tord sits up, more attentive and looks at Edd dead on, “So if I say… wanted to eat bacon for breakfast, lunch and dinner for a solid month.”
“You would most likely turn our bathroom into a biohazard zone, but it’s permitted,” Edd said.
Tord grinned. He clapped Edd on the back. “Well Edd old friend, you have a deal. I will babysit Tom the whole party and you can start greasing the frying pan.”
That was a week ago.
The day of the party Tom is walking out the door with a backpack on his shoulder looking oddly upbeat. Tord stops him.
“Hey Jehova, what’s in the bag?”
Tom’s eyes narrow. “None of your business, commie, move.”
Tom attempts to muscle by but Tord has a bit of height on him and stops him, pulling the zipper on his back and pulling it open. Leading to its contents being unloaded onto their welcome mat.
“What the-,” Tom is turning to snap but pales as he sees his mini armory laying on the floor. There is a blow torch with backup fuel, a nail gun, a whole bottle of vodka, some magazine clippings with Santa’s eyes scratched out.
Tord picks one of them up.
“Okay Tom, exhibit A of things to talk about in therapy.”
Tom flips him off. Tord picks up the whole welcome mat, carrying its contents up to his room where he quickly opens his closet door, dumps them and then closes and locks his room. He turns around, face to face with Tom who looks pissed off as hell.
“Give me my things back,” he snarls. Tord puts a hand on his shoulder.
“Go to the party Tom, I know fun is a foreign concept, but at least try,” He pokes Tom on the cheek. “You can have your stuff back after the party.”
Tom swats at his hand and Tord can feel his eyes attempting to burn holes in the back of his neck. Tord goes to the party. Mark lets him in and you know? It’s nice. There’s little decorative snowflakes hanging from the ceiling, foam snowmen scattered around on tables and such. A nice tree in the middle of the room with lights and red ornaments.
It’s a nice party and people seem to be enjoying themselves. Tord is too actually. He sets up watch on the couch by the Christmas tree. He figures that way he can tell if Tom comes in and keep an eye on him.
But for now, he just sits on the couch, sipping eggnog and enjoying people enjoying themselves.
Until he smells smoke. He turns around to see Tom trying to light another match next to the tree, several burnt ones scattered on the ground around him.
He doesn’t even know how the guy got in the house, let alone how long he was in the living room trying to start a bonfire.
None of the hosts are in the room so he guesses most people just didn’t notice or thought Tom was trying to light a candle or something. Either way it becomes clear to Tord that if he doesn’t do anything, the tree if not the whole house are going to be on fire as soon as Tom remembers alcohol is indeed flammable.
Tord walks over swiftly and grips Tom’s hand as he tries to strike another match.
“Let go of me, you ass,” Tom spits, trying to wrest his hand out of Tord’s grip. Tord merely grabs his other hand, the one holding the matchbox and squeezes until Tom drops it. Success.
At least until Tom gets that demonic look again and then he is throwing himself forward and Tord knows nothing good is going to come of Tom willingly throwing himself at him. Tord loses his balance and so does the tree behind him as all three crash to the floor, ornaments falling off and breaking on the floor.
Tord then begins to wrestle with Tom as he struggles to get out from under him and get up off the floor, probably to cause more havoc. Tord is looking down at him, ugly grimace written clear across Tom’s face as he glares.
He starts to wriggle more aggressively and Tord can feel his grip loosening as well as hear someone say “What the hell?”
Not just someone. Mark. Shit. He has to recover this. He is not letting Tom get in the way of him and a month’s supply of bacon. Tord does the only think he can think off, trying to wrestle a fucking drunk into submission on the floor amongst a bunch of broken glass.
He slams his face painfully hard against Tom’s, barely managing to make their lips meet and he brings his hand up to Tom’s face in what may have looked like a loving caress but what was actually a very subtle reminder to Tom that the jaw has some incredibly tender spots should he chose to bite Tord’s tongue.
He pulls off only when he is out of breath and he feels Tom stop fighting him as much as he focuses less on getting out from under Tord and more on being able to breathe.
“Are you fucking drunk?” Tom says baring his teeth as he glares up at Tord. Tord wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Ugh, no, but you sure as shit are. Do you actually salivate vodka, or does your mouth just taste like that all the time?”
Tom is about to retort when Tord gets a tap on his shoulder. He looks over his shoulder to see Mark, squatting down to be at his level.
“Look, if you two want to… do a thing. My room is down the hall, last one on the left,” Mark says jerking his head toward the hallway. “But I’d appreciate if you don’t make any more of a mess, otherwise Eduardo is going to pitch a fit.”
Tord smiles at his host graciously and mouths a thank you. He hauls Tom up onto his feet by the back of his hoodie and as he starts to protest Tord whispers in his ear, “Make a big deal of this and I will go get Edd.”
Tom shuts up.
Tord escorts him down the hallway and when they get to the room he shoves Tom in and locks the door behind him, leaning against it.
“You are planning to force me to stay in here the whole party,” Tom says deadpan, looking at Tord.
“Yes, if that is what it takes.”
Tom’s eyelids lower and he says, “I have to go to the bathroom.”
“No surprise since you have been drinking lighter fluid all day, bathroom’s right there,” Tord says, jerking his thumb over to the adjoining room.
Tom is in there for twenty minutes. Tord had an inkling something was wrong by ten. But the risk of seeing Tom’s dick or Tom attempting to pinch a loaf was too terrifying for him to muster up the courage any time before twenty minutes.
So at fifteen Tord knocks and calls and warns and threatens. And by twenty he opens the door to see an open window and an empty bathroom. Tord immediately darts out of the room. He arrives in the living room looking out of breath and flushed, to which Matt gives him the thumbs up.
All though it kills every part of him to even remotely infer that he had willing intercourse with Thomas the Alcoholic Jehovah with Parental Issues, Tord forces a smile and gives Mark a shaky thumbs up.
Then he sees a flaming reindeer land on the neighbor’s front yard, from seemingly out of the clear blue sky.
Tord now knows where Tom is.
He makes a mad dash out of the neighbor’s house. By the time he hits the sidewalk he can see Tom, up on the roof, matches in hand, flaming decorative sleigh behind him, laughing like a maniac. Tord is at a loss of what to do until he spots a hose lying on the side of the house. He grabs it and turns it on, spraying the molten reindeer that looks now looks like some Cronenberg monstrosity.
“Tom, please get down off the roof,” Tord says, in his nicest, kindest, most polite tone. He is going to give Tom a fair chance to back down from this. He is going to be an honest gentleman before he has to stop being one.
Tom flips him the bird and kicks another flaming reindeer off the house, which Tord immediately sprays out. He grabs both of the melted decorations, trying not to look them in their dead, melted, beady little eyes as he throws them into the neighbor’s trash.
He then runs back to their house, unlocks his door and throws open his closet to reveal an assortment of weapons and guns. Tord pulls out the one he is looking for. He digs around for the ammo he is looking for and loads his gun.
With steady hands and a calm demeanor he throws open his window and spots Tom apparently attempting to shove a flaming reindeer into the neighbor’s chimney.
He lines up the shot and shoots.
Tom lets out a scream of genuine fear as a burst of red appears on his chest. Followed by a burst of green. And another and another.
Tord watches him stagger back and finally just full out sprint to hide behind the chimney. Tord spots the ladder Tom must have used to climb up onto the neighbors roof. He slings his gun over his shoulder and makes a dash out of the house, stopping briefly at Tom’s room to sling another item over his shoulder.
Tom’s going to learn to keep his door locked or suffer the consequences one way or another.
By the time Tord makes it up on top of the roof he is greeted with the melted visage of poor old Saint Nicolas.
“Tom, we can talk about how profoundly disturbing this all is later, for now you need to get off the neighbors roof and go home,” Tord says.
“Or what?” Tom demands, face peeking out from behind the plastic burn victim.
“Or,” Tord says shouldering off his gun and shrugging off the other strap. He grabs the gun with one hand and Susan with the other, pointing the muzzle to pickups of the bass.
“Susan gets some-.”
“Tord don’t you dare.”
“Hot sticky fluid-.”
“I will-.”
“Somewhere I am sure neither of you want it,” Tord finishes, tightening his grip on the trigger. Tom raises his hands, dropping the Santa. Tord watches it sadly sled down off the roof, plummeting onto the lawn below in what is probably the most traumatic scene to play out today.
He escorts Tom off the premises, slinging Susan back over his shoulder and putting derelict Santa in the garbage as well. Tord orders Tom home and when he resists, Tord merely reminds him Susan is still in his possession.
Tord picks up the rest of the holiday wreckage off the neighbors roof and the neighbor’s trash is full so he puts it in their own. Tord then returns to the house, grabs Tom’s bottle of vodka from out of his closet and goes to his room. He hands him both the bottle and the bass, and then enters the room himself.
He sits down in front of Tom’s door, gun in his lap and Tom merely glares at him as he cracks open the bottle and starts drinking.
Tom mutters for a bit about why can’t they just keep Christmas in December, how this is a mockery of blah, blah, blah.... Tord tunes him out so he doesn’t end up committing homicide. He does not know how else to maintain being in close proximity to Tom while he complains like a broken record over one topic for a solid two hour block, gradually getting less and less coherent.
By the time Mr.AA is comatose on his bed it’s dark out and Tord can see the neighbors Christmas lights flashing through Tom’s window. He sighs to himself and as he looks at Tom’s half empty bottle, he’s go to admit he is a little tempted.
Then he remembers what Tom’s mouth tasted like this morning and he is a lot less tempted.
By ten everyone is leaving. By ten o’ five, as Edd is knocking on Tom’s door, Tord can taste victory.
Victory tastes like bacon.
“Alright Tord, you got it, you did good on this one,” His friend smiles, and those most certainly are not tears welling in Tord’s eyes as he fully comprehends the beauty that is Edd cooking him dead pig every morning for the next month.
_____________
In reality, and against Edd’s advice, Matt’s warnings, and Tom’s disgruntled insults, Tord lasts three days.
He eats four pounds of bacon in three days. Little else.
The result is him waking up at three am with what he will only refer to with a thousand mile stare as “The Meat Sweats” and rushing to the bathroom to do the kind of thing to a toilet that required an exorcist (plumber) to fix.
There may also have been tears, some unhealthy looking byproduct, and a distant reminder of what Tord’s first intimate high school rendezvous was like.
In short, Edd never has to worry about fighting someone physically for bacon ever again and Tord is sitting there glumly at the breakfast table trying to avert his eyes as Edd happily chews a crisply cooked piece of bacon, wondering who the real winner of this stupid bet was.