Work Text:
It had been a lovely ceremony, although ceremony may not have been the right word for such a simple but profound event in the life of the family and their precious, chubby-cheeked child. Their first child, much-longed for after years of trying to conceive and a small fortune poured into fertility treatment, so everyone had come (EVERYONE, even the deviants who never sent Christmas cards), filling the small building to overflowing. Someone had even opened a window and propped their own, less new and therefore currently less special, baby on the ledge so that it was barely in the church, just so one more second cousin might be able to press into the other end of the pew.
The baby had slept through the bulk of the service (as had most of those in attendance), only awakening when the parents went to stand by the font before the preacher, the godparents standing respectfully behind them. There were no screams as water was crossed onto the baby's forehead, dampening the wisps of curls. As the preacher held the baby aloft, the infant blinked at the assembled congregation and unofficial family reunion before it before appearing to smile with the passing of milk sweet gas. Then, lucky creature, it was returned to the arms of its mother where it promptly fell asleep and did not have to endure the eternity of sermonizing that followed, the preacher seizing the chance to reach those who might not otherwise have attended at his small sanctuary.
When the service as a whole broke up, it was as though the sleep of ages lifted from those imprisoned in their hard pews, pressed perilously close to neighbours sticky with confinement and perspiration as the day's heat climbed threateningly. Trying to leave was almost as bad as simply sitting had been: everyone wanted to be the first to taste freedom, to return to their vehicles and speed on to their planned brunches, golfing sessions, or afternoon naps (on something more comfortable than hard wood in a room with better air conditioning). But he, like the rest of the family, only had to escape the sanctuary and follow those of his blood to the basement, where the christening of the beloved was to be celebrated as was family tradition.
Tables were lined up in the simplistic basement which was cooler, to a degree, than those parts of the church above, running the length of the room with a single table set parallel to the rest where the new parents had already seated themselves with the infant, now awake. They were surrounded by gifts frothing with neutral-pastel tissue paper and cascading ribbons and fans of creamy envelopes thick with the cards (and monetary gifts) contained therein.
There was no doubt that the new baby was eagerly welcomed into the family and a birth to be celebrated.
He searched the seats at the table for an open spot next to those relatives he could most comfortably tolerate when it hit him.
Aside from frosted pitchers of water, sweet tea, and lemonade, and paper cups placed before each chair, nothing resembling food had been provided. Nothing. The places were not even set with utensils that might allow him to improvise a simple lunch if he chose a seat next to a suitable relation. This was inexcusable and in complete defiance of family tradition.
With no one else moving to uphold centuries of standards, he took out of his Calico M960A SMG and took aim.