Sugar High
a flash fiction battle piece about a boy's birthday that doesn't go according to plan
Note: This was written for ’s Flash-Style Fiction Battle. The prompt was: Children's birthday party, a duel between two adults, someone has to die by the end. We only had two hours. It was fun. Hope you like it.
When Timmy woke up on his seventh birthday, he was excited for his party, hopeful for the presents he would get, and had no idea that he was going to die.
He smelled the aroma of French toast and jumped out of bed. The night before, his mother promised him she would make French toast for breakfast and he could have all the syrup he wanted. She kept her promise. The table was all set with a big pile of French toast and a big bottle of maple syrup. He took his seat, poured so much syrup it ran over the sides of the plate, and dug in, stuffing his mouth with big pieces and savoring the delicious Wonder bread, egg, and cinnamon, perfectly fried in butter, and inundated with sugar.
After finishing every bite, Timmy went to the living room and saw it. Happiness filled his chest and he felt like the world was hugging him. His father promised him a new bike and there it was, shiny and perfect, neon green and so, so cool. He took it outside and rode on the driveway. It immediately felt like it was a part of him. The gears flowed smoothly and he turned with ease. He couldn’t wait until his friends saw his new bike when they came to the party.
The party was scheduled to start at noon. He had two hours to get ready. His mother told him he could wear whatever he wanted. He wanted to wear his Elmo costume from Halloween, and went to his room to put it on, but it wasn’t in his closet. He went to the laundry room. Maybe his mother washed it for him. But it wasn’t in the washer or dryer. Where was it?
“MOM!” he shouted.
No answer.
He went up to his parent’s bedroom, opened the door, and saw Elmo mounted on his butt-naked mother, smacking her on the behind and telling her, “ELMO OWNS THIS ASS!”
He shut the door and went back to his room. He put on his Batman costume from two Halloweens ago instead.
Timmy’s mother brought the cake out and his father lit the candles. Everyone joined in singing the birthday song. But Timmy just stared at his father and saw Elmo. He saw Elmo humping and fucking. It made him sick. He felt nauseous.
“Make a wish!” Elmo or his father said.
Timmy leaned over the cake, blew, and puked all over it. He was stunned. The cake was completely covered in vomit. He could see chunks of French toast. He looked around and saw his friends and his friends’ parents look at him with concern. But then he looked at his father and saw Elmo again, still banging his mother and laughing at him and his stupid Batman costume that didn’t even fit anymore.
“At least he got all the candles!” Elmo or his father said, chuckling.
“Are you okay, honey,” Timmy’s mother said, putting her arm around his shoulders and rubbing his tummy. “Maybe we had too much soda. Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”
In the bathroom, Timmy saw his Elmo mask on the floor by the sink. It looked filthy and vile. He hated Elmo. He never wanted to see Elmo again. He picked it up and threw it in the trash can by the toilet.
“Why are you throwing away your Elmo mask, honey?” Timmy’s mother said.
Timmy didn’t answer her. He watched silently as she took it out of the trash.
“Well, if you don’t want it, I’ll take it,” she said. “Mommy likes Elmo.”
Rage filled his chest and he felt like the world was burning him. Elmo would have to die. There was no other option.
After his mother cleaned him up, Timmy went to the backyard. People were leaving. The party was over. He went to the cake. Nobody cleaned up the mess yet. He grabbed the knife and looked around for Elmo.
Elmo was still there, acting like he owned the place, drinking a beer and chatting with one of his friend’s dads. Timmy covered the knife with his Batman cape and ran at Elmo, ready to end him once and for all for what he did to him and his mother.
“FUCK YOU ELMO!” Timmy screamed. Everyone turned to look at the little Batman, running toward Elmo and taking a 12-inch blade out from under his cape.
“STOP, TIMMY! NO!” Elmo or Timmy’s father shouted and got out of the way. Timmy’s knife missed him and he instead stabbed his friend’s dad’s leg.
“You little motherfucker!” the friend’s dad said, and kicked Timmy so hard, he flew back several feet and landed on his ass.
“Hey, hey, hey!” Timmy’s dad told the friend’s dad. “That’s my son! He’s sick!”
“Your crazy goddamned son stabbed my leg!”
“You call that a stab, you pussy?”
The friend’s dad pulled out a switchblade from his pocket and flicked it open, revealing a glimmering six-inch blade.
“Lemme show you what he did and see if you don’t call it a stab,” he said.
A few feet away from Timmy’s dad’s feet was the baseball bat they used on the piñata. He grabbed it with both hands, ready to hit a home run.
“Why don’t you try, numbnuts?”
Timmy watched as the two men dueled, circling each other in an attempt to demonstrate superiority through violence.
As Timmy watched, he forgot about the knife that dug into his liver when he hit the ground and didn’t feel the blood flooding out of his body. He couldn’t feel it because he was so mesmerized by how cool his father looked, holding a baseball bat about to bash in another man’s skull for hurting his son.
He forgave Elmo and was proud of his father.
You posted this at a very interesting moment. I just ate my one cheat meal of the week and my body is currently flooding with glucose.
Ray, I can relate.