The Paterfamilias

Titan of Industry Steve Splay finishes inking The Deal of The Century whilst gazing out the massive window of his vast executive office.

“Creating wealth and advancing society is a satisfying pursuit, no doubt, but I require a greater challenge,” he says to himself. “I grow tired of my enemies. Perhaps eliminating them will provide the adequate level of satisfaction I currently lack.”

Before sallying forth, Steve calls his wife, Lisa, who is a saint. “Hello, babes. How’s the homefront?” he says.

“Oh, good,” says Mrs. Splay, “I’m cooking some delicious pterodactyl eggs and raptor bacon. It’s too bad all of our sons are gone and I can no longer cook for them as well.”

“It is because we did such a good job investing in the future of our children that they are gone. By paying 100% of their four year private school college tuition bills they were able to become successful and productive citizens and move out. We are the ultimate providers. Truly in the realm of child rearing we are without peer.”

“Truly.”

They exchange terms of endearment and hang up. Steve quaffs a diet coke and picks up his double sided battle axe. “When you’re half-Norwegian, half-German and all Lutheran, you tend to know a thing or two about smiting with righteous authority,” Steve Splay says out loud. “My battle axe, Odin’s Fury, will undoubtedly serve me well in my endeavor.”

Steve’s first stop is at the bay front property of Dr. Viedner. “You Southern Maryland rednecks have been giving us North Marylanders a bad name for centuries,” Steve says to the Doctor. “I also caught you cheating at golf. This will teach you to abuse the principles of handicapping!”

Steve slices Dr. Waggle in half.

Mrs. Waggle, emerges from the laundry room to see about the commotion. “Mrs. Waggle, while I am tempted to spare your life, if for nothing else then that it would be a waste of a blonde haired piece of tail, I cannot accept your tacit support for the current state of women’s high school athletic uniforms. To make field hockey and lacrosse players were skirts is demeaning and anachronistic. Your failure to object is unacceptable. Taste cold steel.”

Mrs. Waggle is hacked to pieces.

After wiping the gore from Odin’s Fury, Steve follows the trail of surly yelling to an upstairs bedroom. There he finds what looks like a demented, overripe penguin goring himself on grilled cheese and tomato soup. “Obviously this thing doesn’t deserve to live,” Steve says has he removes another menace to society.

Pleased but unsatisfied, Steve seeks more offensive prey. He finds it in the most derelict of all islands, Long Island. There he encounters a big, red blob that appears to be wearing a cowboy hat and peeing on a dead Chinese hooker.

“Explain yourself, cretin!” Steve commands.

“Um… I’m an Emu?”

“More like you’re an only child you never learned the limits of decency and self-respect. Have fun being a dead Emu.”

Steve splays the Red Blob in twain.

“Not my Joey!” says a woman in shrieking, provincial Longislandese. She drops a box of donuts destined for the Red Blob's belly and runs at Steve.

“Here is clearly the wench who has failed to impart proper morals to her son. Perhaps now you will see the futility of parochial catholic education. Why don’t you feast on this?” Steve says as he cleaves in to Long Island Jane Vitoe’s mandible.

“Nobody messes with my fatty!” says a greasy mustachioed wop barreling into kitchen turned abattoir.

“Oh no!” Steve says to himself, “My worst nightmare! A lazy union worker bent on socializing the economy!”

Steve sizes up his adversary. “So, you think you can out mustache Steve Splay! Such affrontery doesn’t even deserve a response from my weapon!”

“Ha ha ha,” laughs Long Island Paul Vitoe, “You can not beat me without a weapon. I was in the ‘Nam!”

Steve is nonplussed. He recognizing Pauly Veets for the sniveling coward that he is, knowing that he probably spent his entire time in Vietnam hiding behind radio towers and stealing beer rations from the quarter master.

A wry smirk creeps onto Steve’s face as he formulates a cunning ruse. “Gee I don’t know, Paul, I guess it’s going to be tough. Hey, by the way, did you hear they’re giving automatic raises and increased benefits to all city bus drivers who pick up an extra shift in the next 2 hours?”

“Santa Maria! That means I can bilk more money from the hard honest work of taxpayers. Where are the keys to my bus?!” Paul says with excitement.

Earlier that morning Steve had rigged Paul’s bus to explode if he fails to pick up minorities on his scheduled stops. Ten minutes into his shift, LIPV’s bus blows up, littering Queens with charred wreckage and dago mustache gel.

Triumphant though still bored, Steve calls his youngest son to let him know he has rid the earth of its most notorious scum.

“Hello son, what’s new?” asks Steve.

“Just hanging out, flanked by three fatties. You know, the usual.” Andruw replies.

“Nice work. Unfortunately things aren’t so excellent with me. Unlike when I would derive great pleasure from vicariously enjoying your domination of both the athletic and academic arenas of high school, I have recently killed several of my most abominable foes and failed to obtain lasting satisfaction. Any suggestions?”

“Why don’t you play a round of golf? Then come home, read a book about the Civil War and eat a box of Cap’n Crunch?”

“Magnificent idea. Hey who’s better than us? Wait, I’ll answer that for you. Fucking no one, that’s who.”

The End.