I remember with great fondness the Christmas I had as a twelve-year-old boy. I remember awakening to the smell of burnt bacon and scurrying down twelve flights of stairs to our living room, scrambling under the magnificent Christmas tree in the corner, and flinging aside box after box meant for sister, brother, cousin until I found my very own present. I tore off the tag – “From Santa” – and shredded away mountain after mountain of gift wrap until none remained. Only then could I fully realize what stood before me. Tears welled up in my eyes, and I cried out with joy,
“I can’t believe it! My very own guillotine!”
I was so excited to try it out that I chose not to attend Christmas mass that year and instead wheeled my guillotine out of my house and onto the neighborhood street, where several of my peers were, building snowmen, throwing snowballs, and making snow angels. I approached my next door neighbor, Tommy Winstonworth. He was building a snow fort. I hated Tommy Winstonworth because he always cheated in tetherball.
“Hello, Tommy Winstonworth.”
Tommy Winstonworth looked up and saw my guillotine. “What’s that?”
“It’s my guillotine, and I’m going to use it on you.”
I then yanked Tommy Winstonworth by the scruff of his neck and dragged him over to my guillotine. “No! I won’t let you guillotine me!” he yelled. I ignored him, placed his head on the headrest, and yanked the release handle. The blade of the guillotine fell, cutting cleanly through Tommy Winstonworth’s pale neck. Blood splattered everywhere, staining the snow and my winter coat.
“Ah!” I exclaimed, “What a great guillotine!”
I went back inside my house, and my mom gave me a mug of hot chocolate with jumbo marshmallows. It was the best hot chocolate I ever tasted. That Christmas was the best Christmas ever.