As you dodge a wildly kicking sandal, you glance toward the entrance of the tub, where latecomers are filtering in. Your blood runs cold. Standing at the railing, looking down at the slaughter with expressions ranging from morbid curiosity to eager excitement, are your mother and sisters.
Jennifer is there, looking infuriatingly chic in a black leather minidress and thigh-high boots with wickedly sharp stilettos. She sips a brightly colored cocktail, her lips curled into a bored, cynical sneer. "Hmph. Looks like they saved the scrawny ones for tonight," she comments, her voice cutting through the noise. She idly taps the toe of one boot, the sharp tip tapping a rhythm on the metal guardrail, as if impatient for her turn to join the carnage.
You dive for cover, slipping into the shadow cast by the railing where your family stands. You press your tiny body flat against the cool metal support beam, holding your breath as a pair of gigantic, flip-flop-clad feet stomp past, their rubber soles reeking of cheap plastic and sweaty foot flesh. The wearer, a hefty woman in a sundress, giggles as she feels a tiny body give way beneath her arch, pausing briefly to grind it into the floor before moving on.
From your hiding spot, you can hear their conversation as clearly as if they were whispering right next to you.
"I don't see him," Sarah says, her voice tinged with genuine disappointment. She's wearing a frilly pink skirt and a white crop top, her feet bare and pedicured with sparkly blue polish. She wiggles her toes, her gaze sweeping the bloody dance floor below. "There's too many of them! How are we supposed to find one specific guy?" She sounds like a child who's lost her favorite toy.
Jennifer scoffs, taking another long sip of her drink. "That's the point, you idiot. He's just another bug now. It's not like we're supposed to pick him out of a lineup." She gestures with her cup towards the floor. "The fun is knowing he's down there somewhere, about to be turned into a greasy smear under some stranger's shoe."
Your mother shifts uncomfortably, pulling at the hem of her tight, red sequined dress. It's a garment far more daring than anything you've ever seen her wear. The plunging neckline shows off an ample amount of cleavage, and the hemline barely reaches mid-thigh. On her feet are a pair of strappy, impossibly high heels that make her legs look miles long. She looks simultaneously stunning and deeply out of place.
"Jen, are you sure about this?" your mother asks, her voice a nervous whisper. "I feel... exposed. Everyone can see everything."
Jennifer rolls her eyes, a gesture of pure, condescending superiority. "Mom, relax. You look hot. It's his birthday, right? Give him a proper send-off. Would you rather he get flattened by some skank in stripper heels, or by his own loving mother?" She leans in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial purr. "Trust me. Imagine the look on his face when he looks up and sees *this* coming down on him. It'll be the best and last thrill of his pathetic little life. He'll die happy, probably."
A slow blush spreads across your mother's cheeks, a mixture of embarrassment and a strange, reluctant pride at her daughter's backhanded compliment. She glances down at the dance floor, her expression unreadable. "I suppose... you have a point."
Just as your mother seems to be warming to the idea, a new voice joins the conversation, dripping with sultry amusement. "Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in. Trying to steal my favorite nephew's grand finale?"
You freeze, peering around the support beam. Leaning against the railing on the other side of your mother is Aunt Betty. She's a vision of predatory elegance, poured into a skintight emerald green gown that clings to her voluptuous figure like a second skin. A daring slit runs up the side, revealing nearly all of one leg, ending in a killer heel that matches her dress. Her dark hair is piled high on her head, and her red lips are curled into a knowing smirk.
Betty's eyes sweep the carnage below with an expert's gaze. "Such a waste," she tsks, shaking her head slowly. "All this delicious potential just being smeared on the floor." She looks directly at your mother, then at Sarah, her gaze lingering. "If I find our dear little guy first, I won't be so crude. I'll give him a real treat. I'll scoop him up, let him have one last, glorious look at this," she says, gesturing to her impressive chest, "and then I'll pop him right into my mouth. A nice, slow, sensual swirl on my tongue before I swallow him whole!"