The sound of the ladder extending could have been anything.
Dwight Winston watched his sativa smoke climb out the gap he had opened in the window.
Not balmy, but unseasonably warm.
He looked over at the dining room television just in time to see a graphic breakdown of how woeful the Lions had been.
He had a theory that his grill business would be doing even better if the Lions were a more successful football team. There would be more tailgating, more of a festive atmosphere. Idiots would bungee cord their grill to their truck beds and the grills would get damaged.
Dwight hit the bong again, this blue dragon his niece had gotten him. His therapist said the weed would help his anxiety and aggression. It took the edge off, maybe.
He pressed the voice remote and said “Netflix.”
The screen went black as the command was processed and Dwight heard bells.
He looked at the screen as the Netflix logo emerged with the third-party app warning.
No reason to hear bells.
More bells, coming from outside, next door.
Oh god, Dwight thought. He looked at the calendar on his watch.
No.
No way.
He stood and walked out his back door, across his quad-level deck with the two grills and the 30 -inch, three-rack smoker, stone Honolulu blue Lion guarding the full-size kegerator.
He thought about hopping the railing to save himself sixty feet. With a bit lip, though he’d not admit to doing things like biting his lip, he decided he might have aged out of that maneuver. New knee in March, he couldn’t wait.
Stepping down off the deck and turning, Dwight saw an empty ladder surrounded by boxes of packing peanuts Hank Cimarron and his son Henry, Jr. were on the roof of the home, the Breckenridge Cascade model of McMansion that was identical to Dwight’s, with the addition of a dormer bedroom over the garage.
They were anchoring wire mesh reindeer, draped in diaphanous fabric on the roof of the house,
Red Reindeer.
Green Reindeer.
Yellow Reindeer.
All the reindeer were draped in bells and covered with strands of led lights. The black box that changed their movement and light pattern programs dangled from an extension cord near the back door of the Breckenridge, one of eight of this exact style in the small subdivision with the not so compelling view of the freeway.
Dwight calmly walked over and gave the extension cord a stern yank.
Bells chimed as one of the untethered reindeer at the back of the line tipped over.
“Woah! Shit! What the--”
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