Didn’t we hit this house last week?
Yea, and the week before. They’re the ones who put the chain around the buck.
Bastards.
No kidding.
The sleet started to turn to snow. Big wet flakes coated the manicured lawn. A towering, lone oak stood in the front yard of a long ranch house. Soft yellow strings of lights lined the gutters, twisting up the chimney, and a gaudy, red bow hung on the door. The soft blue glow of a television shone through the window. Two electrically illuminated deer stood in the yard - a doe in perfect position, neck bowed to the ground, grazing, and the buck, head erect and alert, searching for his mate.
I’ll do this one.
You did the last one.
Alright, well they’re pretty far apart and the buck can’t move too far from that tree it’s chained to. You go for the doe and bring it closer, and I’ll get the buck.
In silent agreement, we stepped out of the bushes and set off in a crouched run across the lawn, now slick with snow.
I got to the buck first, and wrenched it out of its steel pegs rooting it to the ground. The chains rattled as I lifted. I held my breath as my bare fingers slid down the metal frame coated in ice. I clung on in desperation as the buck tried to break free. I caught my grip, propped his front legs up in the air in anticipation, and looked over as Tom grabbed the doe.
Tom grunted and froze-up, flat-footed to the ground. He didn’t move, but it looked as if he wanted to, like he was trying to hoist a dead deer. Wet wires had turned her into a hot, 120 volt metal cage. I ran towards Tom, still holding the buck, and was whipped back by the chains, face-planting into the snow.
There was a commotion inside the house - loud, angry footsteps, then the motor of the garage door kicked on.
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