The daunting midnight wind blew dense clouds of tiny razor sharp ice crystals into Jackie Shafer’s scarred and weary face, but she pressed on. She had been hunting her quarry for three days straight with little rest. Her body ached, she was frozen to the bone, but her bravery and determination drove her forward. She knew that her persistence brought her closer and closer to the legendary and mythical Evil Snowman, the abominable creature that had been harassing local towns and innocent villagers in the far northern reaches of Tridonia. To any other hero this might have been just another routine adventure, but to Jackie—this was as personal as it could get.
Jackie ducked down and crawled under the jagged pine tree branches that cluttered her perilous path. Her keen nose picked up the sharp scent of gasoline drift along from the shadows up ahead. Through the blinding snow, she caught a brief glimpse of a secluded lonely cottage shrouded in the towering dark trees. A shadowy bulbous figure stood just outside the cottage entrance. Jackie spotted the figure and darted behind a fallen tree. She glanced back and surveyed the area around the cottage for a closer look—there he was. The shadowy figure was none other than the Evil Snowman himself—taking refuge at this remote forest getaway miles and miles outside the nearest village and deep in the wooded hills.
She watched as the Evil Snowman finished pouring fuel into a Snow Mobile. I won’t mind borrowing that for the trip back, she thought. She slipped away from the fallen tree and crept closer and closer to the Snowman's hideout. She reached into her jacket pocket and tightly grasped her combat knife—it was all she had left, but it was all she needed. As Jackie neared the edge of the tree line the wind picked up and the tree branches swayed back and forth violently as if the forest was trying to halt her advance. One of the tree branches came crashing down towards her, and pierced right through her jacket exposing her bare abdomen to the blistering cold. Jackie winced in pain and let out a tiny murmur. Her eyes darted back towards the cottage. The Evil Snowman had stepped back inside. She hunched down low and readied her knife. It was time to move in for the kill. Her perfectly toned abs, now exposed to the harsh cold, glistened in the dull light from the moon that shone ever so subtly through the swaying tree tops.
A normal person might have taken great comfort in the cozy cottage den that night with its sturdy handmade wooden furniture, the strong scent of pine burning softly in the amber fire of the furnace, and fuzzy wool draped over the couch; but the Evil Snowman needed no such warmth or comfort beyond the icy vodka drink that he poured to the tip-top a tall glass. The Evil Snowman smiled gleefully after pouring his drink and took a sip. He grabbed the gasoline canister on the kitchen counter and placed it on the floor; then he waddled over to his chair.
The Evil Snowman sipped his drink and looked longingly over at his 12-gauge shotgun on the coffee table. It had been over five days since he had last used it to slaughter innocent villagers in a nearby logging village. The Evil Snowman was hungry for more. He loved it, every bit of it, every squeeze of the trigger, every puddle of blood, and every ghastly murder. Each kill was another tick mark on his long carrot nose. He was up to 57 scratches so far, but this wasn’t his first carrot nose; he already scratched up and framed two. The count was well into the thousands, and nobody could stop him—yet.
A creak of the window shudder disrupted the calm silence of the night. The Evil Snowman reacted by pure instinct; he leaped into a shoulder roll by the coffee table, grabbed his shotgun and cocked it. The Snowman spun around and blasted a shot aimlessly into the darkness. His coal eyes were ablaze with both fear and excitement. His icy heart thudded in his big round torso. He heard nothing but the swaying of a dying midnight breeze.
Silence. Even the howling wind had subsided to nearly nothing.
The Evil Snowman waited for several moments before he stood up. He took one last look around and slung his shotgun around his back. He turned back to his glass of vodka, but to his surprise he saw the silhouette of a slender female figure standing by the back door. Her wardrobe was weathered and torn, showing off a body that would make any man weak at the knees, even the Evil Snowman was mesmerized. She smiled softly at the Snowman with a lit cigarette in her mouth. Her eyes glistened when she inhaled the burning cigarette.
“And who might you be, my dear?” asked the Snowman—he brought out the charm on this one. His twig arms slowly moved back towards the shotgun. His coal eyes narrowed down on her. He knew exactly who she was. He knew he she was hunting him. His arm hit the shotgun sling and he gripped it tight. Her hunt ends here. Tonight. He then felt an odd sensation underneath him, looking down he noticed that the gas canister was tipped over and gasoline was pooling beneath him and seeping into his very being like he was a sponge.
“I’m Jackie Shafer,” she whispered coyly to the Snowman. The snowman looked back up in horror as the woman took the cigarette out of her mouth and winked, “And I’m here to heat things up.” She showed him her middle finger as she flicked the burning cigarette down toward the soaking wet floor. The cottage den erupted with fire and the Evil Snowman screamed in agony as he was engulfed in flames.
Jackie Shafer didn’t mind the tiny ice crystals smacking into her face as she drove away on the snow mobile. She drove on at a modest pace—one hand on the steering wheel and one hand on the Snowman’s carrot nose. She took a big bite out it and grinned. She had completed her mission and it was time to go home. The snow mobile’s engines revved as she cleared the forest and she sped off into the rising sun over a field of snow.