Chapter 63: Divide and Conquer
Soon after Chris returned to his room, Stewie followed him out of the barbecue party.
"So what's your play here? Wait for nightfall and just snap their necks one by one?" Stewie asked, munching on a grilled hot dog while regarding Chris with curious anticipation.
Standing by the window, Chris remained hidden in the shadows, watching as Meg excitedly departed with Jeremy. A flicker of grudging respect crossed his mind.
At least the kid's got moves, Chris thought. Even if his intentions are murderous.
"No, that would be too boring," Chris replied. "Don't you want some real excitement? Sure, my presence might spoil the traditional thrill, but who says only the victims get to feel the rush?"
Stewie finished his hot dog and rubbed his hands together eagerly. "Oh, oh, oh! You delightful psychopath! So what's the script you've arranged? A Griffin family hunting competition? Battle royale with body-snatchers?"
"Uh... you're being a bit too extreme, even for me," Chris said uncomfortably.
Even though Chris had genuinely racked up a body count in the thousands across his various adventures, hearing such bloodthirsty words come from what appeared to be a baby still felt deeply wrong.
Seeing Chris's disturbed expression, Stewie sneered. "Hehe, you're not just planning to kill the Armitage family, are you? Because if that's your whole plan, I won't participate in such a small-scale game. It's a waste of my talents."
"That depends on Mom's reaction," Chris said, crossing his arms. His gaze fixed on Missy, who kept trying to get physically closer to Lois, constantly touching her arm and shoulder. "If that woman named Missy has a suicidal streak, things might develop in exactly the direction you're hoping for."
Stewie caught the hidden meaning in Chris's words. His eyes flickered with understanding, and then he turned to waddle back toward the barbecue party.
To make this vacation more interesting, Stewie decided to take the initiative and escalate the situation himself.
After all, among the current Griffin family members, the only person who could compete with his genius was Chris.
If his big brother didn't go all-out in whatever competition arose, where was the fun in that?
Chris watched Stewie's manipulations at the party—subtle comments designed to increase tension and paranoia—but couldn't be bothered interfering with his little brother's scheming. Instead, he actually decided to take a nap.
The sleeping pills were supposed to knock him out anyway. Might as well sell the performance.
Meanwhile, Meg was being led by Jeremy down to the lakeside, so thrilled she could barely contain herself.
This vacation was turning out amazing! She'd actually met such a cute, charming boy who'd shown genuine interest in her. It made Meg's heart pound so hard she thought it might burst from her chest.
In fact, her pulse was so intense that her knit cap was literally bouncing on her head.
"Hey, Meg! Do you have a pet or something?" Jeremy asked, holding Meg's clammy hand with barely concealed discomfort. He'd noticed her hat bouncing rhythmically and seized the opportunity to pull his hand free, pointing at her head. "Is there like... a hamster in there?"
"What?" Meg unconsciously touched her hat, only then realizing her heart was beating so violently it was visible.
Not wanting this boy to think she was a complete weirdo, Meg forced a laugh. "Oh! Yeah, that's right! I have a little hamster. He must be cold!"
Pressing down on her hat to suppress the visible pounding, Meg then released Jeremy's hand and said, "See? He's calm now. I just warmed up his little nest."
"Heh, you're so... sweet, Meg," Jeremy said with an awkward chuckle, having absolutely no idea what this bizarre girl was thinking.
While Jeremy sweet-talked Meg with increasing desperation, Dean was deploying similar tactics on Peter.
"You know, I've actually got a bottle of really good bourbon hidden in my house—managed to keep it secret from Missy," Dean said conspiratorially. "Want to sneak over and try some?"
"Really?" Peter's eyes lit up like slot machine jackpots. He'd been suffering through the bland fruit punch for the past hour.
Seeing Peter take the bait, Dean smiled confidently. "Absolutely. But you know, we can't let my wife find out."
Peter glanced at Missy, who was still engaged in conversation with Lois, then began tiptoeing cartoonishly toward Dean's house while stage-whispering, "And we definitely can't let my wife know either. She's super into respecting other people's 'healthy lifestyle choices' and all that crap."
Dean watched Peter's ridiculous sneaking—complete with exaggerated tiptoes and looking side-to-side like a cartoon burglar—and felt joy blooming in his chest. He hadn't expected this family to be so completely lacking in survival instincts, so easily divided and isolated.
After Peter entered his house, Dean made eye contact with Missy and gave her a subtle nod, then followed Peter inside.
As soon as Dean entered, he found Peter already ransacking his living room with zero sense of propriety as a guest.
"Where is it? Where is it? I mean, how can you have a barbecue without bourbon? That's like un-American!" Peter exclaimed, tossing throw pillows aside and checking behind the TV.
Seeing his carefully arranged sofa cushions scattered everywhere, Dean felt his eye twitch with irritation. But for the sake of the plan, he suppressed his anger and said with forced patience, "The bourbon wouldn't be up here. Come with me—it's in the basement."
With that, Dean headed toward the basement stairs, and Peter followed eagerly. Upon seeing the dimly lit, concrete stairwell descending into darkness, Peter casually remarked, "Whoa! Your basement is seriously creepy, dude. Looks just like where a serial killer would keep his victims! You know, like in those movies Lois won't let me watch."
Dean's footsteps faltered momentarily when he heard this. He turned to look at Peter, realized the comment seemed completely unintentional—just Peter being his usual oblivious self—and continued leading the way downward.
"Hah, yeah, sorry about that," Dean said with forced joviality. "Ever since my wife started this whole healthy living crusade, I haven't been down to the wine cellar much. Haven't had time to tidy up."
Dean flicked on the basement light, revealing rows of metal shelving units, all covered by dusty tarps that completely obscured whatever lay beneath.
"Where's the bourbon? Where's the bourbon?" Peter ignored Dean's explanation entirely, the portly man rushing between the shelves like a truffle pig hunting for alcohol. "Man, if I'd known dinner was gonna be barbecue, I should've brought my own stash!"
Dean watched Peter's frantic searching without interfering. He casually picked up a wooden mallet that had been leaning against the wall, then called out helpfully, "It's on the bottom shelf of the second rack on the inside. You'll see it if you look down low."
"Oh yeah?" Peter squatted down eagerly, believing him completely. As soon as he lifted the dust tarp, he found several bottles of medical-grade rubbing alcohol. "Uh, Dean? I think you grabbed the wrong stuff. This is rubbing alcohol!"
"No, buddy," Dean said coldly, now standing directly behind him. "I didn't."
"Huh?" Peter heard the reply right beside his ear and turned his head in confusion—just in time to see the wooden mallet swinging straight at his temple.
CRACK!
Peter's corpulent body crumpled to the concrete floor with a heavy thud. Dean, not taking any chances, delivered two more savage blows to Peter's skull, only stopping when blood began pooling beneath his head.
Looking at Peter's now-disfigured face, Dean felt a pang of regret—the buyer would definitely demand a discount now for the cosmetic damage.
However, thinking about how irritated he'd been by this fat idiot's constant shouting and bumbling, Dean gripped the mallet again and delivered one more blow, just to vent his frustration.
"That's for messing up my couch cushions, you obnoxious prick," Dean muttered.
After venting, Dean retrieved a bottle of veterinary anesthetic and a syringe. After estimating Peter's considerable body weight, he eventually decided to increase the dosage to ten times the recommended amount—just to be safe.
After securing Peter with zip-ties and dragging him into a corner, Dean left him lying there, planning to process all the prey together once he'd captured the rest.
Meanwhile, back at the barbecue party, Lois noticed Dean emerge from his house alone. Peter was nowhere to be seen. She immediately walked over and asked with growing concern, "Mayor Armitage, what were you and Peter doing just now? Where did he go?"
Lois had definitely seen Peter's earlier sneaky behavior, but she hadn't been able to break away because Missy kept monopolizing her attention, constantly steering their conversation toward increasingly personal topics.
But now, worried that Peter might be making a fool of himself in someone else's home—or worse, breaking something expensive—Lois needed to know what was happening.
"Don't worry at all, Lois," Dean said smoothly, his expression perfectly sympathetic. "Peter just needed to use the restroom. I was going to wait for him, but he said he... well, he mentioned it was kind of a 'two-person bathroom' situation, if you know what I mean. Needed some privacy."
Dean spread his hands and smiled with practiced helplessness, selling the lie perfectly.
The convincing performance made Lois believe him immediately—she was all too familiar with her husband's bathroom habits and lack of social grace.
"Oh God," Lois said, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I'm so sorry. You've really been incredibly patient with us."
Dean smiled magnanimously, already planning his next move.
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