Christmas In December

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“Merry Christmas, Cocksucker...”

This was Santa, doing his thing, spreading the joy of the holiday season. He slammed Cocksucker's neck with the butt of his gun, knocking him to the floor.

Cocksucker was speechless- on his knees, petrified- and unable to speak. He had been hiding from Santa for almost a year but it was too late: Christmas Eve had found him. 

"Please," he said to the fat man. "Don't do this."

Santa scoffed and slipped the gun between Cocksucker’s lips, pulling the trigger, exploding blood and brain all over the decorated tree. Hot red liquid drip from the dangling ornaments and blinking white lights, the only illumination in the midnight den.

Santa exhaled hard, dropping the pistol, stepping over the body. There was a plate of cookies on the mantle and Santa could smell cinnamon and all-spice over the metal scent of plasma... he hadn't eaten all day, and nobody would miss it. He stood by the stockings, eating all 14 cookies: oatmeal raisin, peanut butter, chocolate crinkles and molasses swamp, washing them down with the cool glass of milk left out just for him. The lights on the tree blink on and off in 3/4 time.

Santa noticed the stockings hanging empty, with each family member’s name embroidered on the cuff. “When in Rome...” he reasoned, and pulled his sack from beneath the arch of the brick chimney.

He pulled out a handful of prizes, filling the socks, topping each one off with a candy cane. He smiled to himself, suddenly feeling warm and lighthearted, and his eyes found the plastic tablecloth beneath the tree.

Oh, why not?

He grabbed his other sack- full of presents- and laid everything out. The two dozen boxes in festive green wrapping held toys, games and gadgets, books and sweaters and gift cards- every child’s inner-child wet dream come true. Santa laughed to himself, and his round belly jiggled under his red suit.

His work was done- he felt a sense  of pride- but before he left there was one last job to be done. He headed for the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and took a hot shit in the lettuce crisper, just so no one would ever forget that Santa Claus would always be calling the shots.

Back in the living room Cocksucker refused to die, twitching, making spasm and forming foamy words through eyes of red blood. Santa put his heavy boot to Cocksucker's throat and crushed it- windpipe, voicebox, the works- before putting his finger to his nose and rising magically up the chimney.

But he was heard to exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, "Merry Christmas, Cocksucker! And to all a good night!" 

THE END

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