by Tim Curran
Now, everyone knows Santa for his jolly demeanor around the holidays. What isn't known by many is from where this jolliness is derived. Once, there was a time when giving toys to children that had little was enough to keep the old man happy all the time. Bringing such joy to all the little boys and girls in the world made him feel good down to his very soul. As of late, children had become spoiled rotten. They no longer behaved like well-mannered children. They threw tantrums until they got what they wanted. Throughout the year they collected mounds of toys, video games, and all manner of wonderful things from the parents they tormented so. Worse yet, he had to continue to give them things on Christmas despite their actions. After all, the Christmas joy was the source of Santa's power. Without it, he'd wither up and die. The rotten vermin of the world got rewarded for their greed and there was nothing Santa could do to change it.
Just because he had to deliver sophisticated equipment to undeserving puke-sacks didn't mean he couldn't find some Christmas joy of his own. It all began innocently enough. One Christmas Eve night, before most children of the world had become the monsters we know today, but after the Missus' snatch had dried up, a downtrodden Santa was making his yearly trip around the globe to deliver joy, though he felt little of his own.
It was in Belgium, where it happened. He remembers it as though it were yesterday, despite it having transpired nearly two hundred years ago, now. There was an upstairs fireplace in the widow's house. Him going down that chimney was a mistake, but a very fortunate one. The young mother of four was having a sleepless night and thinking of how her husband used to put her to sleep when she was so restless. When Santa exited the fireplace, she was trying to recreate the moment by herself.
Her eyes were clenched shut as she neared climax. Her passionate moans enticed Santa, who walked silently to her bedside. "Are we being a naughty girl?" Santa asked.
The widow was more than willing to accept his gift that night, and it was a gift that was given year after year. It was what Santa looked forward to most every year. Fucking someone that wasn't several hundred years old was a gift he could never match. The arrangement lasted long after the widow's children had grown and moved out on their own.
One year, he came down the chimney with a rock hard erection to find a couple sleeping in the bed. The trouble was, Santa didn’t notice anything different until it was too late. He stripped down silently in order to surprise the widow. He freed himself of his big red coat to expose his chest with sagging man-tits and a field of gray hair. He managed to get his belt undone and off without making a single jingle. As he slid his pants down, the pen from his pocket shook loose and dropped onto the wooden floorboards. The sound of the metal pen striking the planks caused what sounded like a deafening BOOM as it resonated throughout the silent house.
The bed began to show movement beneath the covers and Santa sat on the edge of the bed and looked down at the face on the pillow. The man's face startled him enough to cause him to fall forward and land face down on the floor, beside his pants.
"What the fuck is this?" grumbled the angry, half-asleep man. He looked down at the bare ass of the fat, old man and was instantly disgusted and filled with rage. "What the fuck is THIS!" he shouted again as the adrenaline began to wake him. He dropped his legs over the edge of the bed, stood to his feet and proceeded to kick Santa in the ribs.
Santa rolled to his side after the blow and found himself nose to nose with the pen that had fallen earlier. He was shaken and angered and confused because the widow was not there, waiting with her legs spread wide. As the anger coursed through him, he snatched up the pen and sprang to his feet.
"Who the fuck do you think you are?" shouted the homeowner at the naked intruder.
Without thinking, Santa swung the pen, stabbing the man in the jugular. Blood shot out all over the headboard and onto the sheets, as well as the face of the sleeping young woman who was still in bed. After the blood sprayed her face, her eyes shot open wide with terror as she stared up at the man that was stark naked, save for the red stocking cap atop his head. He pulled the pen from the man's throat and let him drop to the floor.
"S-S-S-S-Santa?" she stammered almost inaudibly.
Santa looked at her, down at his still-hard cock, and then down at his pants that were in a wad on the floor near a pool of blood. He said nothing as he reached down to pick up his pants. He did not put them on, but rather reached into his pocket and retrieved the small, yellow pouch within. He untied the ribbon that held it closed. His fat fingers entered the bag, retrieved a pinch of the dust, and tossed it into the face of the terrified young woman. Her eyes shut as she instantly fell back to sleep.
After retying the bag, he put it back in the pocket from whence it came, and put one foot into a pant leg before stopping. Killing the man that lay at his feet had been a rush like nothing he had before experienced. He still clutched the blood-covered pen and a menacing smile spread across his face. He dropped his pants and climbed on top of the woman who was sleeping comfortably beneath the sheets. He put his nose to her cheek and inhaled her scent. His right hand brought the pen up under her chin and slowly stuck it into her throat. The blood slowly dribbled from the hole and onto the bed sheets where it mixed with the blood of her husband. Santa's eyes rolled back in ecstasy.
Once he finished, Santa put his suit back on and went through the rest of the house to make it look like an actual home invasion had taken place. It was less work than leaving gifts for the children (who were most definitely on the naughty list). The milk and cookies looked awfully tempting, but he knew there would be more in the next house, and the house after that, and so on.
As soon as he was satisfied that he would not be incriminated in anything, he went on his merry way. Christmas could continue, now that Santa came.
The End
About the Author
Hidden in a remote location in California lives a man that responds to the name Peter Oliver Wonder. Though little is known about him, several written works that may or may not be fictional have been found featuring a character of the same name.
Devilishly handsome, quick witted, and as charming as an asshole can be, Peter has come a long way since his time in the United States Marine Corps. Making friends wherever he goes, there is never a shortage of adventure when he is around.
The works that have been penned under this name are full of horror, romance, adventure, and comedy just as every life should be. It is assumed that these works are an attempt at a drug fueled autobiography of sorts. Through these texts, we can learn much about this incredible man.
http://peterowonder.wix.com/peteroliverwonder
https://www.facebook.com/PeterOliverWonderAuthor/
@PeteOWonder
Hung With Care
By
Ty Schwamberger
The newly fallen snow crunched under his black boots as he walked towards the next house. This one, wasn’t quite as nice looking as the previous residence he had visited, but he was sure there would still be some nice little boys, or maybe even girls, that had been good enough all year to deserve a bountiful helping of Christmas presents. He disappeared for a moment behind a large pine tree nestled beside the house and paused. He looked through the pointy, green needles of the tree and out into the street.
Not a creature is stirring… He smiled and then continued on his way.
Ducking into a deep shadow by the side of the house, he rose up on his tiptoes and looked through the snow-covered window. No, it wasn’t real snow. He could tell that easily enough. It had come from one of those aerosol spray cans that contained that fake, white sticky stuff that clung to windows during the season of ever-lasting joy. At first it was hard for him to see in, so he took one gloved-hand off the big, red sack he was carrying on his back and gently placed it upon the window. He slid his hand back and forth a few times until the condensation on the outside of the window disappeared and he was able to gaze inside.
The stockings are hung by the chimney with c
are… He then repeated the next line, silently this time, deep inside his soul, then smiled. God, did he love this time of year.
As he pushed the window up into its frame, smiled, and wondered if it was a Christmas miracle that this particular house’s window hadn’t been secured as were all the others. Not that it really mattered; by chimney, by magic key through the front door, or climbing through an unlocked window he had never been denied getting into a house on the Eve of the most wondrous day of the year.
He flung the heavy sack off his back and tossed it through the open window.
He then pushed himself up and onto the window sill, then followed the sack full of goodies into the nice, warm house.
* * *
After struggling to pick his rotund self up off the floor, he huffed a few times, and went to the open window and dropped it back into place. He wasn’t sure why he did it, but then reached up and slid the lock into place. He then turned around and took a nice, long look around the cozy living room.
The first thing he noticed was that the fireplace still had some glowing embers. He slowly walked over, bent down, and stuck his still-gloved hands over the hearth. Even though the fire wasn’t roaring anymore with hot delight, it still provided enough warmth to seep through the heavy, black gloves and reach his almost-frostbit hands.
After all, it had been a hell of a long night already and just the thought that he was really just getting started made him feel exhausted. But, this was his chosen profession, one he had made many, many years ago, so he felt like cold or no cold, it was his duty to carry out what he promised himself oh-so-long ago.
After crouching by the almost-dead fire for a few minutes, he slowly stood up and stretched his red, fur covered arms over his stocking-covered head. He then turned around and took a long look at the rest of the room. The decorations included snowmen, igloos, polar bears, angels, and even a figurine of himself. Santa. His belly shook like a bowl full of jelly, but he didn’t make a sound. He couldn’t. Oh, no.
Not with the children nestled all snug in their beds…
He smiled, again. Then hoped against hope his hunch was right.
Leaving his already full sack on the floor, he proceeded out of the living room, towards the staircase leading upstairs to the family’s bedrooms, but not before picking up a gingerbread cookie from a Christmas tree plate, and biting the little man’s head off.
He wanted to laugh through his cookie filled teeth, but knew he couldn’t.
He didn’t want to wake anyone, especially the parents…
Who had just settled their brains for a long winter’s nap.
The word ‘nap’ made him laugh, again, but this time he couldn’t keep it in.
As pieces of cookie flew out of his snapping jaws and hit his boots, he started up the stairs.
He paused for a moment at the top, pulling out a long, curved knife from the sheath buckled to his wide, black belt and then started down the dark hallway.
His first stop was the parent’s room.
Then, no matter if they had been good or bad, it was off to the kid’s room to slice and dice them and make himself all glad.
* * *
“Jerry…Jerry. Wake up. I think I heard something.”
The balding father rolled over onto his back, stifled a last snore and mumbled, “Huh. What. What did you say, dear?”
“I said, I think I heard something, or someone, downstairs.”
“Ah geez, Helen. It’s probably just the long limbs of the pine hitting the side of the house. I promise, first thing tomorrow morning after the kids have opened their presents that I’ll bundle up and finally go out there and cut a few limbs back, ok? Now, please, let me get some more sleep. You know as well as I do that the kids will be up at the ass-crack of dawn and running in here to jump on the bed to wake us up.” Then, still half asleep, the husband and father rolled back onto his side and started snoring, again.
The wife and mother mumbled, “But…” then stopped from saying anything else. Sure, her husband was a kind and loving man but even he had his limits. Especially if she woke him in the middle of the night, like she often did, for a noise that she ‘heard’ downstairs or outside the house. Each and every time in the past that she had nagged until he had gotten out of bed and went downstairs or out into the cold to investigate - it turned up nothing. So, this time, since it was Christmas Eve and all, she decided to keep her mouth shut.
After deciding not to bother her husband any longer, she lay back down onto her pillow and closed her eyes. She was about to drift off when she heard something, again, closer this time than before. For the life of her it had sounded like it was coming from the hallway outside their bedroom door. Helen knew if she didn’t have her husband take a look, pissed as he might get, she would never be able to fall back asleep and it would ruin her chances of being rested enough for a day full of opening presents, the kids running this way and that around the house while playing with their multitude of new toys, or cooking their annual Christmas Day feast. Finally, after thinking about it for another minute or two, and ‘hearing’ another sound out in the hallway, she rolled onto her left side, placed a hand on her husband’s shoulder and gave it a soft shake.
He rustled in his sleep but didn’t wake.
She leaned over, knowing one sure-fire way to stir him whether he was sleeping or just acting dead, and started to nibble on his ear. Just as she expected, he let out a soft, low moan.
“Hummm… Well, now. I think I can be persuaded to get up for something like this, dear.” He then rolled onto his back again and reached for Helen’s…
He heard the creaking of the bedroom door being opened.
“Damn kids,” he mumbled, giving his wife a quick kiss and then quickly sitting up in bed. Through the dark, he said in a deep voice, “I told you kids to stay in bed, if nothing else, until the sun is above the horizon.” He paused, looking at the clock on his nightstand and seeing it wasn’t even 3:00 am, yet. He then turned back to the fully-opened door and shouted, “Hey! What did I tell you damn kids, huh? I told you to…”
His words were cut short, as a sharp blade was quickly and precisely drawn across his neck. Blood spurted onto his attacker and his wife.
Helen began to scream, but it was only for a moment, as a giant shadow suddenly leapt through the air, smashing on top of her, making the air in her lungs burst out.
Helen lay under the rotund man and thrashed this way and that. She felt something poke in between her legs, but the thoughts of being raped quickly dissipated as she felt something cold and sharp against the side of her neck. She wanted to scream, again, but the large man had already placed a large, smothering glove over her mouth. Finally, not that she wanted to, but knowing she had to, she opened her eyes…
And said to herself, Oh my God, it must be St. Nick!
Helen started to repeat a line in the famous poem over and over again to herself, Now dash away! Dash away!
Above, she saw Santa start laughing, as he said, “Dash away all!”
Then quickly slashed Helen’s throat and her fright was never more.
He next sawed off both the husband and wife’s hands, stuffed them into the deep pockets of his big, red coat and walked out of the room, gently shutting the door behind him.
* * *
Walking down the hall towards the sleeping kids’ room, his eyes twinkled with delight and he could feel his dimples, his cheeks full with merry. And, yes, his cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry, but that was from the blood that had splattered upon his face from Helen and Jerry (not that he knew or even cared to know their names). As he wiped the dripping knife blade off on his fur-covered right leg, he brought up his other arm and mopped off his face. He smiled, again, knowing he had just done the world some justice – teaching people, especially the ones that acted like good model citizens, with their expensive cars and homes (not that this particular family had either of those luxuries, but that really didn’t matter in his faltering mind at t
his point), when they were anything but. Besides, he was St. Nick, Santa Claus, goddammit, and it was his job to check off on his list who was naughty or nice.
Coming up to the kids’ room, he slid the now clean, shiny blade back into the sheath on his belt and then slowly reached out with the same hand and grasped the doorknob. He gave it a quick wiggle back and forth, making sure the door was indeed unlocked, then twisted it all the way to the left and slowly eased the door inward. He then tiptoed into the dark room, shutting the door behind him.
* * *
Dressed in his traditional holiday garb, he stood at the side of the kids’ bunk beds, his head throbbing with naughty images and his mouth watering with want. No, he wasn’t a pedophile, never even had the slightest inkling to be one. What he wanted, craved, more than anything was to teach all the bad boys and girls in the world - more realistically, the city he resided in - that no bad deed goes unpunished. Especially, when it was supposed to be the season of giving and all he ever felt like the world ever gave him every Christmas was a lump of coal in his stocking. But not this Christmas. Oh, no. This Christmas, he was going to show the world: house by house, adult by adult, child by child, that this old St. Nick was someone to not be fucked with any longer.
* * *
He took care of the first child, a girl, the one on the top bunk, with one quick slash of his knife. Blood squirted from her carotid onto his face, changing his snow white beard into a crimson mess and mess. It was quick and painless and she didn’t scream. The blood from the girl ran down his chin to the end of the beard’s now tangled mess and down the front of his plump belly.