Prelude to Space Rape! & Other Stories

by Jordan Krall

  “Open your mouth, Santa. Open and say aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!”

  XVI.

  Though Aleph had cut direct telepathic connection to Dali, he felt the exact moment of his death.

  I knew it. I knew something was wrong.

  But what? The woman had left the house so did that mean Santa killed Dali? That was difficult to believe. Dali was an expert in both hand-to-hand combat and with throwing knives. That fat bastard Santa would have been no match for the elf.

  Aleph tried to initiate contact with Dali, hoping there was still a chance that he was alive, but there was no response.

  Dali was dead.

  Though his first instinct was to barge into the house and deal with things himself, Aleph knew the wise decision was to call for backup. The situation had to be rectified and the Elves of Fuck always took care of business.

  Just as he was going to set up a link to another elf, he saw Kay walk up to the front of the house. Shit was going to hit the fan when she found the dead elf inside.

  Better talk with Mrs. Claus first. It’s always best to check with the client whenever there’s a problem.

  Aleph closed his eyes and concentrated on his third eye. With a flash of light he was gone from the hill outside Kay’s house and was transported instantly to the North Pole.

  He walked down the street, watching the hateful eyes of the Christmas elves. When he reached Diana’s house, he saw the squidfoot outside.

  Aleph said, “I’m looking for Mrs. Claus.”

  “So?” Smitty said.

  “Can you get her for me?”

  “I could.”

  Aleph stood and waited for the big, hairy thing to go inside to retrieve Diana but instead, it just stood there staring at him. Finally, Aleph said, “Well?”

  Smitty took a step forward, his tentacles brushing snow up into a cloud that nearly covered Aleph. “If I was so inclined, yes, I could go get Diana. But I don’t take orders from elves.” He flicked a tentacle straight up into the air. “Especially killer elves.”

  Aleph took a step forward. He had no time for this shit. “Listen, I don’t really know who you are or what kind of relationship you have with Mrs. Claus but my need to speak with her is for her benefit and not mine. So if you care about her even a little bit, you’ll go get her or else I’ll walk right past you and get her myself. Stand in my way and I’ll go through you.”

  There were a few seconds of tense silence and then Smitty said, “Fine. I’ll get her.”

  Aleph watched the squidfoot go into the house. He was relieved it hadn’t developed into a physical confrontation. Though he wouldn’t have hesitated to kill, Aleph preferred not to do it for free.

  Diana walked out and stood on the front porch with her arms crossed. “With all due respect, I don’t appreciate your threatening my—”

  “Your husband has been abducted, Mrs. Claus,” Aleph said. He watched the woman’s face turn from annoyed to devastated.

  Through tears she said, “By that woman?”

  “Yes, that seems to be the case.”

  Diana said, “So he wasn’t cheating on me?”

  “Well, I can’t say for sure if it started out like that. Maybe he meant to do it and it turned out she was a psycho. I don’t know. The point is that he’s most likely in real danger now and I’m asking if you want to officially call off the hit. If so, my elves and I will rescue him.” Aleph took a step closer. “I have to warn you. There’s a chance that your husband may get hurt, or worse.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If we go in there, it’s going to be with guns blazing. I sent in an elf to investigate the situation before we knew for sure. The woman wasn’t even in the house. My elf was killed.”

  “By who? My husband?”

  “I doubt it. But this isn’t just a regular kidnapping, so I’m warning you. The woman is dangerous. So, officially, do you want to cancel our agreement?”

  Diana nodded. “Yes. Please get him back, Aleph. Please.”

  “I’ll do my best.” With that, the elf closed his eyes and disappeared. He reappeared on the hill next to Kay’s house. He wished he could blow the whole thing up. It had been a long time since he’d worked with explosives.

  Aleph had already told Gimel to report to the house. But he wasn’t enough. Aleph needed someone who was more dangerous, deadly, and qualified to deal with unusual situations.

  He needed the Elf Piercer.

  XVII.

  Santa watched the dancing sugarplums fart and burp strands of yellow ectoplasm.

  He couldn’t remember how long he had been locked in the bitch-box but it felt like months. The sugarplums splattered him with more goo, filling his nostrils, his ears, and the corners of his eyes. His mouth was already stuffed with her musty pantyhose that smelled like vinegar.

  The ceiling above him was covered in those goddamn sugarplums.

  I’d give anything for someone to poke out my eyes. I can’t stand looking at those bastards anymore.

  A small sugarplum hung from the ceiling on a bright blue spider web. It burped and oozed on Santa’s beard. His chin started to tingle and then he heard the clip-clop.

  Clip-clop.

  Clip-clop.

  Kay was coming.

  CLIP-clop.

  CLIP-CLOP.

  “Santa oh Santa!” Kay said, her voice coming from the doorway. She walked slowly up to the box, the clip- clopping getting soft and more sinister. “I have a surprise for you.”

  Her face appeared above him, blocking out the sugarplums. Santa was again in awe of her beauty despite it being torture just to look at her. She pulled the pantyhose out of his mouth and drooled down his throat.

  Santa had no choice but to swallow but there were still remnants in his mouth. He said, “Out.”

  “What’s that? I can barely hear you with all that. mess in your mouth. You say you want out, honey bunch? That’s so cute.” She leaned forward, drooled onto his lips, and then stuck her fingers into his mouth. “Here, let me wash your mouth out.”

  Santa sat petrified. More spit. More fingers digging around in his mouth, scrubbing his tongue and teeth with Kay’s drool.

  “Clean, clean, clean. Squeaky, squeaky clean,” she said, making Santa gag with her spit-fingers. “Okay, I think that’s enough.”

  Kay pulled her hand out of his mouth and let Santa gasp for air.

  “I’ll be right back, honey bunch.”

  Santa watched her head move away, giving him full view of the sugarplums. They seemed to have multiplied. Dozens of them were circling him, farting their ectoplasm into the air. Star and circle shapes formed out of the goo until they coalesced into a giant wheel that started to turn.

  A wheel? Can I make a unicycle out of it? A unicycle made out of sugarplum shit. That’s a good one. It’ll be next year’s hottest toy.

  A smaller wheel appeared in the middle of the big one. Each one turned in the opposite direction, creating a wind that blew the sugarplums across the room and away from Santa much to his delight.

  Thank you, sugarplum-shit unicycle. Thank you.

  XVIII.

  Shaw, also known as the Elf Piercer, packed his weapons: two long chains with meat hooks on the ends of them. It had been a long time since they’d tasted some meat. It was going to be a good day.

  It had also been a while since Shaw was called for an assignment. He had usually been reserved for only the most dangerous missions because he had the tendency to go overboard. From what he was told about the target, Shaw knew that going overboard might just be what was necessary.

  Shaw looked at himself in the mirror. “Hell yeah,” he said. He closed his eyes and teleported to the location Aleph had specified.

  He arrived instantly to find Aleph and Gimel waiting for him.

  Shaw nodded at the two of them.

  Aleph said, “It’s been a while since I’ve required the skills of the Elf Piercer.”

  “No one really calls me that anymore,” Shaw said. “It’s
a pretty stupid nickname.”

  Gimel gestured toward Shaw’s weapons. “I think it’s well-deserved.”

  “No one asked you,” Shaw said.

  “I’m just saying. You’re the only elf to ever—”

  “Shut the hell up, Gimel!” Aleph said. “We’re here to take care of business, not discuss ancient history.”

  Gimel shrugged. “Whatever. Let’s do this.”

  Aleph looked at Shaw. “You ready?”

  “Yeah.”

  Gimel cocked his guns. He put on the glove he reserved for special jobs: a glove made out of bone and shaped like a monstrous penis. Those elves in Tokyo sure knew how to construct a weapon of torture.

  Shaw, the Elf Piercer, grabbed a chain with each hand and pulled them off his belt. The hooks were newly sharpened and shined in the moonlight. “I can’t wait to get my hooks wet,” he said. “Nice and wet.”

  Aleph looked at the other two and was glad he had them on his side. In recent months, the Elves of Fuck had gone through quite a bit of downsizing due to the economy. The company simply could not afford to have as many elves on the payroll as in the past and the elves that were on the payroll were paid on a job-to-job basis. The concept of salary-elves was gone.

  Though not as creatively armed as Gimel or Shaw, Aleph had a weapon that had proved its worth over the years: the actual sword used by Saturnalia at the Battle of Xaman. The sword, crafted out of black elephant bone, was taller than Aleph but he could wield the weapon like a master swordsman.

  “Gimel, you take the back. Shaw, you have the side that’s facing us. I’ll come through the front,” Aleph said.

  “Are we teleporting in or what?” Gimel said.

  “Yeah. We need the element of surprise. Dali couldn’t teleport and maybe that’s why they were able to get him. I’ll be honest with you. There’s something weird about that house so I can’t promise you what’s going to happen in there. So let’s get ready. On the count of three we go.” He closed his eyes.

  “One.”

  Shaw closed his eyes.

  “Two.”

  Gimel closed his eyes.

  “Three.”

  All three elves disappeared in flashes of light.

  XIX.

  Tortured by an angel. If I ever get out of here and have a chance to make a TV show, that’s what it’s going to be called.

  Santa was mentally numb to the sugarplums and to the drool clogging nearly every facial orifice. He just wanted out of there.

  Santa heard Kay’s footsteps. There was the usual clip- clopping and then something different. A slapping sound on the hardwood floor.

  Her face appeared above him. “Guess what? I have a surprise for you.”

  “Errrrrrrrrrrrrr,” was all Santa could say.

  “You see, honey bunch, if you have been paying attention you know I’ve been wearing my high heels this whole time. They look great on me, don’t you agree?” She slapped him in the face. “Right?”

  “Errrrrrrrrrrr!”

  Kay bent down, picked up her shoes and held them up so Santa could see. “These here glittery beauties have been on my feet for six days. And when I say six days I mean twenty-four hours a day. You see, Santa my dear, I don’t sleep. Never had to, never wanted to. So I have worn these shoes all day for six days.” She brought a shoe to her nose and smelled the inside. “Ewww, what a god-awful smell! Really, really rank. Does that turn you on? A woman with smelly feet?”

  “Errrrrrrrrrr!”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter because I’m giving them to

  you. Such sweet, sweet gifts … from me,” She brought

  one of the shoes closer to Santa. “To you.”

  Santa had recalled Kay’s shoes being gorgeous and glittery like Dorothy’s shoes in The Wizard of Oz. But now, with a clear view of the insides of the shoes, they were anything but gorgeous and glittery. Instead, they looked dark and moist, stained with days and days of foot sweat. Then he wondered if perhaps Dorothy’s shoes looked the same after all those hours of filming the movie.

  Why am I thinking about The Wizard of Oz? Dorothy wasn’t a sadistic angel. She never locked anyone in a bitch- box. Or maybe she did. I don’t know.

  Kay moved the shoes to his face in slow motion, prolonging the torture and letting the stench waft to his nostrils. Despite being clogged with drool, Santa’s nose didn’t block the smell.

  “Yum, I bet you can really smell that shit, right?” Kay said. “You should be honored, too. Oh, not only because they are my shoes in your face, even though that should be enough. No sir, you should also be honored that you have an authentic pair of vintage Babs Cloantas in your face. You just cannot find shoes like these anymore.”

  Santa said, “Errrrrrrrr.” He thought about his wife and how she never once talked about what kind of shoes she wore. Diana wasn’t into that sort of thing, never put value on something as insignificant as shoes.

  The reek of Kay’s foot sweat bore through Santa’s nose, up to his brain, and down to his throat. The odor made its home in his mouth so that now the taste of her drool mingled with the warm stink from her shoes.

  “Hope you’re enjoying this shit, honey bunch. There’s a lot more where this came from. I have nearly five-thousand pairs of shoes and you’ll get to smell each and every one. Not just heels, though. I have clogs and sneakers and slippers and mules and flip-flops...”

  Kay’s voice became heavy syrup on Santa’s ears. It became sticky syrup that seeped into his ear canals and covered his brain, erasing all memory of his wife and his position as Santa Claus, deliverer of gifts. Combined with her foot stink, her voice made him a masochistic automaton.

  “You’re mine now, honey bunch,” Kay said, dropping the shoes and leaving them next to Santa’s head. “All mine.”

  XX.

  When Gimel teleported inside, the first thing he noticed was the ugly giant snail shell in the middle of the living room. Who does that? It was such a foolish

  decision in interior decorating.

  He had his gun in one hand and his glove on the other, ready for anything. The house was silent but Gimel could hear the quiet thoughts of Aleph and Shaw. They were thinking the same thing he was: the objects in the house were strange as hell.

  As he tip-toed out of the living room and into the hallway, his ears popped. Something in his skull clicked and he no longer heard the thoughts of his fellow elves.

  Aleph, can you hear me? Shaw?

  No response.

  A slimy chill on the back of his neck tickled him. Gimel turned quickly but a wet slap sent him flying to the ground. He looked up and saw the same snail shell but now it was standing on what looked like two chicken legs. It wasn’t a snail, though. It looked more like the result of a snail mating with an elephant. Several trunk-like appendages waved at him, gaping holes hungry for fresh elf meat. Gimel held his gun up and fired.

  The bullet hit the snail-thing right in the middle of its body but had no effect. Gimel sent another one at its head but again: nothing. The snail-thing stepped closer, its trunks sending out sound waves that popped Gimel’s ears even more.

  Gimel stood up. “You ugly piece of shit,” he said, getting his glove arm ready to do some damage. The weapon was usually reserved for punishing unfaithful spouses of his clients. The sheer size of the bone-penis glove struck fear into the hearts of both males and females. When that thing went in, even the most jaded of infidels felt the pangs of conscience.

  The snail-thing waved its trunks, spraying Gimel with purple spittle. Some of the fluid hit the elf in the face, burning him. He put his fist up and charged.

  The bone-penis smashed into the snail shell, creating a splatter of green and white shards.

  Gimel’s fist went right through the beast. Trunks flailed against the elf, wrapping around his neck.

  “No you don’t, fucker,” Gimel said. He pulled his fist out and started punching at the trunks. They were no match for it.

  Two more minutes of fisting and the
elf was victorious in turning the snail-thing into a mushy pile of shell and flesh. Gimel’s deafness gradually disappeared as the beast before him died.

  XXI.

  While Gimel was walking through the living room, Shaw was in another room trying to comprehend why someone would decorate their walls with pictures of rotting fruit, demolished buildings, umbrellas, and airplanes. In the corner, there was a bed made of red metallic goop that resembled dried up taffy.

  What kind of weird bitch lives here?

  He had a chain in each hand, swinging them slowly so the hooks would be ready to carve into flesh at a moment’s notice.

  There were slobbering sounds coming from the next room so Shaw walked slowly, one hook swinging behind his head. As he walked through the doorway, something fell from above and covered his head like a Halloween mask. He couldn’t see and could barely breathe.

  “Shit!” he said, dropping one of the chains and grabbing at whatever was wrapped around his head. His fingers dug into soft, gritty flesh. It wasn’t working. Shaw started biting at it, grinding the flesh between his teeth until he felt air on his tongue.

  He dropped the other chain and used two hands to rip the thing off him. Before another could drop on him, he grabbed both chains and looked at what he’d thrown off. It was a giant sugarplum.

  On the floor, the fruit was torn apart but still trembling with life. It resembled road kill and Shaw almost felt bad for it. Then he looked up. The entire ceiling was covered in giant, bulbous sugarplums.

  Some were hairy. Some had tiny legs. Some were on fire. Each of them seemed to be staring at Shaw even though they possessed no eyes.

  “You gotta be kidding me,” Shaw said. He swung one of his chain hooks over his head and let it go in the direction of the sugarplums. They scattered like roaches as the hooks cut into several of them.