Santa Claus is Coming!

Santa Claus is Coming!

         Down the chimney he went, to find it hadn't been cleaned since it was built. His red and white costume was a filthy, sticky mess of soot and creosote. Worse, embers still flicked and spat, glowing orange beneath his booted feet, melting the soles. He doubled over and threw himself from the fireplace, flinging his bag of goodies into the center of the living room.

         Standing, he brushed at his ruined suit. "Fucking dry cleaner'll charge me extra for this mess." Then, looking around, he whispered to himself in disgust, "Jeez, what a pigsty."

         A shallow, greasy box containing one thin slice of pepperoni pizza lay half off a smudged beige sofa with so many various stains it resembled modern art. A pair of men's underwear, replete with shitty chicken tracks in the rear was draped decorously over a lamp shade. Partially crushed beer cans littered the floor and, he shivered as he recognized it, a used French Tickler condom lay stretched out on the carpet like some blind, dead, semi-transparent slug.

         He pinched his nostrils to ward off the acrid scent of recent sex filling the room, and watched where he stepped as he went to the blighted, two-foot-tall Christmas tree in the corner. More brown than green, pine needles lay like pick-up-sticks around the base of the sad little tree.

         He dug in his bag and pulled forth three brightly wrapped presents. The tags said "To Timmy." He placed them around the tree, spreading them out so they would appear to be more than they were, remembering the letter with the childish crayon scrawl asking for a few simple toys.

         The jolly old elf scratched at a prickle in his crotch and hoped to hell the place wasn't crab or flea infested. Poor Timmy, he thought, shaking his head in pity.

         Jacking his bag up over his shoulder in preparation to ascend the dirty chimney and be off to his next stop, he was startled by a low, ominous growl. He felt his bowels loosen. Damned dog, he thought, hoping it was a small one.

         He turned slightly and spied the monster. Probably eighty-five pounds of glassy-eyed, slobbering Doberman strained against a thick chain leash held by a naked, long-haired, zit- faced boy of about seventeen. A doughy, pale, stick-figure girl of about the same age stood beside the boy, one avocado-sized breast peeking from a ratty robe she held together at her neck. These two were the source of the mess and mating stink, Santa surmised.

         The boy grinned. "Empty the bag, old man," he ordered.

         The girl tittered and wiped a thin stream of snot from her nose with the back of her hand. Her pupils did not seem to focus on one spot for more than a second, and rolled around in her head like errant marbles. "You gonna fuck him up, Timmy?"

         "Maybe. If he don't empty the bag."

         The dog's sharp teeth flashed as it tugged harder at the restraint.

         "Writing letters pretending to be a poor, deserving child are frowned upon, Timmy. Do you know who you're jerking with, kid?" the fat man asked, squinting through his thick bifocals, his dirty white beard seeming to fluff with anger.

         "Duh. The tooth-fucking-fairy?" the boy answered.

         Santa shot the pair the finger and turned back to the fireplace. As he ducked his head and shoulders the boy released the dog. Snarling and snapping the animal clamped its powerful jaws around Santa's left Achilles tendon and shook its big head, tearing away flesh and gristle.

         "Son of a bitch!" Santa screamed, wheeling around with a speed unusual for such a large man. He grabbed the dog's muzzle with one hand, crushing the slavering jaws together, lifted the struggling animal off the ground and drop-kicked it in the stomach. The animal sailed through the air, crashed into the wall and slid down to the floor with hardly a whimper. Santa rubbed his bloody ankle. "All the years I've been doing this, you think I haven't run into hundreds of dogs and even more pricks?"

         Timmy rushed the fat man, his flaccid penis swinging between his thighs. Two feet away from old Saint Nick the boy saw the fingers of the man's right hand curl into a sharp-nailed claw. Too late to stop his forward momentum, Timmy's eyes bugged from his head and a screech tore from deep within his chest as Santa's claws encircled Timmy's swinging penis and scrotum and ripped them away from the boy's body with a sound of linen tearing. Rich red blood gushed from the gaping fissure in Timmy's groin, bathing Santa's hand and suit in a flood of warmth.

         Timmy stood hyperventilating, disbelieving, unable to scream again as he saw Santa fling the pasty white nubbin and hairy sac nonchalantly over his shoulder. Blood flowed like a river of crimson, pooling at Timmy's bare feet. More blood than he would have thought possible. He sank to his knees, then, almost lackadaisically, fell onto his side as life squirted from him.

         The girl hadn't moved, other than to release the hold on her robe. She seemed strangely unaffected, and Santa suspected a mixture of drugs percolated through her system.

         The twin avocado breasts, ring-pierced navel and reddish-blond pubic triangle were showcased by the open robe. Santa walked to her and pinched a soft, pink nipple. Her eyes closed and a cat-like purr rose from her throat. Santa slid a hand between her twig-like thighs and felt moisture there.

         Finding the zipper in his trademark red suit, Santa tugged out his hard, rosy red member, lifted the girl a foot off the floor with one hand around her neck, her back pressed against the wall, and guided himself into her. She twisted and jerked, heaved and flung her body this way and that as her air supply was cut off.

         Santa let her do all the work. She twitched like an electrocuted rag doll until he emptied his holiday good cheer into her dying body.

         Finished, he tucked his "candy cane," as Mrs. Claus fondly called it, away, picked up his bag, tested his weight on his already rapidly healing ankle and limped to the fireplace.

         Before ascending up the chimney, he turned back for a last look at the broken dog, the bloody carnage of Timmy and the spread-eagled little hottie with the pop-eyes and lolling tongue.

         "Beats shit out of milk and cookies," he chuckled before disappearing up the chimney.

The End

DMM