WC12/20 I saw a sad Santa Claus, near a CocaCola promotion girl. What made Santa so sad?
|Extended version here: ""CocaBro" 183 words over"
Chris leaned against the oversized ornament and brooded. His deep frown and furrowed brows contrasted greatly against his 50 foot tall Kris Kringle likeness on the globe at his back. The Santa on the ostentatious lawn ornament was the epitome of seasonal happiness: rosy cheeks, clear baby blues, and extra fluffy white beard; the complete antithesis of his sun burnt complexion, dark brown eyes, and three day stubble. The real kicker was the bottle in his doppelganger's hand, an ice cold Coca-Cola. Chris scoffed every time he caught sight of it. Sure Santa drank Coke, how else was he supposed to deliver all those gifts in one night unless hopped up on drugs?
A few hundred feet away, the doors of the campus supermarket opened and spewed forth an attractive woman in her early 40s. She had a svelte coke bottle figure that was woefully under-appreciated in the loose red and white jumper she wore. That was the plan wasn't it? Didn't want to be too obvious, that was no fun. Her brunette curls and porcelain features encouraged a double take; one might wonder why such an attractive woman would wear such a non flattering get-up, then you noticed the jumpsuit stopped mid thigh, displaying gratuitous leg action. The red pumps she wore set off the ensemble quite nicely. Chris hated her so much. The beautiful breathing Coke advertisement sauntered right over to his ornament and propped herself next to him as if she hadn't a care in the world.
"Now now Santa, you mustn't stand around looking so grumpy, you'll scare the children."
"Don't call me that! I'm off the clock," Chris spat.
"You're still in company uniform and you've got another gig in half an hour, which means you're very much on the clock." She fixed him with a hard stare that made him squirm in his fluffy Santa overcoat and exposed suspended trousers.
"Sally, I don't want to do this anymore," Chris mused in a much gentler voice. He couldn't look her in the face but he saw the exaggerated eyeroll and felt her barely surpressed sigh of annoyance.
"Don't be such a baby Cringle, this client likes her Santa's to be macho."
"I'm serious! This is sick, I'm not doing it anymore and you can't make me." He knew he had gotten beside himself but he couldn't help it. The thought of pretending to lust after another old biddie that got her rocks off on holiday characters was too much. As expected, the Coke promotions succubus got right in his face, eyes blazing.
"Don't think that being our most popular Santa Ho makes you immune to the rules. Fact is we do own you, I own you, from those cute alabaster curls atop your head to the ones around your holiday balls. You. are. mine." The fire in her eyes receded just a bit as the corner of right lip edged up into her signature smirk. "And in about 20 minutes you'll belong to Mrs. Hampstead. At least for the next couple of hours. Play your cards right and you might even get another Christmas bonus. Wouldn't that be grand?" She was back to her effervescent, cheery, laid back persona.
Chris didn't say anything. As always, she was right; two years ago he had signed his soul to the devil and there was no way out. Least, no way out that didn't involve a world of hurt, financially, mentally, and probably physically knowing these blood suckers. He still had three years on his contract. Three more years of being Cupid, the Easter Bunny, and a slew of other commercial characters throughout the year. With all the unloved wives and women in Greater Atlanta he and the other Coca-BroHos stayed busy. They brought seasonal happiness to those ladies that couldn't find it elsewhere. He had convinced himself that he was doing them a favor, a public service even. Course the money wasn't half bad, he managed to live comfortably in a spacious condo at Atlantic Station, an affluent and coveted part of town, and he only worked 20-30 hours a week on average. He really had no right to complain. He couldn't even say that most of his appointments were unenjoyable. He just had a hard time coming to terms with being a product. That's all he was to them, to her, a commodity to be sold, bought and used, time and time again. He could only pray that his stint as #1 Santa this year saved him from having to be a New Years Baby again, after last year he hated that holiday the most. There was no end to some women's freakiness.
A sleek black Cadillac pulled up in front of them. Sally hurried to stand in front of him and began fixing his attire, straightening his suspenders and buttoning up his coat. "Mrs. Hampstead is a new client. A very wealthy new client from Brookwood Hills." Chris whistled through his teeth, that was big money area, hard to break into. "Exactly," she continued, "don't mess this up. No time for your conflicted emotions. If you're nice I'll help you deal with them later." She paused to give him her most seductive gaze. Try as he might he couldn't stop his holiday log from twitching, she was purposefully stoking his smoldering fire, prepping him for Hampstead. Her evil smirk returned, she knew exactly the power she held over him. "Go get her Cringle." With that she pushed him toward the idling car with a pat on the rear, rekindling the fire she had practically doused by calling him 'Cringle' (she knew how much he hated that nickname, all because his first name just happened to be Chris).
He slid into the Cadi's back seat, and accessed the austere business woman he found there. "What's your name beautiful?" Hampsteads wary expression morphed into shock when he addressed her.
He slid into the Cadi's back seat, the leather gliding gracefully under his felt costume, the bucket design molding to his form. As he shut the door he was enveloped in a heady scent of juniper and spice perfume. While grateful his new client didn't smell like an old lady he braced himself for the grey hair and wrinkles of a concupiscent geriatric. Instead he came face to face with an austere business woman. She looked to be in her mid to late 50s, like Sally, her tailored dark blue business suit did little for her lithe figure. Chris guessed she was in good shape under that stuffy pants suit and found himself curious to find out.
Remembering what Sally said about Mrs. Hampstead wanting her Santa to take control, he expertly reached over and unfastened her hair clip. Released from its' tight bun her auburn hair cascaded down and around her shoulders. "Better, much better," he breathed, making a show of appraising her entire body before fixing her with his gaze. "What's your name beautiful?" Hampsteads wary expression had morphed to one of shock when he'd touched her. She was staring at him doe eyed now, breathing heavily.
"Andrea," she breathed.
"Well Andrea," he said her name slowly, seductively. "Have you been Naughty, or Nice?"
Image credit: World of Coke
Original title: "Coca-Ho"
Length extended after Writers Cramp contest: ""CocaBro" 183 words over"