Gift-Wrapped & Toe-Tagged: A Melee of Misc. Holiday Anthology

by Dr. Freud Funkenstein, ed.

  “Was there anything else on your list, kid?”

  Chris managed to pry his attention away from his father’s piercing squeals to refocus on the Santa who scratched at his ass and thumbed his nose.

  Chris let his eyes fall to the carpet as he shook his head.

  The Santa approached him, putting a gloved hand on his shoulder. “Come on, let ol’ Santa know what it is.”

  Chris lifted his head to the deep green eyes of the Santa. “I told the Santa in the mall that I wanted a sister.”

  His mother suddenly yelled from upstairs. “Richard, what’s happening? What was all that noise? I tried to call 911, but the line is dead!”

  Santa’s eyes flashed with surprise and excitement. “Let me go talk to your mom about getting you a sister.”

  Chris nodded, flipping open his magazine as the dark Santa ascended the stairs. Once upstairs, he loosened his belt as his black velvety pants dropped around his ankles. Chris peered at his bone-white ass, noticing the Santa smiling as he watched his erection finally appear from beneath his oversized belly.

  The elves had finished feasting on his father as most crawled through a broken window and mounted the sleigh. A few others cornered the cat, one holding it down as the other doused it with gasoline. The cat scampered from their grasp as one elf lit a match and the other yelled, “Here kitty, kitty, kitty!”

  Minutes of banging and screaming upstairs persisted as Chris waited. A few times he swore he heard his mother yell: “Oh yes, give it to me, St. Dick, I’ve been a very very naughty girl!” The sound of a belt slapping bare skin echoed through the house.

  Finally the dark Santa, along with his mother, appeared from the bedroom, both with a cigarette dangling from their mouths.

  “Hey kid, I think we came to terms on that sister request. You might have to wait a little while though. Probably until the end of October.”

  Suddenly a cat hissed and screamed as a ball of flame scurried through the living room, smacking against the wall.

  The base of the wall caught fire as his mother screamed.

  Chris turned to see the dark Santa on his knees, his head disappearing up his mother’s bathrobe.

  “Mom—the house is burning. Help!”

  His mother moaned as the flames rose higher. Chris approached the Santa and kicked him in the ass. The Santa kicked backwards, knocking Chris over.

  “Get away from my mother!” he yelled. “You’re not really St. Nick—You’re St. Prick, you asshole. And you’re burning my house down! And you’ve killed my father, too!” Chris continued as the realization finally settled that his father was nothing more than bone and gristle on the living room floor.

  Chris felt the tears forming in his eyes. He shook his head and curled himself into a ball, rocking back and forth.

  He wondered if he had suddenly grown out of his childhood, or that he was just finally old enough to realize that Christmas was just another day filled with horrible events like the ones he had come face to face with on this particular night. Then he wondered if he was trapped in some insane nightmare, and that he might awake to the smell of breakfast and the sight of presents scattered around the tree.

  Because this wasn’t the way he remembered Christmas from past years. Santa was usually kind and was never seen entering the house. He always ate the cookies and never had sex with his mother after having killed his father.

  So far this Christmas was the absolute worst.

  Suddenly he heard bells in the sky. He peered out the window and noticed a sleigh with an assortment of healthy-looking reindeer appearing this time along with a white-bearded man adorned in red and white. Chris ran to the window and yelled, “Santa, please help us!”

  The sleigh veered and descended, landing on top of the house. Santa slid down the chimney and came out with a fire extinguisher which he sprayed onto the fire until it was no more.

  Chris wrapped his arms around the real Santa and sighed in relief. He smelled a strange scent of rot as he looked up into Santa’s pale face. This Santa seemed to be missing a portion of his head as grey matter swelled outward from his shattered skull. His eyes were huge, only the whites showed.

  The dark Santa rose, wiped off his mouth, and stared at the real Santa who extracted a candy cane which he unwrapped and gnawed one end to a sharp point. They circled, eyeing one another.

  “I thought you were dead,” the dark Santa said.

  “I am dead,” the real Santa returned, holding the candy cane-dagger in front of him, “I’m a zombie now, you idiot.”

  “Kick his ass, Zombie-Santa!” Chris cheered, “Save Christmas for everyone!”

  The real Santa, now a zombie, ran a hand over his beard as a finger broke off and fell to the floor. He kicked it aside and focused on the enemy before him.

  “Did you think you could take over Christmas so easy?” the real Santa asked.

  “Yes,” the dark Santa answered, lighting another cigarette. He reached into the bag once again and pulled something out.

  The real Santa watched as a blow-up doll emerged. He stared watching the plastic doll inflate to life-size, pockets of air forming around her breasts and midsection. Santa focused on the curvy features until he approached and jumped atop the doll, burying his head into her cleavage.

  The doll exploded as the candy cane punctured plastic. A surge of air blew Santa back into the fireplace.

  The elves rushed in once again and doused his red suit with gasoline. The dark Santa threw in a starter log and flicked his cigarette on top. Flames quickly engulfed Santa’s body, his suit and cap smoldering in instant embers.

  As the scent of human flesh wafted through the house, the ghoulish reindeer finished their feast on the living reindeer and rejoined the dark Santa on his sleigh. They took off into the sky, passing the Northern Star which flickered to black.

  On the ground a clan of Christmas carolers approached the house as his mother screamed after noticing what had become of her husband. As the carolers stopped on the porch, Chris noticed that they were all pale and bloated, their faces freshly scarred and bleeding onto the steps.

  “I’m dreaming of a black Christmas,” they sang in unison, “With every goat head that I bite...”

  Others chanted from farther down the street, “Silent Night, Eternal Night, All is black, all is right...”

  The two groups merged beating on the door. Sunken faces peered in through windows. Hands reached through broken glass. Icy winds gusted to a chorus of low wails.

  Chris took the whole scene and sighed in disgust. His mother sat rocking back and forth in a dark corner, her complexion appearing paler each passing minute. He envisioned the red bicycle beside the melted plastic tree, then everything faded to his immediate surroundings as a cold gust of wind blew through the cracked windows, stripping the stockings from the mantle.

  There were no presents beneath the tree, no joyful Christmas songs playing on the radio. The sun had yet to rise though it was well past 8:00 a.m. And Chris was officially dissapointed.

  “Ah, fuck it,” he finally said, walking toward the bathroom. He picked up the porn magazine and smiled. He felt a wave of merriment suddenly take over his body as the smoke began to clear and the centerfold flipped out, exposing a long-legged blonde wearing only a Santa’s hat.

  Chris pulled a cigarette from the pack and flicked the lighter. He closed the bathroom door, leaving the chaos behind, and began to sing, “Oh cum all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant...”

  Housefires blazed throughout the neighborhood as stars glowed red and blue and green, blinking in strange sequences.

  Col Bury

  SNAKES & LADDERS

  “WHAT DO YOU mean you’ve… ‘Already paid somebody’, Mrs G?” asked Barney, trying not to fuckin’ swear.

  The old dear looked perplexed as she stared at the window cleaner in the doorway, from the waning warmth of her bungalow, snowflakes drifting in with the chill of night.

  “Who did you pay?”

 
“A tall lad. He cleaned my windows yesterday and knocked on, so I paid him.”

  Barney bit his lip, hard. “I work alone, Mrs G, you should know that.”

  “Oh dear. I just assumed he was working for you. I’m sorry, Barney.”

  “You owed a month’s worth, that’s two cleans.”

  “I know. I paid him six pounds…” she dipped her head, “… plus a tip. Gave him a tenner.”

  Barney pivoted, stifled a, For fuck’s sake, then turned back. “So the cheeky… even took my Christmas tip?”

  “Afraid so… Oh, this is terrible… here… let me…” Mrs Groves reached for her tweed, winter coat hanging on a hook in the hallway and pulled a purse from the pocket.

  “NO! I wouldn’t dream of taking it. Don’t worry, Mrs G, I’ll catch up with him.”

  “You sure, Barney?”

  “I’m sure. Now, you watch yourself in this weather. Merry Christmas.” He forced a smile then headed for his next customer, crunching through the snow, but feeling less than Christmassy.

  ***

  “Not you too, Bob!”

  “But he said… shit… have I paid the wrong guy?” Bob Sharples’ wrinkly brow wrinkled some more, eyes widening.

  Barney gave an imperceptible nod as he stood in the flat’s communal area, now expecting the whole block to have coughed up anything, including tips, up to a ton.

  “The cheeky bastard.”

  “You said, he said something, Bob?”

  “Er, yeah, he said he was helping you.”

  “What, so he mentioned my name?”

  “Yeah, so I thought nowt of it an’ just gave him a fiver… an’ a half bottle of whisky. Said he’d make sure you got it. He was so convincing…”

  So he’s tall and he knows me. “Can you describe him?”

  Sharples rubbed his chin, thinking. “Yeah, he’s a six-footer, white lad, medium build, say about thirty-ish.”

  “What colour hair?”

  “He had a Beanie hat on… bit like yours. I’d pay you mate, but am skint.” Sharples patted his pockets.

  “No worries, Bob. Cheers, for the whisky thought, mate. All the best.” Seething, he headed upstairs to hear the inevitable bad news, thinking about the Chrimbo pressies he’d promised his kids, Beth and Harry.

  ***

  Leaving the block of flats in the driving snow, with an image forming of the man who’d potentially destroyed his kid’s Christmas, Barney hoped he’d receive better news from the adjacent block. His customers were a lovely bunch, if not a tad naive, over half offering to pay him. But he’d refused them all. This was his problem and he’d deal with it.

  The next block was the same, all three storeys having paid the conman. A quick tot-up told him the damage was pushing three ton. However, speaking with residents of the third block, Barney was relieved to find the first three he’d checked hadn’t paid, so he tactically left it at that, not checking the remainder.

  With a measly fourteen quid in his back pocket, he went for a pint, as was tradition after collecting, in the Rock Inn.

  ***

  He’d built up the round from scratch since being made redundant for the second time from a job in the printing industry. These technological times had lessened the need for skilled printers. He knew half a dozen of the regulars in his local had window cleaning rounds, so had initially done some cash in hand work before purchasing a cheap ladder, bucket and chamois leather. After a lot of cold calling, he’d eventually established his £800 per month round.

  Sipping a pint of Carling Cold at the bar, his eyes flicked discreetly from the three lads who fitted the description. Family man, Johnno was sound and had been the one who’d ‘employed’ Barney when things were desperate, so he was out of the equation.

  Johnno glanced over, perched on a bar-stool. “Been grafting for Chrimbo cash, Barney?”

  “Nah, bud. Can’t in this weather.” Barney watched the other two, who were shooting pool, and purposely raised his voice. “Won’t be collecting till next week now either. It’s treacherous out there.”

  “Don’t blame you, mate.”

  Time to test the water. “So, how much you had in tips, Kev?”

  Kevin Anderson glanced up from his shot. “Not much this year. Think everyone’s skint. What about you?”

  “Not too bad. How’ve you done, Mikey?”

  Mike Wetherall seemed to hesitate, studied the table and didn’t look up. “Same. Credit crunch kicking in, innit?” He missed a straight pot by inches, but still avoided eye contact. With the Beanie hat and constant visits to the fruit machine, Barney knew.

  ***

  Temperatures had reportedly hit minus 10, and, still bubbling with rage, Barney pulled his collar up, wrapped his scarf round his mouth. The snow-covered bushes hid him from view, as the window cleaner climbed the ladder to the third floor flat on Barney’s patch.

  Struggling to make out the dark ascending figure, Barney tossed looks over both shoulders, checked the windows. All clear. He edged forward toward the bottom of the ladder. Not arsed about the ‘seven years of bad luck,’ he stood underneath the ladder.

  After again scanning for passers by, he looked up beyond the plethora of falling flakes. “Hey, Mikey! Call yer-self a mate, you backstabbing shithouse!” He booted the bottom rung outwards repeatedly. The ladder slid rapidly away from the building, the top end clattering and scraping the wall and window ledges, a sharp yelp from above. Barney dived sideways as the body thumped the snow, bizarrely like a human starfish, the ladder whacking the conman’s head with a sickening thud.

  Barney gasped, agape. “Johnno… WHY?”

  No answer, just the silent oozing claret dyeing the snow. But it didn’t prevent Barney undoing the bum bag from round his dead friend’s waist.

  Jack Ketchum

  THE BOX

  “WHAT’S IN THE box?” my son said.

  “Danny,” I said, “Leave the man alone.”

  It was two Sundays before Christmas and the Stamford local was packed — shoppers lined the aisles and we were lucky to have found seats. The man sat facing my daughters Clarissa and Jenny and me, the three of us squeezed together across from him and Danny in the seat beside him.

  I could understand my son’s curiosity. The man was holding the red square gift box in his lap as though afraid that the Harrison stop, coming up next, might jolt it from his grasp. He’d been clutching it that way for three stops now—since he got on.

  He was tall, perhaps six feet or more and maybe twenty pounds overweight and he was perspiring heavily despite the cold dry air rushing over us each time the train’s double doors opened behind our backs. He had a black walrus mustache and sparse thinning hair and wore a tan Burbury raincoat that had not been new for many years now over a rumpled grey business suit. I judged the pant-legs to be an inch too short for him. The socks were grey nylon, a much lighter shade than the suit, and the elastic in the left one was shot so that it bunched up over his ankle like the skin of one of those ugly pug-nosed pedigree dogs that are so trendy nowadays. The man smiled at Danny and looked down at the box, shiny red paper over cardboard about two feet square.

  “Present,” he said. Looking not at Danny but at me.

  His voice had the wet phlegmy sound of a heavy smoker. Or maybe he had a cold.

  “Can I see?” Danny said.

  I knew exactly where all of this was coming from. It’s not easy spending a day in New York with two nine-year-old girls and a seven-year-old boy around Christmas time when they know there is such a thing as F.A.O. Schwartz only a few blocks away. Even if you have taken them to the matinee at Radio City and then skating at Rockefeller Center. Even if all their presents had been bought weeks ago and were sitting under our bed waiting to be put beneath the tree. There was always something they hadn’t thought of yet that Schwartz had thought of and they knew that perfectly well. I’d had to fight with them — with Danny in particular — to get them aboard the 3:55 back to Rye in time for dinner.

 
But presents were still on his mind.

  “Danny ...”

  “It’s okay,” said the man. “No problem.” He glanced out the window. We were just pulling in to the Harrison station.

  He opened the lid of the box on Danny’s side, not all the way open but only about three inches — enough for him to see but not the rest of us, excluding us three—and 1 watched my son’s face brighten at that, smiling, as he looked first at Clarissa and Jenny as if to say nyah nyah and then looked down into the box.

  The smile was slow to vanish. But it did vanish, fading into a kind of puzzlement. I had the feeling that there was something in there that my son did not understand — not at all. The man let him look a while but his bewildered expression did not change and then he closed the box.

  “Gotta go,” the man said. “My stop.”

  He walked past us and his seat was taken immediately by a middle-aged woman carrying a pair of heavy shopping bags which she placed on the floor between her feet—and then I felt the cold December wind at my back as the double-doors slid open and closed again. Presumably the man was gone. Danny looked at the woman’s bags and said shyly, “Presents?”

  The woman looked at him and nodded, smiling.

  He elected to question her no further.

  The train rumbled on.

  Our own stop was next. We walked out into the wind on the Rye platform and headed clanging down the metal steps.

  “What did he have?” asked Clarissa.

  “Who?” said Danny.

  “The man, dummy,” said Jenny. “The man with the box! What was in the box?"

  “Oh. Nothing.”

  “Nothing? What? It was empty?”

  And then they were running along ahead of me toward our car off to the left in the second row of the parking lot.