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

by Dr. Freud Funkenstein, ed.

  The host of this evening's program pauses as if in contemplation; I don't think he's smiled once. A soft musical interlude follows during which the serene scene in the studio is intercut with slo-mo clips of past holiday specials.

  "When are we getting to the good part!" Billy exclaims.

  Darla and I look at each other and grin at the thought of all the excitement the evening will bring. The holiday atmosphere flows through us, as I'm sure it does with every loving parent in the country, the world. Seeing the look on our children's faces when they get what's coming to them, well, that's all the pay off I could ever ask for. Even Buster can sense the holiday cheer and has situated himself here on the floor next to me. I scratch behind his ear affectionately while Gassley prepares to speak again. Buster sure is a good old retriever.

  "I bet that by now all the kiddies out there are just chomping at the bit to get going," Gassley chuckles/snarls, leaning in toward the camera with a deviously knowing gleam in his eyes. "Well! In that case, let's not delay any further. All righty everyone, are we ready?" he asks, with hands extending wide as if actually expecting a response. "Now children, let's remember that the traditional emphasis of the holiday is sharing, because we can all testify that it feels better to give than to receive, right? That goes for you parents out there too!"

  "Yeah Dad, you always hog it all!" Darlene laughs while slapping at my leg. Okay, I think, just you wait. I've got a special present for everyone this year to make up for what they all got me last time.

  "So everyone," Gassley nearly shouts, "Everyone turn to a loved one, a friend, whomever is on hand, and get ready to share! Now...follow me!"

  With rapt attention we stay glued to the holiday's master of ceremonies, Darla and I slightly turned to each other, Billy and Darlene only vaguely facing each other. With self-assured glee Gassley lifts a disposable razor into view, then presses it into his skin. The razor slides down the length of his face, ever so slowly, the clean, pretty skin slipping through, curling over to display its bloody underside, much like a continuous length of potato skin emerging from a potato peeler. He doesn't twitch once - in fact, aside from the movement of his hand, Gassley remains stock still, his eyes piercing the camera's lens.

  "Whoa!" I say. "Take a look at that, would you?!" Hastily we all reach into the assemblage of tools on the coffee table and grab a razor, putting it to and through each other's faces. Thank heavens for plastic cushion covers. Suddenly we are, as a family, becoming wet and wild with holiday cheer.

  Yes, this is the most important of days, when we remember those who immolated themselves in protest. When we remember those who sacrificed flesh and blood for the common good, defending democracy. When we remember those who made it possible to have safe make-up and medicines and other consumer goods. When we remember all the models and actresses and dancers. Mutilation Day.

  "Look Daddy!" Billy cries. I turn to find him holding up one continuous shred of skin which represents the entire length of his face, from his scalp all the way down along the jawline to his chin. His sister sure knows her way around a razor.

  "Good job Darlene." Maybe she's getting a little too good at this. I wonder...she hasn't been practicing, has she?

  "Well now," Gassley chuckles. "If that wasn't the very definition of fun then, by golly, I just don't know what is! So let's put the holiday cheer into full gear..."

  Not a bad thought. The holiday cheer? It's all over our faces, easy enough to see with just a casual glance, or wipe away with a tissue. Gassley gets his hands on a straight razor now and we all do the same. While a crowd of children dressed as holiday gnomes watches in the studio, our host bares his teeth in what is a smile, I believe. "Ready boys and girls? Watch closely." With the holiday gnomes skipping and dancing through the winter wonderland they've set up, Gassley brandishes the straight razor and puts it to his ear lobe. Then he slices it, at the bottom, and blood begins to leak like you wouldn't believe.

  "Once for every day of the holiday season now," Gassley intones, his breathing hardly strained. We diligently follow the directions of this second-tier celebrity and slice a total of fourteen notches all in the same ear, without hesitation, despite the whimpers of our family members...and our own moans. Buster looks us over with mounting curiosity at the sounds we're making but I tell him he's a good boy and everything is okay.

  I hear the screams coming from next door. Oh, those pesky neighbors, always showboating! I for one refuse to play "keep up with the Jones's" this year; I think I learned my lesson last time. For some reason those flowers are catching my attention again. Right, blood orchids, that's what those flowers are called. Their ghastly red is no match for what we're wallowing in though. They do add something to the overall holiday atmosphere, I'll give them that.

  Through the wonders of technology we continue to enjoy what would otherwise be just another dull night with the family. Having our body horrors synchronized with every other family in the land could really be the ultimate bonding experience. Tomorrow we'll all have stories to share, little variations on the actions Gassley led us all to indulge in. Thank the powers that be this isn't one of those drinking holidays where so many people end up wrapped around telephone poles. This here is a celebration of life, nationwide, a family-oriented event dripping with life. So here I am pounding a screwdriver through my own daughter's thigh, scrawny and soft as it is. Gassley, God bless 'im, he's shown us exactly where to penetrate the muscles and not pop a vital blood vessel, with the assistance of a handy full color 3-D computer graphic.

  "Careful not to damage the upholstery," Darla blubbers. She's got a point there; if I get distracted or let the pain take over I might just hammer straight through the muscles and into the furniture. What a disaster that would be.

  Seeing the look of anguish in Darlene's eyes I inwardly pat myself on the back, knowing I did the right thing earlier in not chastising my daughter for interrupting me but instead letting the spirit of the holiday take over. The same look is shared by Billy, whose mother is forcing steel through the flesh of his leg, and Darla, whose own daughter is doing the same to her. And when my son, flesh of my flesh, drives the rod into my leg just as I showed him, well I'm guessing I have the same "tormented by overwhelming happiness" look on my face.

  Next up: running scalpels and hobby knives under the skin around our loved ones' noses. This is a difficult procedure to perform accurately at this stage. That is, with our hands shaking so, it's kind of hard to be precise enough to smoothly separate the skin from the underlying layer of fat. I'd like to do it without putting any stray holes in the skin flap but my face is starting to feel very lively after that whole razor thing. When we're done we have four nice, neat little noses with only a few small hunks of cartilage attached.

  "Daddy! I'm Rudolph the Reindeer!" Oh, that Billy, he's always such a jokester. I would squeeze his tiny button nose except the thing is so bloody right now.

  On the television Gassley looks like he's being overcome by the holiday spirit so they cut away to some holiday videos. I hope he doesn't end up like last year's host. My guess is they have the very best paramedics waiting in the wings at the studio.

  It looks like the family dog can't take any more of this. He starts whining and licking his chops, and I'm sure every family can relate to this holiday occurrence. "What's that Buster? You too? You too boy?" He pants even harder, his tail wagging furiously now, and who can deny that adorable look in his eyes? Even the kids are pleading for us to let him in on the fun. "What do you think honey?"

  "Just a little bit George."

  "Hear that boy?" I say, holding up the scalpel like some kind of treat. "Just a little-wittle bit for the Buster-wuster boy." He barks twice, much to our delight, and sits before me ready to get his share of the pie. The silly little guy even tries shaking like we taught him, only I haven't extended my hand. He does this every time he wants something.

  "Let me Dad, let me!" Darlene says. I don't trust that edgy excitement in her voice; if we don't ke
ep the kids in check I sense there will be a tantrum of some sort. That's always how it ends, some sort of tantrum spoiling the day.

  "Honey, you just watch and let your father do it. He knows what he's doing." Darla pats me on the shoulder lending me her support...that, and a blood smear.

  The rest of the family holds Buster in place because sometimes he gets a little too excited. Just like what happened to each of us the severe angle of the blade penetrates his skin, just a prick at first, extremely painful nonetheless. I'm checking and yes, his nose is wet, which is a good sign if you're a dog. I guess we'd all make pretty good dogs right about now then! In any event I work the blade back and forth, very carefully since the whole family is hanging on my every move, a little further in every time. His nose is relatively small though and coupled with his excellent obedience training it hardly takes any time at all.

  "All righty," I say while Buster's high-pitched whining contends with the whimpering and giggles of the rest of the family. After displaying his skin flap I add it to the cranberry/popcorn/skin garland we have going around the bookcase.

  Listening to the noises he's making it strikes me that maybe I should take a better look at Buster (earlier I had some blood clouding my vision). Oh-oh-wow, look. Yep. I'm definitely going to have to call the vet in the morning. What's-her-name...right, Andrea. Dr. Collington. Always with those stylish glasses and pale, pale skin, and my God those hips. She's probably sitting alone at home in front of the TV, watching Gassley go into paroxysms of mutilation, taking a razor to her thighs at this very inst-hold it. I better just stop right there. Darla can always tell when I get all hot and bothered, even with my skin missing. What is it Freud said about the color red? Nope, no, can't let the wife catch me with these thoughts, today of all days.

  I glance her way but she doesn't seem to have noticed. No, my wife is too busy trying to keep a penetrated artery from leaving some permanent reminder of holiday cheer all around the living room. Holiday cheer all year round? Well, why not? These days they start advertising for the holiday season as soon as Halloween's finished. I even know people who start their holiday shopping in July! So why not take it just another step further and go year-round with the deal? It's true, I guess we do need the time to recuperate in-between, but still...

  Anyway, I've gotten so lost in thought that I've failed to keep up with the others. They probably just mistook my reverie for shock, or maybe thought I slipped into a coma like I did a few years back. What I find is that Gassley is back on the tube, appearing to be okay, and the rest of the family has worked knitting needles through their lips, many times over, leaving at least six holes in each lip. I rush to keep up and try to seem normal. Appearances are one of the most important things in family get-togethers, right?

  I'm not sure just what shape our lips are in for eating all the holiday treats right now but I'm positive we're all still looking forward to the homemade pudding. Blood pudding does the trick every time; I'm sure in all the households across the nation people are thankful for the soppy crimson goop. After all, how many folks are really into cranberry relish? Come on, it's a no-brainer. I mean that stuff is just so bitter! When Darla's sister brings her family over later they better bring an extra helping of pudding. If not we can always make some up from scratch with our own raw materials.

  "Honey," Darla says, her voice quavering. "I need...need some more holiday vitamins..." I dump two in her outstretched palm knowing that after taking these things she'll feel a lot better.

  Gassley is looking especially excited now, so much so that even I am worried (just a little). "Ah...well, this is the moment...the moment that I personally have been waiting for!" He cackles and okay, I admit it, whatever it takes to make him so happy could be a bit extreme. "This is something that the kiddies out there...will adore." He laughs again and holds up one of those tiny plastic pencil sharpeners that usually only students have. His intoxicated grin/grimace fills the screen as he raises a hand and proceeds to force the pencil sharpener over his pinkie finger. Already guessing what comes next we scramble to get a hold of one ourselves. I guess it's a good thing that the kids have these after all.

  Slowly twisting my wrist the interior blade begins its uneven boring into my skin. It catches the flesh on the side of my fingertip, painfully dragging and eventually ripping the muscles and fat more than actually cutting it. Of course, these things would be dull. All the better then! Next the upper corner of my fingernail catches on the blade. The more I twist the more the corner of my nail is forced to bend backwards, and the blade begins to peel the cuticle, and after a series of painful pops the fingernail itself is torn away, but not totally though because I can feel some thin underlying shreds of tissue still attached. Soon enough these too are torn apart and the fingernail rotates with the blade proceeding it, plowing into the remaining flesh of my finger before the blade reaches it and causes even deeper damage. When it's time to remove the stupid plastic contraption it gets stuck-probably because of my thick, muscled, man's fingers-and after a series of forceful tugs the thing rips away, stripping off a large amount of the remaining flesh with it. I can clearly make out the outline of the slender bone under the glistening, purplish sheath of uneven muscle and blood vessels.

  Yes, the economy should be booming this year. Every twelve months the newscasters hype up the economic slump to spur us on to spending more, and we do: tomorrow every plastic surgeon in the land will be getting a call. Maybe that's the line of work I should've gone into? I'd be a rich man now. Think about it, really...I'd be up to my elbows in gore for the next few weeks at least! The holiday rush is so terrible at the surgeons' offices this time of year. And the lines, the lines, man alive. But if I were the "cutter" I'd get to see every gruesome injury inflicted, which I know is every child's dream come true. I'm not even talking about being the lousy surgeon set up in the shopping malls for kids to talk to and get their pictures taken with. Yeah, tomorrow I'd have my hands on Dr. Collington's mutilated thighs...and more...

  Time becomes a slippery thing when you are feeling the holiday bliss and before I know it the special is winding down. Gassley gasps, "Oh my...we're all out of...time...well, I hope you've...enjoyed...this evening's holiday excitement every bit as much as...I have..." All around the room I can sense the unspoken response: it isn't over already, is it?

  The orchestral holiday music swells to a crescendo as the camera rises, pulls out. "And remember: have A Very Gassley Holiday!" I don't think there's any question that we will.

  During the closing strains of music and credits which play over suicide scenes and war crimes I clap my hands together with anticipation. "Well everyone," I barely manage to say, "I've got a little surprise!"

  "Oh, you didn't!" Darla sloppily exclaims.

  "Yeah, well, it's a little something to show the family just what I think of them, and how much I appreciate the duties of fatherhood." Having prepared in advance I pull the generator, alligator clips, and fifty yards of barbed wire out from under the sofa.

  "Yay!" the kids cry in unison at the sight of my homemade torture kit.

  Darla eyes the setup with genuine surprise. "George, you shouldn't have...really..."

  "How about we take this thing for a spin before we eat?" I grab my son and bounce him rigorously on my knee, probably because of all the adrenaline pumping through me right now. "Well? What do you say to that, Billy?" It comes out as more of a growl than a question really.

  "G-G-God b-b-bless...bless us...every o-one..." little Billy sobs. The heartfelt sentiment moves me as I know it does the rest of the family.

  Pete Conway

  SANTA CLAUS VS. ANTI-CLAUS

  ‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house,

  Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse…’

  ...OR A HAMSTER! He lifted the large black boot off the flattened animal, picked up the mish-mash mess of fur, blood and guts, and threw it back into the cage. He muttered to himself, his voice tinged with contempt: “Tha
t’ll teach them to keep vermin as pets.”

  He crept into the living room and spotted the Christmas tree, under which he started to deposit the presents. A satellite navigation system for father, a designer-label crocodile skin handbag for mother, an X-Box for little Johnny and an i-Pod for Susan. There was one more box. He shook it and listened to the rattle, sniffed it, slightly recoiled and quickly dropped it under the tree in disgust. Bath salts? There had to be an old bastard in the house. Those old ones were the worst, always preaching goodwill to all men.

  He crept upstairs and slowly opened the first door. There was Johnny, tucked up in bed. He went to the second door; it was mother and father’s room. The third door revealed Susan, fast asleep. The fourth door had to be Granny. No, it was the toilet.

  He thought about straining one out, but he had too many houses to visit.

  The final door slowly opened and there laid Granny, asleep with her teeth in a glass, next to her on a bedside table. Her slack mouth hung open as she silently sucked in air. He moved across and gently removed the pillow from under her head, before clamping it down on her face. She struggled, he thought somewhat like a sparrow being crushed in his mighty hands, and eventually she went limp, lifeless like a spent husk. He waited to make sure her body was unmoving, then headed back down the stairs, laughing and muttering: “That’ll make their Christmas. I bet they’re relieved, the bloody hypocrites.”

  He headed for the back door and spotted the fridge. Pulling it open, he perused its contents before selecting a cold can of lager. He cracked the can open and drank deeply. Then he spotted on the fridge door, spelled out in fridge magnets, were the words Hello Santa. He rearranged them so they read Hello Satan, then walked out into the cold crisp air. He thumbed the starter button on the big Kawasaki-engined skidoo and roared off into the snow-filled sky. Anti Claus was making his rounds.