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

by Dr. Freud Funkenstein, ed.

  6

  We were not very popular when we came down to the sitting-room.

  `I found the two of them sitting behind a curtain, on a window-seat,’ said Reggie.

  I went up to the tall, dark girl.

  `So you pretended to be “Smee”, and then went away!’ I accused her.

  She shook her head. Afterwards we all played cards in the sitting-room, and I was very glad.

  Some time later, Jack Sangston wanted to talk to me. I could see that he was rather cross with me, and soon he told me the reason.

  `Tony,’ he said, `I suppose you are in love with Mrs Gorman. That’s your business, but please don’t make love to her in my house, during a game. You kept everyone waiting. It was very rude of you, and I’m ashamed of you.’

  `But we were not alone!’ I protested. `There was somebody else there – somebody who was pretending to be “Smee”. I believe it was that tall, dark girl, Miss Ford. She whispered her name to me. Of course, she refused to admit it afterwards.’

  Jack Sangston stared at me. `Miss who?’ he breathed.

  `Brenda Ford, she said.’

  Jack put a hand on my shoulder. `Look here, Tony,’ he said, `I don’t mind a joke, but enough is enough. We don’t want to worry the ladies. Brenda Ford is the name of the girl who broke her neck on the stairs. She was playing hide and seek here ten years ago.’

  Patrick Kill

  THE LITTLE HUMMER BOY

  TED WAS A Jew. He hated Christmas. And he just happened to have the worst job during the holiday season: an elf. Not a department store elf or even a Keebler elf, but the real McCoy: one of Santa’s little helpers.

  Even though his real name was Ted, all the other elves at the North Pole called him Hitler because of the dark square mustache he grew under his nose. It wasn’t funny to be nicknamed after a man who killed millions of his kind during World War II, but he still wouldn’t give up the mustache. He was sick of Santa referring to him as a boy so he tried hard to grow more facial hair to appear more manly. He didn’t understand why he only managed to grow so little, or why an identical square patch grew just under his penis, atop his nutsack.

  Santa liked the lower patch the best. Especially now that Mrs. Clause was going through menopause and Santa had to quench his lustful appetite on his workers, primarily Ted.

  “Oh Hitler, yeah!” Santa said as he forced Ted’s mouth onto the shaft of his penis. “If you still want your job, you’ll swallow this time.”

  Naked, Ted cringed and gagged as Santa’s small cock pounded against his cheek. Every time Ted bobbed, the top of his head smacked Santa’s belly, almost giving him whiplash.

  Outside the door, he could hear other elves snickering.

  Bastards, Ted thought. I hate this whole fucking world.

  Ted was feeling angrier as years progressed. He hated God for making him so small and insignificant. No one took him seriously. The only thing he could do besides make cookies for a corporation is to make toys all year round for people who laughed at him and called him “Boy.”

  And then there was Santa who used him for blow jobs, saying: “Damn, you’re just the right size, Boy, you don’t even have to get on your knees! Yes, you’re my little hummer boy!” And then he laughed and his belly shook like a bowl full of popped cherries—gurgling, rumbling, bleeding through holes inside from the stress of his Christmas duties. He once told Ted that the only thing that calmed his ulcers was a relaxing head job from his favorite elf.

  The other elves weren’t much better. They all gossiped and talked behind his back. They persisted on calling him “Hitler” and now “The Little Hummer Boy” to his face, disrespecting him as a person. Ironically, they were in the same boat as he: little, insignificant, used for the holidays and then discarded, like a bad Christmas present.

  Ted’s rage boiled as Santa’s legs suddenly stiffened. As if it were a daily ritual, Santa strained, then farted near Ted’s face. Santa then reached back and stuck his thumb up his own ass. Within seconds he shot a salty stream of eggnog-cum to the back of Ted’s throat. He gagged, wretched, and spit Santa’s dick out of his mouth. Then another spurt came and hit him in the eye.

  Santa slapped him on the back of the neck and he was forced to swallow.

  He felt ill as he closed the door behind him and marched onto the shop floor where all the elves scattered back to their workstations. Some were laughing, others grimacing as they watched him walk past with semen smeared across his cheek.

  He retired early to his room and threw up in the bathroom. He stared down into the bowl, at his day’s lunch of fish sticks, and watched the white discharge floating at the top of the murky toilet. His fists clenched with rage. He suddenly began to laugh hideously without feeling any humor whatsoever toward the situation. He laughed and laughed then fell asleep next to the toilet. That night he dreamed of murder.

  * * *

  Nine-year-old Christopher dreamed about getting a new bike for Christmas. During the summer he watched the other boys in the neighborhood cruising around with expensive bikes, but he had nothing. His father, Jerry, never spent a dime on Christopher since his mother died last year. Instead, he’d spend extra money leaving Christopher with a babysitter so he could go out and waste his weekly earnings at the local bar, chasing women and coming home drunk to hit on the babysitter.

  “Dad, can I have a bike for Christmas?” he asked.

  His father ignored him, hiding behind a newspaper.

  When Christopher asked again, his father peered around the newspaper and said, “Hell no! You know I have to work my ass off just to support you since your mom died.”

  “Well can I go to the mall and see Santa then?”

  His dad just laughed. “Sure, go knock yourself out.”

  “Can you take me?”

  “I’m busy,” his dad replied, “You got legs, use ’em. It’s only five miles.”

  “But it’s cold and snowing.”

  “So wear your damn boots, for Christsakes!”

  As Christopher walked to the mall, tears froze on his cheeks. He missed his mom and hated his dad for not paying attention to him more. Instead, his father chased slutty women, bringing half of them home to wake Christopher up at night with the headboard slamming against the wall.

  To Christopher’s surprise, the line to Santa was actually short. Within a few minutes he was already climbing on Saint Nick’s lap.

  The mall Santa looked at him and said, “Ho, ho, ho, what do you wish for this Christmas, little boy?”

  “Well,” Christopher said, “I really wanted a new bike, but I guess I’d rather wish that my dad stop chasing women and spend more time with me instead. And I want my mother back.”

  The mall Santa grew quiet, looked at his helper, then said, “Okay, a bike it is.” He quickly shoved Christopher off his lap and greeted the next kid in line.

  * * *

  When Ted awoke the next morning he was a changed elf. Something inside of him had snapped and he felt powerful, no longer a victim. In fact, he felt evil, like a predator and he knew his troubles were over.

  He skipped his shower and breakfast and headed straight to his Thursday job detail: bathroom duties. Each elf took turns being the janitor and it was the worst job there. But Ted was excited today.

  He whistled as he combined a jug of bleach with a jug of ammonia, pouring the lethal mixture in the toilet of the main bathroom. Covering his nose and mouth, he watched as the mirrors began to slightly fog over.

  “If they want Hitler, I’ll give them Hitler,” he said to himself.

  Minutes later, the first elf entered the floor. Patches was the first to pass, as Ted shoved him into the bathroom. As the elf turned around, his eyes suddenly rolled back in his head and he dropped, smacking his head on the toilet.

  “Welcome to my gas chamber. Now who’s the Jew?” Ted stated, then closed the door.

  The next elf, Fry, walked by and nodded. “Hey there, Hitler.”

  Ted smiled back. “I thin
k Patches needs your help.”

  Ted held his breath and opened the door. Fry took one look at his friend and rushed inside. Before he could pull Patches out, Fry collapsed headfirst into the toilet.

  “Nothing like a big old turd stuck in the toilet to clog the hell out of the plumbing,” Ted commented as he closed the door again.

  After an hour, the bathroom was crammed full of dead elves. The toxic fumes were finally dissolving, so he crept back to his workstation. The entire work floor was almost abandoned. Others were on their way, but clocked in an hour later as usual.

  Santa came down the stairs and looked around. “What the hell is going on?” he shouted. “Where is everyone? It’s a month before Christmas, crunch time, and everybody sleeps in!”

  Ted spoke up, “Sir, a lot of workers called in today. They had the diarrhea from the fish sticks served last night.”

  Santa held his stomach. “Great, all I need is stress today.” He grabbed a newspaper and opened the bathroom door. One elf tumbled out. The rest remained piled atop one another, crammed in the small commode.

  “Holy shit,” Santa said, “One at a time, boys, there’s only one crapper!” He kicked the elf back on the pile and slammed the door shut.

  “Ted, come in to my office. I need you to do some, um, filing.”

  Ted followed Santa into his lair. Once inside, Santa dropped his red velvety pants around his ankles and pointed to his erect penis. He motioned for Ted to get undressed like usual. Then he began to sing:

  “Suck my balls and make me say ‘Golly!’

  Fa la la la la, la la la la.

  ‘Tis the season for you to be my sex dolly,

  Fa la la la la, la la la la.”

  Ted stared straight ahead at Santa’s dick. Santa leaned forward, sliding his manhood between Ted’s clenched lips. “Oh yeah, that’s my little hummer boy!” he commented.

  The flatulence came early this time, as a rotten milk-smell drifted from his crotch. Ted’s eyes watered as Santa began to rock. And Ted began to smile as he looked up at Santa, noticing his eyes were now closed.

  Quickly with both hands, Ted grabbed onto Santa’s dick, withdrew the penis from his mouth. Santa’s eyes fluttered open in confusion. He looked down. Ted took a deep breath, lunged forward and blew as hard as he could into Santa’s urethra.

  Santa’s prostate exploded between his legs.

  Ted bit down on his cock and shook his head like a dog fighting for a bone. Santa’s penis tore off with ease. His scream was cut short by a quick yelp as he fell to his knees, cupping his hands over his groin.

  Now eye to eye, Ted’s blood-slick hand shook the penis right before the fat man’s eyes. Ted then slapped Santa across the face with the Jolly One’s own dick. As the initial shock wore off, Santa took in a breath to scream.

  Ted quickly jammed the severed cock into Santa’s mouth and slapped him on the back of the neck.

  Santa was forced to swallow, then he suddenly choked. His face turned red, then blue. His legs kicked as his hand was clawing at his neck. His eyes pleaded with Ted’s for help.

  But Ted didn’t like the look in Santa’s eyes, so he grabbed the letter opener on the desk and cut off Santa’s balls.

  As the fleshy orbs fell to the ground, Ted stomped on them before Santa’s astonished eyes. “Nutcracker,” he said, smiling.

  He then gouged out Santa’s eyes and shoved his crushed nuts into the hollow sockets.

  Santa collapsed.

  * * *

  In the hours following Santa’s death, Ted took control of the toy factory. The other elves were terrified after finding their coworkers dead in the bathroom and their leader dead in his office with his balls shoved halfway into his skull.

  The first change Ted implemented was to halt all production of the usual toys such as trains and cars and rocking horses. He called a meeting with the chief engineer and drew up a new toy to be delivered on Christmas.

  The next day, the factory was in full production of a life-sized Pez dispenser with Ted’s own face on it. Instead of little orange candies, this new improved dispenser carried segments of creamy pumpkin rolls that oozed out of the elf’s mouth. He would be famous at last. No more stupid snowmen, no red-cheeked Santa Clauses pushing out little orange candies. It was now his turn to be recognized. He doubted anyone would disrespect him now!

  * * *

  “Wow, this is big!” Christopher said, hugging his dad.

  Jerry, his dad, backed away.

  Christopher looked at the enormous head of the elf. He bent the top of the head back and out oozed a cream-filled pumpkin roll. He popped the chunk in his mouth.

  “But I thought you weren’t going to buy me anything for Christmas,” Christopher asked.

  Jerry didn’t hear him. He was just staring at the giant pumpkin roll dispenser, tranced as Christopher opened and shut the top of the elf’s head.

  “Hurry up and eat the rest,” Jerry said.

  “Why?” asked Christopher.

  “Uh, um, I’d like to refill it for you.”

  Christopher frowned. “Well, okay.”

  He pumped out the last of the pumpkin roll.

  Jerry snatched it out of his son’s hands, taking it into the bathroom with him.

  Christopher just shook his head. “Weirdo!”

  Inside the bathroom, Jerry pulled out the December issue of Playboy and flipped to the centerfold. He pulled down his pants and looked at the dispenser, gauging its round mouth. Luckily his dick would fit perfectly and the residue of cream cheese left from the pumpkin roll would serve as a nice lubricant.

  As Ms. December stared back at him with her perfectly tanned tits bobbing out of a red and white velvet shirt, Jerry pulled the elf’s head back and slid his penis inside.

  A smile washed over his face as he felt his dick sliding in and out of the contraption. Between the sixth and seventh thrust, a beeping noise erupted from inside of the elf’s head.

  Jerry looked down and shrugged, ignoring the sound, as he grew closer to orgasm.

  Then the mouth suddenly slammed shut like a mousetrap. His penis flopped against the hard plastic and then fell into the toilet with a plop.

  “Oh my god,” Jerry said. Then he passed out.

  * * *

  Christopher flipped through television stations and finally stopped on the news channel. A young blonde reporter was standing outside a retail store with a grim look on her face.

  “There’s been many reports, Deborah,” she said into the microphone, “A weird outbreak of freak accidents with this new product.”

  The television flashed back to the studio where an anchorwomen appeared. She suddenly broke down into laughter. “I’m sorry, folks, I know it’s not funny, but why would so many men—” Tears of laughter rolled down the anchorwoman’s face as she beat her fist onto the desk. “I mean, maybe I need to get one of those for my ex.” The camera panned over to a fat weatherman rolling on the floor, the studio now in a ruckus of laughter.

  Christopher turned off the television and headed for the bathroom. He knocked twice before entering, then found his father face down on the floor, the elf pumpkin roll dispenser at his side.

  “Have you been drinking again?” Christopher asked.

  No answer.

  Christopher rolled his eyes before unzipping his pants and straddling the toilet. He peered inside and shook his head. A pale turd floated near the top. Christopher crinkled up his nose. “Jeez, what did you eat, anyway?”

  No answer again.

  “You could have at least…ah, never mind!” Christopher said, then flushed the toilet. He watched the pale elongated mass swirl around the bowl and disappear into the darkness beyond.

  * * *

  When Christopher’s dad finally came to, he was a changed man. A trip to the hospital, a blood transfusion and he was sent home, only to get infection in both testicles. A week later, they were removed too. After he finally recovered from surgery, he no longer spent time at the bar and neve
r brought women home. He started spending more time with Christopher, and, due to having something he called hormone therapy, he no longer drank alcohol.

  Christopher got the bike he had always wanted in early January for his birthday and he knew it all started with a little Christmas magic—he truly believed a miracle had transformed his father on Christmas day, after passing out in the bathroom.

  It was the first time Christopher believed in anything since his mother had died.

  In fact, he felt like he had his mother back, in a sense. His father acted more like his mother every day, more caring and loving and emotional. He even grew breasts and started cooking and cleaning more.

  It just had to be a Christmas miracle.

  John Boden

  TINSEL

  AVERY STOOD ON the stoop as the wind and snow swirled around him. His cheeks were raw yet hot, even in this weather. The frigid sting of the cold was welcome.

  He slipped the key into the lock, and with a turn, he was inside. Leaning back against the door, he drew a deep breath. The house still smelled like Marie, that faint flowery smell of her shampoo, the powder-diffused tang of sweat emanating from the recliner. He took a slow visual tour of the living room and basked in all the memories there—the basket beside the chair, the crossword puzzle book that still lay open to the page she was working on when she had the stroke, the barrister bookcase...

  They were in their twenties when she spotted the bookcase from across the parking lot at the flea market. Dark mahogany, etched glass in the pull doors...it was beautiful. Over the years, her nimble fingers must have danced countless times over every nick and scrape along its aged veneer.

  “How much?” she had asked that day, with her bubbly giggle so lovely.

  The man behind the counter removed the cigarette from his cracked lips to answer: “Two hundred. That’s an antique.”