by Adam Millard
21
“You better watch out…you better not cry…” Krampus sang as he pushed the needle through Mrs Claus’s oral mucosa and into the fleshy meat of The Fat Bastard’s ass for the umpteenth time. “You better not pout…I’m telling you why…” He laughed, then bit through the thread. “Santa Claus is coming to town…NOT!”
He stood and took a few steps back, so that he could take it all in.
“Remarkable,” he said. “Absolutely splendid.” He walked along one side of the creature, occasionally kicking out at a panicking elf, and then down the other side. “Better than I could have ever imagined it,” he said. The grin beneath his hood was now a perpetual thing, and not just a fluke.
It was finished. The Human Santapede – (In)Human Santapede, if you were an obfuscator, and it turned out that there were more of them out there than Krampus could ever have anticipated – was complete. Krampus couldn’t believe he’d done it; he’d actually done it. No more talk, no more beating around the proverbial bush. He was the only Companion with the bollocks to pull something like this off, and he couldn’t wait to show them his creation in all its grotesque glory.
Just then, from the very front of the organism, a gruff and tired voice said, “Ho-Ho-Holy fuck, my ass is sore.”
Krampus danced – for he was in a fantastic mood, and didn’t care a pip that he looked like a drunken swan – along the Santapede, smacking Jessica Claus’s derriere as he passed her. She squeaked, but nothing more. She hadn’t quite come to, yet. Unlike her husband, who was now shaking his head and trying to figure out why his legs refused to do as he wished.
“Ahhhhh!” Krampus said as he moved around the front of the creature. “You’re awake! And not a moment too soon!”
“I should have known YOU had something to do with all of this,” Santa said through gritted teeth. “But what I don’t understand is why? Is this because I’m better than you in practically every way? Is it? Is it because I get to wear the red and white while you have to walk around wrapped in black, like some Goth Buddhist? Is it because my beard is always so clean, and yours…well, yours looks like something you would pull from Gandalf’s plughole?”
Krampus’s dark and demonic face shrivelled up as if he’d just sucked on an overly-ripe lemon. The Fat Bastard really knew how to push his buttons. Even now, on his knees and ass-to-mouth with his beloved Jessica, his mouth ran away with him. It was terribly frustrating for Krampus, who was hoping for tears and pleas.
“I see you’re still a little mouthy,” Krampus said, walking across the cold, damp room, to where a bottle sat upon a trestle table. He picked up the bottle and grinned. “Maybe I should have put you halfway down the line. Though I doubt even thirty second-hand shits would silence the likes of you.”
Santa shuddered at the thought. “You’re making a big mistake,” he said, though he had a feeling it was too late. Krampus had gone too far, and when people go too far, they tend to see only one way out, and that’s by going just a little bit further…
“Am I?” Krampus said. Santa figured it was entirely rhetorical, and not something he should even deign to answer. “This has been coming for centuries, you chubby cunt. People will only take so much, and you…you’ve finally overstepped the mark.”
Santa frowned. He had no idea what he’d done to invoke such madness, especially from one of his own. “What if I were to offer you a role as my second-in-command?” It was a long shot, but there didn’t appear to be any short shots available to him.
Krampus prowled across the room, stooping just in front of Santa’s face. “You would do that for me? Make me your deputy?” He fluttered his dark red eyelashes with mock elatedness and growled. “You must think I’m a fucking idiot.”
“I—”
“I’ve spent the last god knows how many millennia helping you, taking care of the little shits that you can’t be bothered with, and for what? You must think I was born yesterday. All that sherry’s gone to your head, you daft old twat.”
Santa was about to speak when a glass bottle was thrust into his open mouth. The liquid – whatever it was – caught him by surprise, and before he had a chance to close his throat-hole, half the bottle was on its way to his stomach. Gasping for air, and drooling what remained of the acrid fluid into his beard, Santa said, “What…what was…that…?”
Krampus began to read the bottle, as if even he wasn’t certain. “It says here that it’s LaxiMax. I’ll let you figure out the rest.”
Santa gawped in horror. “You...you evil…!”
“Yes, yes, we’ve already established that,” Krampus said, tapping the bottle with his right horn. “Now, if I were you, I’d try to relax. It’ll help with the…well, everything’ll just run smoother if you don’t talk.”
“You sonofab…” was as far as The Fat Bastard got before his stomach began to roll. He grunted.
“Works faster than I thought,” Krampus said, investigating the empty bottle. “I’ll buy this one again. It says it’s a “number two bestseller” but I think that’s just a joke.”
“Oh-oh-oh,” Santa said, closing his eyes.
Behind him, his wife, a reindeer, and fifty-odd elves all whined in unison.
22
The four elves stood in front of the huge mansion, staring at one another, their eyes filled with fear and trepidation, their hearts pounding faster than Ron Jeremy on speed. None of them knew what they were doing; just that it was so ridiculous that it might just work.
“Is that doorknocker a scrotum?” Shart asked, pointing up at the bronze thingamajig.
Finklefoot shrugged and removed the water-pistol from his belt. “This is probably going to go south really quick,” he said. It was four against three, technically, but they were elves, and the Companions were bloody great big muscular things with veins on the outside and masculine beards. In essence, it was like pitting a quartet of mice against a trio of pit-bulls.
“You’re absolutely right,” Rat said. “So why don’t we cut out the middle-man, the bit where we’re attacked and beaten to within an inch of our lives, and throw ourselves out onto the street now? We wouldn’t even have to knock the door.”
“No, we have to try,” Finklefoot said. “Besides, I have this.” He held up the water-pistol for the others to see. Unsurprisingly, it didn’t elicit a collective cheer of relief.
“Well why didn’t you say so?” Shart said, his voice drenched with sarcasm. “Everyone, relax. Our fearless leader is packing. And you’ve all heard the stories about how much the Companions hate water, especially when it’s leaking toward them in a singular jet at 5 miles-per-hour.”
Finklefoot sighed. “It’s not an ordinary water-pistol,” he said, though it sure did look like one. “The Fat Bastard gave it to me. It was in his safe.”
“Were there other things in his safe?” Gizzo asked. “Like those little snapper things that go BANG! when you throw them down?”
“Oh, you’re talking about nuclear warheads,” Shart said, smiling. “Now those we could use.”
“Look,” Finklefoot said, trying to remain calm. “Just trust me. I’ve got this. And leave the talking to me. Things could get very confusing if we all start prattling on.”
“Hey, this is your show,” Shart said, taking a step back. “Do you want a leg-up so you can reach the bronze ball-bag?”
Turning to the door, Finklefoot took a deep breath and hammered as hard as he could with the barrel of the water-pistol (that he hoped wasn’t a water-pistol). Behind him, there were rustlings and mutterings as his elven cohorts fought the urge to run away as quickly as possible.
“Come on, come on,” Finklefoot whispered. It would be just our luck if they’ve gone off for a game of late-night golf, he thought. He cast his mind back to earlier that day; saw the myriad empty bottles lined up on the bar, on the poker-table, on the floor. There was a very good chance they were, all three, comatose.
A rumbling on the other side of the door extinguished any hope that the Companio
ns had drunk themselves into a stupor. Finklefoot tensed up; his bones audibly cracked. His bowels relaxed; his trousers audibly squeaked.
The door thunked.
The door opened.
A beard appeared in the crack, above which sat a pair of baffled – and slightly glassy – eyes. The door began to shut again.
Then there was an almighty explosion of blue light, and the door flew backwards, leaving its hinges attached to the doorframe. Belsnickel became very small very quickly as he soared back into the mansion, his legs kicking out as they left the ground, possibly for the first time since he was born…
It all happened so quickly, and yet in super slow-motion at the same time, which was a little disconcerting for the four elves watching from the hole in the front of the building. It wasn’t until Belsnickel slammed into the wall at the end of the hallway – toppling a rather fetching watercolour portrait of himself in the process – that things seemed to speed up again. And then it was sheer madness.
Knecht Ruprecht and Not-as-white-as-everyone-else Pete appeared in the hallway, still cradling their respective poker hands, as if they still didn’t trust Belsnickel, despite the fact he was all-but splattered against the far wall. For a moment, neither of them saw the assembly of elves standing in what used to be a very nice doorway, and then followed the trail of debris, and it was only a matter of time before…
“It’s that fucking Jehova’s Witness elf!” Knecht Ruprecht cried. “And he’s got The Fat Bastard’s Anti-Companion Water-Pistol™!” They both lunged for cover, disappearing from the hallway and landing with a thump in the living room. The whole house shook. A chandelier fell from the ceiling and landed on the already-battered Belsnickel.
Finklefoot, who was still holding the smoking water-pistol (a miracle, really, considering what it had done to the mansion’s frontage), swallowed hard. He turned around to find Shart, Rat, and Gizzo cowering in a bush. Either that or the force of the blast had sent them backwards.
Turning back to the smouldering hole, Finklefoot said, “That was an accident. I’m more than happy to pay for any damage. I know this elf, McFeegle? Did a great job on my bathroom.” Ah, who was he kidding? That was the single-most exhilarating thing he’d ever done in his life. It was a pity he hadn’t meant it.
“What do you want?” a voice – Knecht Ruprecht, Finklefoot thought – said. Gone was the sonorous, menacing tone; it had been replaced by a quivering, terrified whine. The kind of voice Finklefoot felt comfortable with, since they were on the same level.
“You can’t kill us!” Not-as-white-as-everyone-else Pete said. “The Fat Bastard wouldn’t allow it!”
“Will you lot get out of that shrub,” Finklefoot whispered back to his gang. “Honestly, you give an elf an inch and they try to take a yard.” To the gloomy, smoky hallway, he said, “We’re not here to kill anyone. We need your help. Like I told you earlier, something terrible is happening in The Land of Christmas. Something that could ruin us. All of us.”
There was a moment’s silence, and then Knecht Ruprecht said, “Put the Anti-Companion Water-Pistol™ away and we’ll talk.”
Finklefoot thought about it, and was about to replace the weapon when sense made a brief appearance. The water-pistol had just made the Companion’s mansion open plan; the last thing he wanted to do was push it back down his waistband, where it might go off, thusly taking off his bottom half and leaving him even shorter than he already was.
“I’ve got nowhere to put it,” he said, looking around for somewhere suitable to stow it, if only for a few minutes. “Don’t suppose either of you owns a holster? Only I quite like my knackers.”
“Point it at the floor,” Knecht Ruprecht said. “We’re coming out.”
“Well this is going better than expected.” Shart said, pulling leaves and twigs from his pointy, green hat. “Thank the Lord for itchy trigger fingers.”
Knecht Ruprecht and Not-as-white-as-everyone-else Pete appeared in the hallway, and slowly walked toward the hole, their hands raised. Behind them, Belsnickel stirred, but that was all he did.
“I didn’t mean to shoot him,” Finklefoot said. “It just went off.”
“Just keep it pointed at the ground,” Knecht Ruprecht said. “Sheesh, The Fat Bastard gave you that?”
Finklefoot nodded. “I thought he was taking the piss. I didn’t even know what it was, but now it makes perfect sense.”
“It also makes perfect holes in ancient architecture,” Rat said, running a stubby finger over the edge of the aperture. “I’m very impressed. Can I hold it for a bit?”
Ignoring his colleague, Finklefoot said, “The Fat Bastard’s in danger. Krampus has kidnapped him, and plans to make him into some abhorrent creature—”
“He’s a fat man with a beard who drinks a lot and sneaks into houses in the dead of night, leaving soot and chimney-jizz all over the place before raiding the fridge,” Not-as-white-as-everyone-else Pete said. “How could he be made any more ‘abhorrent’?”
“Wait,” Knecht Ruprecht said. “Krampus has kidnapped The Fat Bastard?” He shook his head. “He finally did it. He finally went full-on Gary Busey whacko. I thought it was a little weird how he couldn’t join us for poker. ‘Head cold’ my arse.”
“It’s not just Santa he’s abducted,” Finklefoot said. “He’s got Jessica, too. And Rudolph, not to mention fifty of Hattie Hermann’s lot.”
“Ah, he’s going to make a Human Santapede out of them,” Knecht Ruprecht said without even flinching.
“You knew about this?” Finklefoot was shocked, and yet why should he be? Why should anything shock him anymore?
“He’d mentioned it,” Knecht Ruprecht said. “We just thought he was batshit crazy. Never thought he would actually go through with it. Plus, we had this whole discussion about whether it should be Inhuman Santapede, or even with brackets…”
Finklefoot had, for some reason or other, the sudden urge to shoot the still-conscious Companions where they stood, if only for shits and giggles. “Well, he did it, and we can’t stop him without your help.”
“Sounds like you’re doing a good job so far,” Not-as-white-as-everyone-else Pete said. “To be honest, I don’t fancy getting involved in all this. It sounds awfully messy.”
“It’ll be a lot messier if we don’t do something about it,” Shart said. “Finklefoot’s done the maths. If we don’t stop Krampus, The Land of Christmas and all its contents will fall apart quicker than a jealous swingers orgy.”
Knecht Ruprecht bunched his mouth up on the one side, the way people do when they’re considering something tricky. “So what you’re saying is that we don’t really have a choice in the matter.”
“Oh, you have a choice,” Finklefoot said. “It all depends on whether the thought of vanishing in a mist of utter agony sounds appealing to you.”
“So what you’re saying is that we don’t really have a choice in the matter,” Not-as-white-as-anyone-else Pete reiterated.
“If you want to put it that way,” Finklefoot said. “Then yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”
Knecht Ruprecht sighed. “Fair enough.” He turned and gestured to the mess at the end of the hallway, a mess that had, not too long ago, punched Finklefoot in the head. “We’ll just wait for Frank Bruno to wake up and we’ll get a wriggle on.”
Finklefoot sighed with relief; a gesture echoed by his fellow elves.
Not-as-white-as-everyone-else Pete leaned against the ruined doorframe. “Do you think they’ll write a song about us?”
“You know,” Finklefoot said. “They’d bloody better.”
23
Santa shook his head as his stomach continued to roll. Behind him, Mrs Claus choked and sobbed, and behind her, Sissy and Jimbo coughed and spluttered. Rudolph knew what was coming, and was thinking happy thoughts (Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens. Bright copper kettles with warm woollen mittens. Brown paper packages tied up with strings, etc. etc.) but it was no use. It was almost impossible to con
centrate on anything but the kerfuffle taking place at the front of the monstrosity, of which Rudolph was very much a part. If I just keep my tongue here…
At the back of the Santapede, several of the elves were swaying from side to side, trying to break free of the madness, but to no avail. You could say what you wanted about Krampus – at least, you could if your mouth wasn’t stitched to somebody’s asshole – but you couldn’t say he wasn’t thorough. The sutures were excellent. No matter how hard the elves pulled, they couldn’t break away. It had left at least ten of them with broken jaws.
Krampus sat on a swivel chair at the front of the room, putting the finishing touches to his parade map. He couldn’t decide whether it was best to take a right at the liquorice factory, so that those on shift got a good look at their humiliated workmates, or to take a left, down past the stables. It was, he thought, a real pickle.
There was only one thing for it. He picked up the phone and dialled.
“Ah, Hattie,” he said, far too gleefully for the circumstances. “Yes, yes, they’re being very well-behaved…yes, they know not to piss me off…what’s that? No I did not know about Trigger’s asthma.” He put one taloned hand over the receiver and turned to the Santapede. “Which one of you is Trigger?”
About halfway along the creature, a small, stumpy arm reached for the air. Krampus smiled, satisfied that the elf’s asthma hadn’t ruined his creation. The last thing he needed was a weak link.
“He’s fine,” Krampus said to the receiver. “I don’t know how long that’ll last, but for now, he’s still breathing, though I bet he wishes he wasn’t.” He laughed evilly. “You’ll have to excuse me. I haven’t had this much fun since ACDC Donnington ’92. Anyway, the reason I was ringing…yes, of course they’ll all be back at work tomorrow.” It was a lie, but lying wasn’t the worst thing he’d done that day. “Could you bring the rest of your staff to the village in about an hour, only I think you’re going to want to see this…yes…yes…an hour and half, then? Yes, I know how busy you are, but…” Krampus was losing his cool. “Okay, let me put it another way. If you are not in the village in an hour, then I’m going to come down there and feed you all into your little confectionary mixers, how does that sound?...Oh, you will? That’s marvellous. Thank you for being so accommodating. I will see you in an hour.” He dropped the phone back into its cradle and leaned back in his chair. It was a silly thing to do, since there was no back on it.
