White Walls and Straitjackets

by David Owain Hughes

  Back in the van, all sweaty and sticky, Harry watched as beads of water dropped off her chin, and rolled between the crevice of her breasts.

  “All sorted?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she managed, breathlessly.

  “Good. Get us moving, then.” She followed Harry’s command, and got the van shifting. “How about another tale?”

  “Please.”

  “Okay. The next one is entitled, “Santa Klaws.” Ooo, it’s a comic.”

  SANTA KLAWS

  'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. But outside and high above the rooftops he was coming…

  The cold, hard lash of his reins whipped the hides of his reindeer as he called on them to gallop faster. Their hooves cut through the bitter, winter night as they hurtled on to their master’s destination, which caused the bells on their harnesses to jingle-jangle, as they sliced their way through the clouds down to the next town.

  When a row of houses came into sight, he yanked hard on the leather straps, bringing his deer under control, to a smooth landing on the slates with a light bump; a bump not loud enough to wake the sleeping occupants within the houses below.

  The hell-deer snorted plumes of air and gently stamped their feet on the slate. Klaws arose out of his seat, whilst hoiking up his drooping black trousers, and threw the cadaver of the old, naked woman to the snow below his sled. She thumped the roof and slid toward the guttering, but did not go over the edge, much to his annoyance – “Humph.”

  He stepped down from his gleaming black sled that boasted twin-turbine engines behind that spat blue flames and fireballs. Tusks of various shapes and sizes decorated the outsides, with Santa Klaws etched across the side. The chrome bars and handles on the inside gleamed with an immense sheen; his soft, padded seat a deep crimson red. Almost blood-like.

  He threw his empty bottle of gin to one side, and snuffed out the fat stub of a cigar on his tongue as he walked over to the body. His black fluffy coat blowing wide in the wind and exposing his t-shirt underneath, showing off the quotation that stood out in starch white lettering – Necrophilia: Not Just A Great Fu*k, But Also A Great Place To Keep Your Beer Cold!

  He booted the dead woman off the roof, and smiled with triumph as she hit the floor below with a hard, dense smack. He then turned to his hell-deer and began singing one of his favourite songs in a disjointed manner. He couldn’t seem to get it out of his head, as he walked the length of the beasts.

  I fucked your girlfriend last Christmas night.

  Whilst you snored and drooled,

  I fucked your love with my holly-covered tool.

  She called me daddy.

  And I called her baby Jesus when I smacked her ass.

  I called her sugar when I ate her alive.

  He smoothed their pulpy, torn bodies that were balding in parts as he sang his jingle.

  On the hides of the creatures could be found their names, branded there until the end of time: Genghis, Attila, Stalin, Saddam, Vlad, Pol and the lead deer – Adolf.

  “Good boys, good boys,” he soothed as he continued to pat each and every one of them down to Adolf, who he opened his fist too, and let the hell-beast eat greedily at the tobacco in his palm.

  These were very special reindeer. Their old souls had been replaced by the souls of the people they bore the names of – handpicked spirits, by Lucifer himself, from the deepest chambers of his domain. Many twisted essences meandered in hell, but these appeared to have been some of the worst for the creation of the deer. Their eyes glowed like red hot coals; their antlers chipped and snapped. And each and every one of them had a bullring through its nose.

  Walking back up the length of the beasts to his sled, he plucked out his Accuracy International Super Magnum (L115A1) rifle with mounted scopes, which was rested against his present sack. On his way over to the chimneystack he lowered the tripod legs to the sniper rifle. Once there, he placed the gun on top of the snow-covered bricks, and put his eye to the scope. The infrared sights worked well in the bleak night, as snow was being driven in at a slant. Klaws was more than confident that he could pick his brother off, if he should see him on one of the neighbouring roofs, with his built-for-Arctic-Warfare-rifle.

  I’ll get you this year, brother. There is only room for one Santa, he thought. As he gave the immediate area a full sweep before giving up, and returning the weapon back to his sled. Plenty of time yet, the night is still more than young, he thought.

  He grabbed the bulging toy sack, and headed for the edge of the roof. Klaws jumped the distance down to the floor, and landed with a pissed off grunt. The ice blue veins in his face and bulbous nose protruding from the biting cold weather resembled the lines on a roadmap. His eyes a dead white. A hooped, Pirate-style earring dangled from his left ear. A pendant of a cutlass swung back and forth on it. Standing straight after the jump, he snatched the dead woman by the hair, and dragged her along with him. He bent his head slightly downwards to help keep the drifting snow out of his eyes. The stuff was slowly starting to whiten his black beard.

  He faced the first front door he came to, and lightly pushed at it with his shoulder. The force behind his six-foot-four and eighteen-stone body was enough to get the door to pop open. He stood in the doorway and inaudibly uttered the words, “Whore, whore, whore, Merry Christmas.”

  The house was deathly silent, and stood in complete darkness. Klaws’ boots made a hollow thump, thump, thump, as he crossed the living room over to the fireplace. St Nick ain’t been here just yet then, he thought, after spying a glass of port and mince pie. He looked down at the body he’d been hauling through the house with him. This old bird is going to take some stuffing, he thought.

  He headed through the house and into the kitchen. There he rifled through the freezer, emptying it of its contents and throwing it into the bin, before stuffing the old budge in there. “Whore, whore, whore, a nice prison sentence for someone in this house,” he bellowed before making his way back into the living room where he had left his toy sack.

  Loosening the cords on the bag and pulling it wide apart, he placed his hand inside and drew forth a Hessian sack marked, naughty child. He looked at the ceiling above, and licked at it with his serpent tongue. Little Brian, he thought, you have been a bad child thisss year. It’s into the sssack for you, and a treat for my lovely deer. He continued to unpack parcels for the people in this household. Starting with little Suzie. Ah yes, a box of lethal sidewinders picked from the deserts of Arizona. He thought, as he placed his ear to the sombrely packed gift, which had a tag hanging from it inscribed, Merry Christmas, Santa, and heard the reptiles slither around inside, hissing and snapping as they did so. A killer gift, surely? he thought, and smiled.

  On to dad’s offering: a bottle of fine ale laced with slow-acting poison. First he would have to endure days of sickness, then, total paralysis before violent convulsions and profuse sweating kicking in. Then. Death.

  After placing the parcels underneath all the other gifts, so as St Nick couldn’t tamper with them as he often did, he plucked up the Hessian sack and headed over to the port and pie, before going upstairs for the bad child. Out of his pocket he pulled a small bottle marked, Deadly Nightshade. He poured the contents into the sherry. He also sprinkled the pie with Strychnine, a poison which attacks the central nervous system, causing exaggerated reflex reactions. With the dosage Klaws had just used, St Nick would be dead within ten to twenty minutes – having suffered an agony of contortions and death throes. Chin-chin, Nick, my old brother. I know how much you like your food and drink, ya fat git, he thought. Then he looked back up at the ceiling. “Time to take what belongs to me,” he whispered.

  His heavy footfalls echoed in his heart, and quickened his breathing. At the top, and standing in the hallway he looked at the bedroom doors. Dawn would be rearing its ugly head in a few more hours, turning Christmas Day into reality. And he had a lot more houses, towns, cities and even countri
es left to visit yet. Not to mention the execution of Nick. That’s if he hasn’t already succumbed to one of my traps, Klaws thought?

  Brian’s room was marked with his name in brightly coloured tiles. Klaws stepped over to the door, and opened it ever so slowly. As the crack grew bigger, he could edge his head around and see in.

  The boy was snuggled deep inside his bed. Klaws wasted no time in taking him. He firstly gagged the child before snatching him from his warm space. Klaws then stuffed him into the rough sack and rushed out of the house, closing the door behind him.

  Back on the roof he slung the imprisoned child into his sled, and plucked a huge piece of paper out. ‘The List’. He begun to hum as he thumbed his way down the scroll, putting his index talon through each household name he had been to in the Rhondda Valleys, and each brat he had collected so far.

  I’ve made my list,

  And I’m checking the fucker twice;

  Gonna sniff out the naughty and nice.

  Klaws has come to town

  My, my, there are some little shits in this place he thought. “Plenty of food coming your way this year guys,” Klaws chortled, as he slapped the hide of Genghis, who in turn turned around and snorted.

  After crossing out Brian and his family, the Johns, Klaws put the list back in his sled, and made for the side of the roof again. He jumped off with his bag of tricks, and headed to the house next door to the Johns.

  Thirty-minutes passed before Klaws came back to the rooftop, with yet another child bagged. Placing this one with the other he then grabbed the sniper rifle from its perch once again. And again, he saw nothing out on the other roofs.

  Maybe I have killed him with one of my traps this time? Just maybe. It would end fifty years of trying, he thought, trying to comfort himself. He can’t have got ahead of me, that’s for sure. He is always in this neck of the woods at this time of night. Predictable fuck that he is.

  Before he put the gun back, he once again checked, and on looking this time, he could see Nick on a roof a few streets away.

  “The cun…”

  He rattled off a few rounds, and missed the old bastard, only managing to take the hat from Nick’s head. When Klaws saw his rival take flight, he decided to jump into his sleigh and give chase; he’d have to forget visiting the rest of the houses in this area. He lashed his hell-deer to a start, and slid along the roof in a thunderous stampede of clopping hooves, before taking off into the night. “Go, Adolf, go, go, go. Go, Genghis, go. Go Vlad, go Pol, go, Saddam, go. Go Attila, go. Go Stalin. Go boys, go,” he yelled as he tanned their backsides. “I want Nick’s head on a plate…”

  * * * *

  “Ha-ha-ha,” they both laughed.

  “That was funny,” Crystal said.

  “Yeah, there’s nothing better than a deranged Santa,” Harry said. “Fucking sicko, giving a little girl snakes for a Christmas present. Classic!”

  “Yes, and an inventive kill.”

  “True,” Harry agreed. “A petrol pump down the throat ain’t bad, either!”

  “You liked?”

  “Yes, very much so,” Harry said.

  “Good.

  “It was a more inventive kill than the last few, that’s for sure, Crystal.”

  “Hmm, I guess maybe you are right. Nevertheless, they were great kills,” she admitted.

  “For you, maybe, but not for me – I never got to see them!”

  “You’d have loved them.”

  “I’m sure I would have,” Harry said, turning his attention back to the book again, as he flipped back through the pages he had already read.

  Crystal let her mind drift back to what had happened with the judges.

  LIPS

  Cynthia had been easy to kill. Harry had found her address in the local directory. She lived in some hotshot house on the outskirts of Newport; all by herself in a desolate area. Crystal could see why the bitch was not married: too damned fat and stuck-up for any man to stand. Her attitude was so pretentious. It was overwhelming. Crystal had broken into her house through the backdoor with lock-picking tools. She’d waited for the short, dumpy women in the darkness of her bedroom, and watched her undress for bed from the shadows of the wardrobe. The woman’s skin, Crystal had thought, looked so pasty and loose compared to her own young tight body.

  When Cynthia had finally tucked herself up in bed, Crystal attacked. Slowly creeping out of her hiding place, with a knife held tight in her hand, she leapt onto the unsuspecting woman.

  Cynthia let out a yell. One yell only. A robust fist crashed into her jaw. Crystal got off the woman, spat on her and shouted, “You fucking pig.”

  She placed the knife down on the bedside table, and picked up the bedside lamp, bringing it down onto Cynthia’s head. Crystal didn’t want to kill the woman straight away. She wanted to have some fun.

  The once fresh, white sheets were now stained a rust colour. Crystal stood over the woman thinking of what she could do to her next. Before she went any further she stripped out of her clothes, not to get them messy. She wore only a flimsy, plain black t-shirt, with coloured jeans to match. She stood there in her bra and panties.

  Cynthia began to come around.

  “Bet you’re fucking sorry now, ain’t ya bitch.” Crystal snapped, whilst prancing back and forth on her feet with knife in hand.

  Cynthia placed one hand to her streaming forehead, and screamed out in pain.

  “P…please!” she screamed, “lea….ve me… a….lon…e”

  As Cynthia’s words came in ragged bursts – Crystal slashed the blade across the woman’s face, once, twice, three times. Crystal sashayed even more when a spurt of blood leapt up her face, and found its way into her mouth that was open in awe at the sight of Cynthia writhing in agony. This was the bitch’s end.

  As Cynthia tried crawling away from the attack, Crystal just stood there and rubbed the blood into her face; basking in the sick, twisted moment.

  A heavy thud snapped her out of the erotic-like trance. Cynthia was nowhere to be seen on the bed; only a slimy path of blood leading to the other side. Jolted momentarily by the disappearing woman Crystal rushed around to the other side, finding Cynthia in a crumpled heap. She’d fallen on her head and broken her neck. Her eyes bulging; her plump tongue lolling. A pool of blood slowly gathered around her and seeped into the shag pile. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Crystal yelled at the ceiling. She gave the dead body one hard boot in the ribs, before dressing, torching the house, and leaving.

  * * * *

  In the same week, three days later, Donald Hardy got what was coming to him – this attack had gone a lot better. In the Cynthia assault, Crystal had not managed to tell the bitch what Harry had wanted her to know. Of course, Crystal had not told Harry this, because if she had, Crystal’s body would have been found in a gravel pit somewhere.

  She went about killing Donald in a different manner to Cynthia. Crystal had already staked out the office block where both Cynthia and Donald worked a week before she had attacked – finding out their shift patterns, routes home, who they lived with and if their house was alarmed, etc…

  Knowing exactly which way he would travel, Crystal went out onto a patch of his journey that was quiet – not perfect, but good enough. He, like Cynthia lived in the Newport area, but not alone. Plus he had a very large dog that Crystal did not feel like killing. The only two things that worried her were: whether he would stop to help a stranded woman, and could she spot his car coming at night?

  Crystal had picked out a very skimpy bit of clothing for this mission; much to Harry’s approval: a flame red dress, which hugged the body. Her legs clad in red stockings. A brunette wig covered her bleached hair. She loved dressing up, it was fun. And after all, she did it for a living.

  By the time his truck got to her, and she had her arms in the air to pull him over, she was seething. The son-of-a-bitch must have taken the scenic route home this evening, because he was late, she thought to herself, just as the sting of his headlights caug
ht her full on. This capped her rage off nicely.

  Now, the only thing left to worry about – as she stood in the dazzle – was whether or not he would stop. That was soon answered, as he pulled into the kerb behind her parked Nissan Sunny, with its bonnet skyward.

  God she thought, he is eager to help. He practically jumped out of the driver’s seat. She couldn’t help but smirk. He even forgot to kill his engine before leaping out, and striding toward her spewing the clichéd line, “what seems to be the problem, miss?”

  “It just died on me all of a sudden. I was driving along, and suddenly it started making funny noises, and then just conked out on me. I’m glad you came along, no cars have been past here in almost an hour.”

  “Yeah, I can well believe that,” he said, as he got closer to her. “That’s why I take this route home, beats waiting in traffic.” He was now by the side of her and she could smell his aftershave.

  “Let’s have a look under the bonnet then,” he said in the most macho of manners, as he hiked his drooping trousers up. Really classy she thought.

  “I’ll get you a flashlight,” what a shame it will be to have to kill him – he’s rather cute, she thought to herself on her way to the glove compartment.

  She pulled the torch from its dark void, went back to Donald and passed him the light: “Here you go,” she said.

  He popped his head up for a brief moment to take the torch from her, before ducking back down again. She needed to take this young buck by surprise. He was rather tall and wiry; if push came to shove she may not be able to take him. So, as he began to droll on to Crystal about being stuck out here so late she seized her moment. She spilled the words out of her mouth which Harry had wanted her to say, as she unhooked the bonnet from its iron arm: “A tactless and tasteless display of hogwash that was sluiced up in the days of Benny Hill.”