I’m a little late with this, but this is my happy Christmas time story that I like to present to people on/around Christmas. It’s written in a very over-the-top fashion like you might find in a 10 cent novel, and is thus the perfect story to read to your kids.
An insidious smattering of gore formed a thin coating on the mantle of John Dougan. The grinning mad-man stood over a freshly mangled body, shotgun in hand, bathing in the Christmas joy that filled his blackened heart. He cocked the steaming hunk of lethal iron, expelling a red casing and slung it over his shoulder. The deed was done; Santa Claus was dead; his battered corpse lay, hardly-recognizable, in a pile. Soon, thoughts began to stream into John’s human skull. What if his children see? What if people realize that the spirit of Christmas is dead? But he quickly blocked these thoughts out as cold, bestial logic leaked in. The flabby, perturbed, unexplored parts of his brain fired electrical impulses and he marched out the door as an automaton.
The December wasteland was frigid, tits-cold, one might say, and therefore John’s tits were cold. He traipsed down the familiar linear street as thoughts of non-euclidean geometry danced in his head. The lights that adorned the corners of every street in America shone forth an incandescent light, forming radiation blasts that pierced biological matter and distributing cancerous mutations about the bodies of those struck. It was a wonderful time of year. Snow fell thickly upon the ground, and crunched with every step, and yet John did not need a coat.
He arrived at the first house, inside, there were two young children asleep in their beds. They awaited the morning with eager subconscious emissions of materialistic grimaces. Their gently-folded, three-dimensional forms wavered and shimmered, both convex and concave in the light of the night. Silently, John slid a single finger into the window pane and unmade the latch, it clattered across the floor without a sound and John was inside.
Immediately the man took to threshing the children with his feet, their terrified screams echoed throughout the house and only after a few more satisfying, bone-crunching stomps the father was opening the door, half-asleep, pondering what kind of festive nightmares his children were having. Too bad for him the nightmares were very real and carrying a 12-gauge shotgun. Needless to say his organs spilled out upon the soft carpeting, their forceful ejaculation overriding the soft squeaks that trembled out of his collapsing lungs. He had only wanted to spend a happy Christmas with his children, whom he had lost to his abusive wife five years ago in a particularly nasty custody battle. In his last remaining seconds nothing but fear for his children and all his life’s regrets blossomed into the capsizing cranium before the contents included air bubbles and lesions.
John stopped the madness, looking upon the helpless, battered young boys. With a grim smile he took a knee, placing a soft hand on the shoulder of the slightly older boy.
“Child, what is the reason for the season?” he cooed as gently as a spring breeze, the refreshing change in attitude somehow calmed the fears of the boy enough for him to answer.
“I-I-uh, is it Jesus?” he said meekly, swallowing his fear and the screaming nerve endings that sent wave after wave and torturous, mind-rending pain through his body.
John sat for a moment, as if pondering the truthfulness of this boy’s reply. But slowly, a single, thick, worm-like vein began growing in John Dougan’s blistered, crinkled forehead. His eyes bloodied and sweat began to mildew upon his body. Flexing his bony hands he tore off the boy’s pants, much to his dislike, and reamed his anus with the barrel of his firearm.
“No,” he said sternly, “No, it’s not. The reason for the season is the tilt of the earth; the northern hemisphere leans away from the sun at this time of the year, causing coldness,” and with that he pulled the trigger.
The boy’s body instantly took the shape of a blossoming tulip: the stringy, bony figure on bottom and the shredded, wretched wisps of reaved membrane on top. More thick, red liquid issued across the walls and door, onto his brother’s face and onto his father’s in-coma’ed body.
The younger boy never again opened his eyes. Perhaps from horror, perhaps from a fear scarred into his brain that the man or the shattered remnants of his beloved family would still be there–emblazoned into his eyes, for whatever reason, even into adult-hood, the child never again opened his eyes. He kept them staunchly shut, leaving him an utterly-blind, babbling, idiot mess. His body wasted away which physicians agreed was directly related to that terrible Christmas night, until he finally died at the age of forty-three, a simpering, mess of a dependent human being, unused legs curled beneath his flabby, tube-like frame. Like a frightened baby chimp, encapsulated in a nice little nappy, never again to soil or make an action for himself.
Worthless, disregarded, eternally living in an infinite loop, watching his father die and never being able to escape the visions thereof. Never again to sleep. Only to slip further and further into horrible madness.
