The Worlds Bloody Santa
By SickSixSex

Christmas Eve had come and gone, Christmas day dawning in a flurry of snow which pitched thick upon the ground. All across the world, children laughed and giggled with joy as they eagerly unwrapped the presents which Father Christmas had left for them. It was a happy day, a day when all but the poorest and most neglected of people could forget their cares and woes in an orgy of over indulgence.

However, not all shared in the joy which was Christmas. There was one, his forced labour at an end, who was in a foul mood. Santa Claus or Father Christmas were but two of the names by which the world knew him, and at this time he was sitting in his home in the icy fastness of Greenland.

Slouching back in the comfort of a richly stuffed armchair, his legs were stretched out before him, his feet resting atop a human head, severed from its body and its face twisted in terror, a scream frozen upon its lips for all eternity. A joint, packed almost to bursting with the finest Panama Red, hung nonchalantly from the corner of Santas mouth. The end of the joint crackled and glowed red as he inhaled deeply, savouring the taste of the smoke as it flooded his lungs.

He always wound down like this after the hectic and hateful tasks which he faced upon Christmas Eve, when he was compelled to deliver wretchedly nice toys to all of the children throughout the world. Perhaps one of the greatest advantages of his status as a supernatural being was that he could obtain unlimited supplies of the most bitchin' reefer on the planet and, by Christ, he needed it. It was the only way in which he stayed sane after being forced to deliver toys to the children and bring smiles to their faces. Smiles, indeed. Smiles were worthless. His real trade was in screams and tears, suffering and death, but for this one night a year he was bound by the rules of his contract. His continued existence depended upon all of his presents being delivered to the satisfaction of his masters.

Although it was for but a single night, he hated Christmas. It was the only night upon which he was told what to deliver and who he had to deliver it to. The only good thing about Christmas was that it left him the rest of the year free that he might make the deliveries which he chose, deliveries which were always far more interesting than toy cars and cuddly toys. Oh, you could bet your life that his freelance gifts were much more amusing.

Taking a quick glance at his watch, he saw that it was almost time for him to begin the nights deliveries. No hurry, though. He still had time to smoke a little more of this great weed. On these nights off, when he was not bound to any particular purpose, he usually got totally stoned. It didn't really matter if he was late or if he fucked up his deliveries. He only worked for his own satisfaction, and he had learned over the years that sometimes his special gifts were considerably more entertaining if they did go astray and end up in the wrong hands. Some of the most wonderful mayhem which he had ever created had begun with his dropping of the wrong parcel in the wrong place, or the wrong parcel in the right place if you judged the work by results and not by accuracy of procedure.

He took another hit off of his joint, which was now growing close to being finished. "Time to go to work" he mumbled, leaning forward and stuffing the remains of the spliff into the mouth of the frozen head upon which his feet had been resting. The hot tip of the joint hissed as it touched the heads icy tongue.

Leaving the room where he had relaxed, he came first to his storeroom of toys. Miles upon miles of crates lined the walls for as far as the eye could see, crates which contained samples of every toy which had ever been. From the top of one of the open crates poked the head of a teddy bear, a cute little fluffy creature with big black eyes. "What the fuck are you looking at?" Santa said, hawking up a great wad of smoky phlegm and spitting it straight into one of the bears button eyes. With a booming laugh as he watched his spit dribbling down the bears face he continued upon his merry way.

It took him about an hour to walk the length of the toyroom, and he stopped only once. Standing over a plastic Barbie doll which was lying upon the floor, he unzipped his flies. "Bit bigger than Kens, ain't it?" he said as he pissed all over her. A demonic grin split his face when he had finished. "What the fuck are you smiling at?" he asked the doll, noticing that she wore a broad smile, "Are you a kinky bitch or something?".

Zipping up his flies, he walked onwards, coming at last to the end of the room. A pair of immense metal doors stood before him, and at his touch they slid open, castors screaming against their rails like tortured children.

His real emporium lay beyond those doors, his labour of love. Here was his workshop of the damned where cooked up dark treats to stuff into the stockings of the tormented world. He smiled as he surveyed the room, so vast that its end was beyond the reach of even his sight. Crate upon crate lined the walls, all labelled, and a workbench ran the length of the chamber, littered with thousands of tools and hundreds of pieces of complex machinery.

Grabbing up a clipboard from the workbench, he ran a beady eye over his schedule for the night, muttering as he read. Plastic explosives for various extremist terror groups. An atomic bomb for Israel and another for Palestine, both with faulty launch mechanisms and non existent override protocols. A canister of pneumonic plague which was destined for the slums of Bangladesh. A canister of experimental nerve gas for the Afghan regime. He liked the nerve gas, a new invention he had cooked up when he had had a little time to spare. Last Tango he called it, and the name was apt. The victims he had tested it up had twitched and jigged like poisoned dancers before blood had burst from every orifice of their body when all of their bodily organs went into total failure.

Setting about gathering the items on the list, each magically shrunken so that it was no larger than a childs toy, he ticked them off one by one using a fountain pen which was filled with human blood. He whistled as he went, looking lovingly at the labels of many of the crates which he passed. Anthrax, VX Nerve Gas, Sarin, Tabun, Hydrogen Bombs, Cobalt Bombs, Ebola Virus, Legionairres Disease, Constantly Shifting Antigen Flu. All screams in waiting, imminent agonies, torments yet to come. He could have lingered here for hours, basking in the promise of suffering which the crates held, but the night was growing old and he had deliveries to make. There were screams still waiting to burst from the lips of men, suffering untold which his bloody treats would bring.

The anticipation growing a little too much to be bearable, he hurried now, careless throwing his chosen presents into a sack before leaving.

His carriage waited outside, not the sickly sleigh and reindeers but something of his own creation. Eight great winged wolves, hatred burning in their eyes and muzzles drawn back to reveal jagged, yellow incisors, stood tethered to a sledge of human bone which was adorned with severed heads, the mouth of each a frozen rictus scream. This was his wings of war, his toboggan of torments, his sledge of suffering. Jumping into its seat, he snatched up a whip and cracked it over the heads of the wolves.

"Ho, Ho, Ho" he howled as they took to the sky, and a jolly smile split his ruddy, bearded face, "A gift of pain and death for all". His laugh boomed like thunder across the sky as the wolves began to gather pace.