It starts earlier every year. The lights, the music, the “harmless” lies that make children think the world gives a damn about their little wants and needs until adulthood pulls the rug right out from under them. But is that Jack Frost nipping at your nose? Or is it fear?
This year I’m done with all the disgusting commercialism and the marketing and the waiting around for Santa to bring me that perfect gift. I don’t want any video games or tablets or fancy watches. What I want more than anything is my life back. I want my wife to kick the drugs and come home. But If I can’t get that, I’ll take what I can get.
This year all I want for Christmas… is revenge.
That’s right. I’m making a list, checking it twice, going to find out which of Santa’s elves slept with my wife.
I know it had to be one of his little helpers what with their tiny, nimble fingers and their never-ending youthful ability to get rock hard at a moment’s notice. And this year, the only thing on my wish-list is to find out which.
This Christmas, there will be no peace on earth. Come all ye faithful, and taste my wrath. The halls will be decked with the blood of anyone who stands in my way.
Also, not a creature will be stirring, once my work is done. I’ve got a lot of these.
I’ve been a good little boy all year, so I know Santa’s bringing me some loot. I’ll make sure my chimney is swept so he doesn’t have any trouble. I’ll even leave out a big pitcher of 2% milk and a plate of chocolate chip cookies and other assorted baked goods. But just as soon as that chubby clown starts downing my delicious home-made pastries, I’ll bust him right in the mouth, and tie his diabetic butt to my nativity radiator.
Oh but first I’ll probably say something like “Hey Cringle. Watch this.”
I know he knows, and he’s going to tell me. We’ll see if he’ll talk before Dunder and Blixem can Rudolph their way through the elaborate system of Home Alone-themed booby traps I’ve rigged my apartment with. Sooner or later, I’ll beat all the ho ho ho’s out of him, and Saint Big Nick Energy is going to tell me which of his little gremlins did the porking.
From there it’s as simple as snuffing the big man, absorbing his power like Tim Allen in The Santa Clause, flying to the North Pole with my caribou captives, find the wee man who did this to me, and enact my yuletide vengeance. The last thing he hears before I pull the trigger will be, “Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night, bitch!”
On Dasher, on Prancer, on vengeance.