Free Story: The Nowhere By Kevin Strange

The Nowhere and many other exciting stories are available NOW in Kevin Strange’s newest collection, All The Toxic Waste From My Heart on Amazon Kindle and in paperback here

The Nowhere

by Kevin Strange

I set traps. That’s my job. Since The Nowhere appeared. The Nowhere is where they’re from. The giants. The monsters made up of smaller monsters. The titan beings from another dimension, or between dimensions, or several dimensions nested within an even smaller dimension, depending on which scientist you ask. It seems like I’m always after another scientist. They’re the hot commodity in Fuckland. That’s what I call the world since it happened. That’s what we non-science types call the place the monsters live.

The guys in charge now want to find a way to close it off, to end the nightmare. To start us over again like the reset button on a video game. Me? I just set traps. I just hunt people for money—well, money doesn’t actually exist no more, but people trade things. They trade things people like me need in exchange for doin’ things people like them can’t—like find their loved ones in the sea of shit that used to be cities, towns, communities, and neighborhoods. Now everything’s all bashed to shit by big monsters sometimes shaped like big people, sometimes shaped like things that make your brain go bananas, like light switches flipping on and off or babies screaming (there ain’t many babies around no more, so that’s not something you hear a lot out here in Fuckland).

The guys in charge pay the best, so that’s who I usually work for. And right now, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t pretty god damn desperate for some work; my last job didn’t quite pan out. Found the girl the parents were looking for. Damn hard job. Had to give up some good quality canned goods and the last of my cartons of cigarettes to get good info on the spot she was stayin’ at—seems the goons selling her ass to horny geeked-out weirdos were paying my usual rats better than I did, but I got her.

My trap was good, that time. Sent a rat bastard in on account of looking to maybe rent her for a good time and all that. I didn’t tell the rat that I had put a pipe bomb in his jacket right before he walked on in. I make good bombs. Real loud and lots of damage—that’s what you need when it’s twenty goons and one of you.

Messy job. Didn’t get all the goons with that first bomb. Got my hands dirty and lost a knife in a weirdo’s eye socket that I couldn’t get out, but she was there, hiding in a back room all whacked out and fucked stupid.

Wish I could say the same for her parents when I got her back home. One of those things had appeared from—yeah, from outta Nowhere, you got it. The Nowhere things stomped shit up pretty good, including my clients’ house. They didn’t get out in time, and no, there wasn’t much left in the rubble for me to salvage. The girl was pretty upset and made me take her back to the goony weirdo’s fuckhouse so she could trick again and shoot up on Nowhere smack, as some folks are wont to do in Fuckland.

Nowhere smack is the ectoplasmic ooze left behind every time one of the big ass things crosses over, or under, or whatever happens when something switches sides from Nowhere to Fuckland.

That job left me desperate, and I’m not too proud to admit that taking up a big ol’ nose full of that squirmy slime and blasting off outta my own brain for a bit didn’t sound like such a bad idea. But what I don’t tell nobody—why I do this nonsense in the first place—is that I’ve got a lady and a kid to feed. That’s right, I’ve got a little family stowed away someplace safe, and don’t even think about asking me where they are ’cause I’d as soon kill ya as tell ya.

So that’s really why I took the job the guys in charge offered me. If it wasn’t for ol’ Carla and little Joey back at my spot, I’d have told them to fuck themselves right proper for the thing they asked me to do next.

The guys in charge aren’t government and they aren’t military. They’re just some bozos who happen to not be dead yet, and decided to get together and run shit from behind a few tons of barricades that do a decent job keeping the Nowhere things out.

Usually when I approach the ten story structure—built out of cars, fallen over buildings, trees, and just about anything they can get their hands on and weld or strap or slop together with concrete—there are guards waiting at a pair of turret-mounted towers on the north wall that have to wave me in through the gigantic drawbridge made of junk that keeps the weirdos and the Nowhere things out.

Today, neither guard stood watch, and that drawbridge, well it was layin’ wide open for any bozo or freaked-out weirdo to mosey on through. But like I been saying, I was desperate, needed the money, and I wasn’t about to let something foolish like that get in the way of me feeding my family.

Why there weren’t no guards up front was apparent when I got into the compound. Right up front where any whacked-out weirdo could seem ’em, the whole mess of guys in charge were gathered around the body of a Nowhere thing—one of the ones that looks like a big person, with two arms and two legs and a sort of head—strapped down with a bunch of jet-sized magnets all vibrating, keeping it from switching sides back to Nowhere. Well, that thing was pissed and screaming up a storm from all its parts.

Nowhere things are like big vacuums, sucking up all the living things around there from Fuckland to Nowhere ’til they’re massive five or six story tall things all made up of the smaller things. The smaller things don’t seem to be able to get free of the larger mass, but that don’t stop ’em from writhing around, biting, snapping, clawing or sucking, depending on what they have for mouths. They get at each other, or anything gets too close to the bigger thing. It’s all a pretty hard pill to swallow, and I seen more than one good man take a bullet to the brain after getting around one too many Nowhere things.

I found my contact pretty quickly, standing around back. Bill the Gills is what they called him, on account of him being a big fat guy. His fatty under-chin—jowls I guess—were all foldy and flappy and looked like fish gills. He didn’t take to the name any, but people ain’t exactly worried about each other’s feelings in Fuckland when they got giant monsters made of little monsters flashing in and out of existence, smashing and killing and eating and fucking everybody they love.

Bill says, he says, “Mark-Paul!”

That’s my name. Use both of ’em when you talk to me or you ain’t gonna be sayin’ much after that.

“Mark-Paul! Just the man I was hoping I’d see today! We did it, pal!” he says. Bill the Gills is always getting too excited, I tell him. I tell him he’s gonna blow a gasket and stroke out before he ever finds a way to close up the gates or portals or whatever the Nowhere things use to come and go.

“What’d you do, Bill?” I says, sensing I was about to make some good money.

“We found a way in!”

Bill babbled at me about the science and the theory and all the junk that goes in one ear and out the other. All I wanted to know was why he was happy to see me.

“Because, Mark-Paul,” Bill says, grinning. “We’re gonna put you in there! We’re gonna send you to Nowhere!”

And that was that. Few hours later and it’s just a few of us standing around. The guys in charge are still going on and on about how much of a game changer it is in the fight against the Nowhere things. That’s when they drag this guy out all tied up and freaking out something fierce.

I give Bill a look. He comes over and leans in all quiet, “I didn’t say it was a pretty way in.”


They’ve got this guy’s hands tied behind his back and they yank him up on this pulley they’ve got built over the body of the Nowhere thing. Now he’s really going on loud enough to beat the band.

They get him all hung in place, and I got a pretty good idea of what’s gonna happen next. I take off my cowboy hat and try to pull myself as far into my trench coat as I can, ’cause shit’s about to get ugly and messy.

Yeah, you got it. They cut the poor sap’s throat with a big ole scythe that looks like it came straight outta the cornfield, all taped up on a long pole so they could slice him without having to climb up onto the Nowhere thing themselves.

His blood comes out thick and fast on account of how freaked he is, and me, being the softy I am, wish they’d at least hopped him up on geek juice before they put him to the knife like that.

Bill sees how squeamish I get. He says, “It’s gotta be this way. I wish it didn’t, but the blood doesn’t work unless it’s got fear in it. It’s the fear that opens the way.”

‘Bout that time, the sap died and hung there limp as a two-foot shit as the last of his life’s blood spilled out onto the chest of the Nowhere thing. That caused the smaller things to get up to their own screaming and hollering, thrashing about, fighting each other until they were bleeding, too. They kept on fighting the more they bled, and the more they bled the more they fought, ’til the Nowhere thing’s chest started looking like some kind of a feeding frenzy, splashing the sap’s blood and the smaller things’ blood all over the place.

That’s when the guys in charge started moving really fast, shouting at each other, pumping these hoses with chemicals into the sloshing goop in the Nowhere thing’s chest, and turning nobs and pressing buttons on the magnet machine’s controls.

Pretty soon the soupy mess starts churning all in the same direction, creating some kind of a bloody, chemically whirlpool right there inside the Nowhere thing’s body.

“It’s time, Mark-Paul,” Bill says. He says, “You know what to do. See you on the other side.” I hoisted up the heavy, coffin-shaped bag that he provided me with onto my back, then I climbed up the Nowhere thing’s leg. I ran up to the whirlpool and I dove right in is what I did, ’cause god damnit I needed the money to feed my family, and I ain’t the kind of guy who lets those I love starve.

Oceans of time. I panic. I can’t breathe. Red everywhere. I swallow it in, suck it up through my nose and smell the fear on it. I thrash and I kick and I swim against teeth and claws. I get tangled up in guts and brush up against squishy things I can’t identify. I feel myself slip away and go weak. Then nothing.

Then I wake up. Darkness. Warm, thick liquid covers everything but my mouth and nose. It smells like rot—like meat left out so long, not even the dogs want a swing at it. I strike out and feel some give. I swing again through the warm muck, and I hear a grunt. I feel the world around me shift and I see a tiny sliver of light break into the darkness.

That’s my life line.

I punch again and again until things start to separate, to groan, to fight back. I claw and bite at what feels like flesh above me until it squirms away in protest, and then I can see again.

A low, purple sky drips. A smog thick enough to choke hangs in the air like poison. I pull free of the muck and climb out, dragging the coffin-shaped bag behind me.


Human bodies and not-human things, all pushed together form the ground, all floating atop the ectoplasmic Nowhere smack. Everything’s covered in a layer of red gore, like looking through an infrared spectrum. Titan monoliths soar above to dizzying heights, and by god, they’re made of bodies, too. I squint up at that horrible purple sky, and dammit if it ain’t made of bodies as well.

This weird landscape stretches on and on. Even through the smog, I see the bloody ground and the dripping sky for miles in all directions, like a vast ocean. Only the towering monoliths jutting up toward the purple sky bodies break up the unsettling flatness.

I’m Nowhere.

The coffin-shaped bag thumps, reminding me of why I’m in this terrible place. I’ve got to find my target. I have to set my trap.

That’s when the mountainous structure closest to me moves.

Then and there I realize all those monoliths are Nowhere things. Hundreds of them, all standing around like statues, like big ol’ dominoes. The one near me takes off walking forward like it’s got some place to be in a hurry, and then BAM!

Just like that, the Nowhere thing is gone, and a tidal wave of Nowhere muck crashes down all around me. I’m careful not to get any in my mouth while I wipe that nasty shit off me, ’cause I ain’t no junkie like that, and I ain’t about to start being one, no matter how bad my nerves are jittering from being here.

All around me the ground starts to shift and move. I look down, and those things all connected together making the ground are straining to lift up off each other to get at the Nowhere muck. People-things and animal-things and god-knows-6what kind of things all groping at the muck, shoveling it into their mouths, gulping it down like it’s the last meal they’re ever gonna eat. They get all excited the more of it they eat, ’til those things are a-moaning and groaning loud as hell. I stagger backward to keep on solid ground as the whole mess of ’em around me go to town on that Nowhere smack.

I start to walk away as the muck oozes its way toward me, waking up the ground, when I feel a tug at the coffin-shaped bag. I look down and—I shit you not—those things are trying to slurp the muck off the damn bag! So I kick them things off and make a bee-line away from that group.

I only make it a few yards when another thunderclap tries to blow my ears out and that Nowhere thing comes popping right back into existence a ways down the way; only now, it’s got a mess of people and rubble (looks like whats left of a building) in its two sets of arms.

I make sure I’m not anywhere near the Nowhere smack that splatters all over the ground around it, and watch as the damn thing just tosses the bodies of the people and what’s left of the building right into a big puddle of the stuff. ‘Course they’re scared shitless, flailing about, trying to get up off the ground and run away, but the same thing happens with the ground as happened to me, only now, there’s enough of ’em that they can get a hold of these people, and they start dragging ’em down on the ground, and, hand to the bible, those reddish things start stuffing the smack into the normal people’s mouths ’til they go all limp and silly.

After a minute or two, every damn person in that muck was turning a dark shade of red and linking up arms and legs and teeth and other parts I ain’t gonna mention ’til they was all settled in and part of that damn ground. Every last one of ’em. The ground made room for ’em, rippling out like a big ol’ rock had just been dropped in a pond. That ripple extended out, growing bigger and taller, until way down in the distance, another monolith erupted from the ground, making a new Nowhere thing.


Nowhere’s taking all the people from our place—and from the looks of it, all types of other places mankind ain’t never seen before—and turning ’em all into…


I figure I’ve wasted about as much time as I oughta playing nature-watch in the Nowhere. So I take off in the opposite direction of all that nonsense and look for my target.

It doesn’t take long to find the big sumbitch. Bill the Gills told me I’d know him when I saw him, and he was goddamn right about that, no doubt.

Only thing Bill didn’t say was just how… awful the thing would look.

I seen my fair share of these things in my line of work. Most folks just try to hunker down and wait for food drops from the guys in charge, so they don’t see a lot of what goes on ’til it’s one of those things right up knockin’ on their very own door step. That’s why they go sorta crazy when they see ’em for the first time.

Me? I’ve seen em all. Big ones, little ones, fat ones, ones made of a bunch of dogs, ones made of fish and octopuses even. Don’t shock me none no more.

‘Til I saw the big sumbitch.

Big as a mountain. I lean way back just to squint up through the smog to see what passed as his head. He must be made up entirely of things not from our world, ’cause whatever’s seething and rippling like waves that make up his skin ain’t nothing I’ve ever laid eyes on.

I feel my eyes start to twitch and go wonky as those ripples and undulations started getting in my head, whispering things to me. Horrible things.

Then the coffin-shaped bag thumps again, breaking my concentration. Now’s the time to set my trap. I run out in front of the sumbitch, making sure he can see me—which ain’t hard, considering the tens of thousands of eyes the size of truck tires staring at me like a big ol’ juicy steak.

Some traps are complex and require a lot of planning and thinkin’ about various scenarios and choices the target might make. Some take days or even weeks to set and spring. But not this trap.

This time, I’m the trap, and the big sumbitch takes the bait right away. He turns to face me, his whole gargantuan form rippling and waving, trying to get that trance going again.

I get down messing with the coffin-shaped bag to keep my concentration. I open it up and, yeah, you mighta guessed it already, there’s a real coffin in there. I use the special key Bill the Gills gave me and get the two locks off it. The lid bursts open. The fella inside screams and gasps for breath. He tries to scramble out, but the hooks and chains and chemical tubes all buried in him make it hard for him to move without pain.

I guess I should feel sorry for the poor chap. He probably didn’t do nothin’ wrong. If he did, he didn’t do it to me. But Bill pays me damn good and pays me on time, so I do what he paid me to do.

I pull the bazooka-looking thing out from next to the coffin and I grab the fella by the hair, drag him out and sling him over my shoulder. He doesn’t fight much. The hook under his chin and through his mouth is giving him quite a fit. He’s more worried about that hook than what I’m doing, which is probably best for him.

The poor guy’s spitting up blood, begging for his momma while I set the crosshairs on the big sumbitch’s chest, doing my best to keep my wits about me as all those eyes wiggle and squirm, singing me silent songs.

I’m just about to do what those whispering voices in my brain tell me to do and turn the bazooka thing on myself, when the guy tries to make a break for it, almost ripping his jaw off in the process.

Well, that’s about all I need to get my mind back inside my own head. I pull the trigger and WOOSH!

Off goes the poor doomed fucker. SPLAT!

I was kind of hoping the impact would kill him, but all it seemed to do was get him more riled up, even though his limbs was dangling at angles that’d get a gymnast some gold medals.

It’s the fear that opens the way. That’s what Bill the Gills told me. I say a silent prayer for the sap and press the button on the Bazooka thing.


The chains rip him apart, tearing a hole in the chest of the big sumbitch, sending a plume of blood into the air that comes raining down on me like a spring shower.

Same as happened before, the smaller things get going at the blood and chemical concoction and each other until its chest is spinning in an unholy vortex.

‘Cept what happens next ain’t what me and Bill the Gills talked about. Bill told me once I got the way open in the chest of the biggest, meanest-looking Nowhere thing in the Nowhere, they’d send in their weapons and their troops and they’d turn Nowhere inside out ’til there wasn’t no Nowhere left.

What happens is, more people than I ever seen in one place in all my life starts spilling out of that hole into the Nowhere, building piles and piles of bodies spilling down all over the ground ’til I see more normal people layin’ around than I do those assimilated into the Nowhere.

Mark-Paul, where is our little girl?”

Where is our daughter? You promised you’d bring her to us!”

I’m so distracted by what’s happening in front of me, I forget to watch my back. I hear the voices and spin around, but damned if there ain’t one of them Nowhere things right up on me! Sticking out of the leg of the thing, right in my face, is those two parents from my last job that went missing—only now, they don’t look like people. They’re just red limbs and faces all stretched out of shape so ugly I barely recognize them in there linked to other people and shapes forming that Nowhere thing’s leg.

Before I can get away, they reach for me, getting a hold of my trench coat, pulling me into their arms, squeezing me tight enough to push all the air out of my lungs. The little bit of air I can get in smells like flaming garbage. I choke and feel my gorge pushing up to my throat.

But I ain’t out of the game yet. No sir. A couple of turnt Nowhere parts ain’t doing me in.

I reach up to my wrist and press a button on the metal band I wear on my arm. Three curved blades pop out of my forearm, shredding my trench coat sleeve to pieces—them blades is courtesy of the guys in charge, they set me up with titanium reinforced steel bionic arms in exchange for finding a team of scientists thought lost forever. I press another button and my whole forearm starts spinning, making short work of the dad’s arms, letting me at least catch a few breaths while I deal with mom.

She’s hissin’ and cussin’ at me, so I jam my spinning blades right in her mouth, getting me pretty much clear of the parents. But now there’s all kinds of Nowhere muck and gore flying around, and I done told you enough to know that it sets off the other things linked up to what’s left of the parents and gets ’em all riled up. Soon I’ve got hands and teeth and pincers and antennae coming at me from all directions, and my blades are just makin’ things worse.

I lose my damn cowboy hat as I feel myself sinking deeper into the Nowhere thing’s leg, but it ain’t like one of those vortexes on account of I ain’t got no scared in me. No fear in my blood as the suckers start chompin’ down on my fleshy parts.

The damn Nowhere thing I’m stuck in starts moving again, and I see those piles and piles of human bodies coming through the chest of the big sumbitch haven’t slowed down a bit—in fact, they were spewing outta that hole faster than ever. There were tens, hundreds of thousands of bodies stacking so high, the Nowhere thing I’m attached to has to climb up ’em, and


The damn thing shifts and we’re back in Fuckland. I’m so deep in the thing’s leg now I can’t keep the muck and the gore outta my mouth. I’m swallowin’ it down now as the Nowhere thing trudges through a street that looks awfully familiar.

We’re walkin’ past the big wall. The guys in charge ain’t nowhere to be seen, though. That’s when I see the Nowhere thing I went through strapped down where he was before. Right where I jumped into his chest. Only now the whole damn fortress starts to crumble and fold in on itself, all building that Nowhere thing up bigger and bigger, with a dozen arms made of cars and concrete and people, ’til there ain’t no fortress and there ain’t no guys in charge. Ain’t no Bill the Gills.

The whole damn fortress gets up lookin’ sort of like a centipede and crawls away. My vision starts to go red, and the Nowhere thing I’m attached to changes direction. I feel my hands curl around other hands. I feel my feet wrap around other feet.

The Nowhere thing is walking. He’s walking right up toward my secret place, when it finally hits me:

I never set no trap for the big sumbitch. I wasn’t talkin’ to the real Bill the Gills. There weren’t no more guys in charge.

They set the trap for me, little Joey. I was the bait, though. I was right about that part.

Yeah, Joey, I’m talkin’ to you. Who’d you think I was talkin’ to? Myself?

I’m full over now, Joey. Just a part of the Nowhere. And the Nowhere’s a part of me.

It’s got my memories now, see? It knows where I stashed you and Mommy.

The Nowhere, it’s comin’ for ya little Joey. It’s got me talkin’ to you in your dreams so’s you’re plenty scared when we get there. And we’ll be there soon, little buddy. Before you wake up.

We’re gonna use you and Mommy and everybody else in Fuckland to open more big portals like the one inside the big sumbitch. We’re gonna use you as the trap.

We’re gonna suck this planet dry, little Joey. Like we’re wont to do. Like we done for a million years.

‘Til there ain’t nothin’ but Nowhere.

Kevin Strange’s Bizarro Christmas Novelette “The Witch Who Fucked Christmas” FREE!

Ho! Ho! Ho! and merry Christmas ya bunch of THOTs and cucks! Have we got a whopper for you this Christmas! Kevin Strange ain’t no bitch and for that reason and that reason alone he has decided to publish his ENTIRE Christmas Bizarro Novelette THE WITCH WHO FUCKED CHRISTMAS for free this year!

Now for those of you in the know, you already know. For those of you who don’t, this little bizarro fiction piece is a direct sequel to Kevin’s 2010 feature length film NIXON AND HOGAN SMOKE CHRISTMAS! 

And while those two fags aren’t in this particular story, it DOES feature Strangeville’s own resident pervert Santa and that dastardly queen of the reefer Sasparilla the Weed Witch!

Feast your eyes, bitches, on THE WITCH WHO FUCKED CHRISTMAS!!!!

The Witch Who Fucked Christmas

by Kevin Strange

Santa nearly crashes his sleigh into a huge yellow house before pulling up at the last second, skimming a roof, and finally coming to a hopping, graceless stop atop the abode of destination after considerable damage to its shingles and gutter system.

It’s 2am, Christmas Eve. Perfect present delivery hour. The temperature is just below freezing, and a light snow falls across the small town of Strangeville, Illinois. The reek of skunky marijuana smoke and a string of curses signals the arrival of Old Father Christmas.

“Damn it, Rudolph!” Santa says, taking a long, deep hit off an obnoxiously large joint. “How many times do I have to tell you to stay out of my stash before we start the Christmas route!”

The lead reindeer looks at him with blazed, half shut eyes and smiles.

“That goddamn deer is a certified dope fiend, I swear,” Santa says, handing the joint off to a well fed brunette to his right wearing a skimpy Mrs. Claus outfit.

She giggles as the jolly old fellow oogles her large, round breasts crammed snugly into her cheap fuzzy top. She takes the joint, passing a huge mug of dark beer to the Jolly One. An equally sluttily dressed blonde seated to St. Nick’s left leans over his lap, rubbing her pert, B cup tits across his already bulging crotch. She gracefully snorts a line of coke off Santa’s sizable belly before she takes the joint from her female companion, licks her lips in a slow, sultry fashion, before passing the tightly rolled dooby between them. The passengers of Santa’s Christmas sled are not cold, in fact, they’re completely comfortable sitting in the one horse open sleigh due to Christmas Magic. The snow melts before it touches them, and the cold winter breeze never gets near their nearly naked bodies.

“Girls, girls, girls!” Santa exclaims with wide eyed excitement. “You two sluts figure out which one of you is taking my massive Yuletide load across her face, and which one is eating it off while I shimmy down this here chimney and drop off these presents to the good little boys and girls who live here!”

“Aw, Santa!” The blonde pouts. “We wanna eat your Christmas load now!”

The brunette offers her agreement with furrowed brows and pouty lips.

“Now now, ladies!” The red faced fat man says through his stark white beard. “The kiddos come first, you know this!”

Without another word, Santa grabs his oversized bag and hops out of the sleigh. Almost as an afterthought he grabs the joint from the girls, puffs on it one last time, and hands it off to Rudolph as he makes he way to the chimney across the roof. The red nosed reindeer winks at Santa as he takes a long hit off the sweet, sweet reefer.

Whistling and strutting, Santa tosses his bag down the dark shaft, then comes round to the far end of the chimney, out of sight of the girls and the reindeer. At once his smile fades, his shoulders sag and a deep sadness sets into his jolly features.

Santa is tired. His back hurts, his hands ache, he bunions scream in agony, but worse than any of those things is what’s missing from inside his heart—the Spirit of Christmas is just… gone.

He can’t pinpoint exactly what happened. Sometime in the last few years his enthusiasm and drive to deliver to all the good little boys and girls their annual reward for good behavior just… vanished. Not even a batch of Strangeville’s finest Columbian Smoke Weed, or a pair of super hot slutty vixens willing to let him spit loogies in their buttholes for sport can change his somber mood.

With a heavy heart, he hefts his large frame into the brick expanse and descends into the living room bellow. He lands hard, twisting his knee. Cursing, he hops out of the fireplace backward. Turning around, he surveys the room.

There’s a nice big Christmas tree in the corner, ripe for presents. The stockings across the mantle number 3. One for mom, one for dad, and one for little Jenny. Limping, Santa makes his way across the large living room, doing his best to avoid bumping into the leather sofa or pair of matching reclining chairs. They have a huge flat screen TV hung up across from the fireplace. It’s a big, cozy house. The family that lives here is obviously well off.

And the motherfuckers didn’t even leave out milk and cookies.

Cursing again, Santa drops his bag and slowly limps his way into the kitchen. He raids the cupboards till he finds a barely touched bottle of scotch. He takes a long swig off the bottle, closes his eyes, and thinks about the two sluts up on the roof while rubbing himself into a big ole boner.

He wasn’t always like this. It’d been many years since Mrs. Claus had taken him to bed. He still remembered their last time together, before she called him “Mr. Insatiable” and said they didn’t have to be physical every time they were together. What she meant was, they didn’t have to be physical ever again.

It was never spoken aloud, but they’d had an understanding ever since. When Santa was outside of the North Pole, he could fuck anyone he wanted. Sure, it was fun screwing chicks young enough to be his granddaughter, especially the ones with a Santa fetish. But the novelty wore off quickly, and now he was only servicing his libido. He often wondered if the loss of his Christmas Spirit was directly affected by the coldness of his marriage. Had Mrs. Claus continued to show him affection, would he be the man he was today?

A noise in the living room pulls him back to reality. He quickly caps the bottle and replaces it.

“Hello?” No one should be awake. The same Christmas Magic that keeps the one horse open sleigh warm in the elements is also supposed to keep the inhabitants of the house he’s delivering to in a deep sleep.

Cautiously Santa limps back into the large room and freezes.

Leaning in the door frame to the hallway is a tall, slender, platinum blonde wearing a skimpy see-through white nightgown. Her tits are small but even from a distance, Santa sees thick nipples poking their way through the thin fabric. There is something eerily familiar about this woman, but Santa can’t quite place it…

Sleepily the woman rubs at her eyes. In a dreamy, playful voice she says, “Are you the real Santa, or am I gonna have to grab my shotgun and blow your fucking cock off?”

“Ho, ho, ho!” Santa chuckles, easily getting back into character. “Of course I am! What are you doing awake, pretty lady? You’re not supposed to wake up till I leave.”

The woman takes several steps into the room with her long, lean legs. “I never usually wake up in the night. I’m a deep sleeper.” She speaks in a sultry, seductive tone. She walks right up to Santa and looks him in the eye for the first time when she says, “Sometimes my husband jacks off on my face in the middle of the night and I don’t even notice till I wake up the next morning plastered to my pillow.” She smiles, glancing down at Santa’s erect member.

“But tonight, I just… woke up. I heard you in the kitchen so I came out. I had a feeling it was you.” She giggles, running her fingers down the black buttons on his jacket. Biting her lower lip she says, “Why am I so… horny?”

Santa’s mouth is dry at this point. He can barely stutter a croaking reply of, “gee, I-I don’t know…”

Dropping her fingers down, tapping his throbbing hard on, she tilts her head and locks eyes with ole St. Nick. “Looks like you’re a little excited, too.”

Before Santa can answer, the blonde woman yanks on his red trousers and fishes his big, thick cock and balls out with her free hand. “Oh my god. Santa!”

Santa is a big man, not long per say, but very thick, at least as thick as a soda can, with a round, bulbous, purple tip that sort of resembles his whiskey nose, the way the light shines off it. The slit in the tip is concave, almost like a small trench and gapes slightly, already glistening with pre-cum. His balls are huge, like two oranges in a furry burlap sack with thick tufts of white pubic hair swirling around them.

“If you don’t mind,” the woman purrs, dropping to her knees. “I’m gonna get a closer look at this…”

That’s not all she does. Santa sucks in a sharp breath and she runs her long, pointy nose across his length. Heart throbbing, Santa says, “D-don’t put it in your mouth yet. Just kiss the tip.”

She looks him in the eyes and does just that. His fat cockhead mashes into her lips which remain closed at first, then as she pulls away, open slightly, allowing for a small portion of the round thing into her mouth.

“Now some tongue,” he instructs her, unbuttoning his jacket top.

She complies, slowly rolling her tongue across his dick head, swirling in a clockwise motion before burying it into his dripping wet slit.

Santa goes up on his tip toes, groaning. He drops his jacket onto the floor, pulls his red suspenders off his shoulders, and rolls up his tight, white undershirt. He leans forward and strains over his fat stomach to see the beautiful blonde’s face as she traces her mouth and tongue across either side of his shaft.

Most of the blue and black tattoo across his stomach which reads, “North Side”—along with the pair of swirling nautical stars underneath the N and above the E, respectively—is visible.

Blondie smiles when she sees the tattoo. Still smiling, she takes Santa’s girth into her mouth as far as she can, which isn’t far, before she gags, causing tears to well up in her eyes.

She takes him out, drooling onto her nightgown. “Damn Santa, you’re gonna have to give me a minute to deal with this big ole dick, maaaaan!”

Santa stiffens, his body, not his cock. That voice… He knows that voice. But it couldn’t be. Cranking his neck down again, he looks at the woman. “What’d you say, honey?”

As a response, the blonde looks him in the eye, spits in her hand and begins to crank his shaft. Spitting in the other hand, she rubs the fluid across his swollen dick head, obliterating any further thoughts in the fat man’s brain.

Rolling his head back, Santa closes his eyes and braces himself on a tall table set against the wall. The thick muscles in his forearms—forged from a lifetime as a Nordic lumberjack before he was tapped for the job of St. Nick some 80 years prior—bulge from exertion and concentration.

With Santa’s cock now dripping wet with her fluids, the woman again takes him into her mouth, this time with more success. She is able to take the entire bulb into her throat, which now passes almost effortlessly into her tight orifice while her lips continue to inch their way closer and closer to his furry white root with each new stroke, almost like a Boa Constrictor devouring its prey.

Santa feels his huge nut sack tightening as they slap against the now dripping wet chin of the blonde seductress. That familiar tingle starting in his balls, working its way up his shaft that can only signal imminent orgasm forces Santa to pull out of the beautiful woman’s face.

Without missing a beat, the woman stands, turns her back to the jolly red fellow, and bends over, sticking her tight ass up in the air. Flipping her thick, nearly white dreadlocks out of the way, she turns her head to face Father Christmas.

“Pick a hole, Fat Man. This one if I was nice,” she says, pointing to her pussy—glistening wet with anticipation—before directing her finger toward her puckering brown butthole. “This one,” she says, biting her lip, “if I was naughty…”

With harsh, ragged breaths, and white spittle forming on the sides of his mouth, Santa—without hesitation—spits a dry loogie onto his shiny dick-dome and proceeds to force his way up her ass with concentrated force.

The tight hole offers little resistance as Santa explores its wet depths. He can already feel orgasm imminent. Grabbing hold of one of the blonde’s little tits with a rough pawing hand, St. Nick leans into her thick, ropey hair and growls into her ear, “I’m gonna blow the biggest fucking load you’ve ever seen all over your slutty little face!”

The blonde only moans in response, redoubling her own thrusts against Santa’s member, bumping into his oversized belly with her lunging ass.

Only now, with the blonde crying out in ecstasy and pain as he violently cornholes her, does Santa begin to realize that something is terribly amiss.

Wait a tic, he thinks to himself as he deals long, stabbing strokes past the blonde’s sphincter, causing her thin frame to bash up against the tall desk with a series of loud thumps. She didn’t have dreadlocks when she walked in here…did she?

As Santa fucks the strange woman harder and harder, bringing himself closer and closer to explosive orgasm, smoke begins to roll out of her ears in thick gray clouds which Santa can’t help but notice carry the dank, pungent odor of dead skunk.

“Oh my Christmas fuck!” Santa screams, the true seriousness of his situation finally dawning on him.

Sasparilla! Somehow, some way, this sexy stranger is Sasparilla the Weed Witch, the most dreaded black magic wielding witch in all the Omniverse.

He attempts to pull out of the woman’s ass, but only manages to distend her butt hole, yanking several inches of the reddish brown orifice inside out, but still very much firmly attached to his thick wang.

Sasparilla’s moans of ecstasy turn to loud cackles as Santa stumbles backward, yanking several more feet of intestine out of the evil witch’s asshole. She lifts her leg, slowly turning her body to face the shocked Kris Kringle. By the time she lowers her leg, facing Santa again, she is somehow fully dressed from head to toe. Weed magic.

The Hagg of Horrors as some worlds have called her, wears a tall, twisting black hat ending in a dagger-like point more than a foot from the top of her head. Along the wide brim sprouts thick, pungent nugs of beautiful marijuana covered in long red hairs and glistening with many tiny, shimmering THC crystals.

Below the hat is a flowing, waving, tendril-like cluster of dreadlocks—some white, some green—that look more like the tentacles of a huge albino squid than a head of hair. Her petite torso is covered only by a thin, skimpy black and green blouse, plunging below her neck line almost to her exposed navel, that clings to her small tits and tight, flat stomach. At the shoulders hang semi-transparent fabric covered in pot leaf patterns that flows down to her elbows, leaving her forearms bare. Around her waist is a tiny black micro-skirt that barely covers the tops of her luscious thighs which lay bare and milky white, all the way down to just below her knees.

Finishing off this scant, revealing outfit is a dense, twisting rope of marijuana plants crisscrossed together to form thick leggings which poof out, covering a pair of fetishistic leather boots, terminating in six inch heels with sharp, steel toes.

But something isn’t right. Her face. It isn’t the face Santa remembers from her attack on Strangeville all those years ago. Back when he stole her weed stash and smoked himself into a zombie, forcing him to send those two bumbling idiots, Nixon and Hogan to finish his Christmas route.

This line of thinking is cut short when, unbelievably, Santa feels himself start to cum again. Looking down, he gapes in baffled wonderment at the inside-out butt hole still attached to his cock. It seems to have taken on a life of its own, like some sexual serpent made of asshole meat. It slops back and forth across Santa’s rock-hard member, slimming his rodney with some sort of self lubricating, viscus liquid with a rhythm and grip that has Santa’s balls tightening up in a matter of seconds.

Taking another series of small steps backward, unraveling even more intestine from his ancient foe, Santa grunts once and then, without voluntary effort, blows a load for the ages. It starts at the tips of his toes and then rumbles up his feet, into his legs, arms, and up his balls. He shakes from the buildup of pressure, his eyes wide, his mouth hanging open and drooling like a retard.

The inside-out asshole continues its manipulation as Santa’s girth grows somehow even thicker as it begins to pulse and throb. And then, all at once, deluge.

Santa’s never blown a load this powerful before. His thick cock is literally spasming inside the butt hole, as if sensing the imminent danger from Sasparilla, trying desperately to escape.

And then a weird thing happens. As Santa watches in disbelief as his milky white seed foams from around the outer edges of the blown out asshole, that elongated, ruined orifice begins to change shape, to morph in front of his very eyes. The raw, hamburger meat flesh smooths out, takes on a pink, fleshy color, grows thick blue veins all along its surface, and finally, as the last bit of fuck juice spurts from Santa’s cock, it becomes one itself. The unmistakable purple shine of a cock helmet takes shape around Santa’s own, dwarfing his in size.

The giant cock-head alone is the size of a football with the overall length extending some six feet from dome to balls.

Sasparilla’s asshole is now a huge cock, and Santa’s own dick is stuck firmly inside its pee hole. Revolted—as if having his cock stuck in a bigger dick’s peehole is somehow more disgusting than being trapped in an inside-out butthole—Santa grabs the huge dong around its helmet-head and yanks with all his might.

With a sickening wet pop, he’s free, stumbling backward against the wall as the snake-like wang slithers back toward its master, dripping seminal fluid all the while. Grabbing the enormous dick around its shaft, Sasparilla grins maniacally as she begins to furiously jack it off with both hands.

“You forgot to cum all over my slutty face, Fat Maaaaaan!” She says as she aims the oversized cock at her face. “Typical male, always talking shit, but never delivers. You know what they say! If you want a load blown all over your face, do it yourself!”

With that, Sasparilla redoubles her efforts to jack the huge thing off, until, moments later, the butt-wang begins to throb and then, as a faux worried look crosses the evil witch’s face, explodes a torrent of semen all over her head, covering her completely in slimy, sticky sex-spunk.

“Ewwwww!” Sasparilla shrieks, “I got it in my fucking eyes!” Her whine slowly becomes a crazed cackle as the mega cumshot magically melts away, revealing the dreaded face Santa knows and fears.

Her features would be beautiful, if it weren’t for the total insanity etched into the wide, Joker-like grin straining her full lips nearly to the point of ripping, or the maniac look in her huge eyes—one pupil fully dilated black, the other bone-white save for a tiny pin prick of pupil—made only worse by the thick makeup she wears around them.

Smokey green and black eyeshadow extends all the way up to the pencil thin painted on eyebrows that arch up all the way to the top of her forehead resembling a cracked out version of Cruella Deville mixed with Ursula the sea witch.

“Surprise!” She screams, breaking down into near hysterical laughter. “Did ya miss me??”

Hugging the wall for dear life, pants still around his ankles, Santa manages to croak out, “H-how, how did you, find me?!?”

Sasparilla’s huge smile turns into an equally expressive frown giving her already over-the-top features a ghastly, demonic appearance. “I told you…” she whispers.

“I fucking told you all I’d be back!” she screams.

Heart pounding in his chest, Santa inches closer to his Christmas bag, which he’d discarded in haste when he’d first come down the chimney. It was only a few feet away, laying next to the fireplace. If he could manage to get to it…

Sasparilla’s frown turns to a pout. “All I wanted was your Christmas powers!” She stomps around now, throwing a temper tantrum. “You and those fucking stoner losers fucked me out of that! So now I’m gonna have to settle for just… KILLING YOU!”

Santa lunges for his magical Christmas bag just as Sasparilla flings her giant ass-cock toward him like some kind of fleshy whip. His fingers come within inches of the corded opening, its yawning black interior tantalizingly close, and then the worm-like appendage wraps around Santa’s expansive waist like a lasso, yanking him away.

Holding him up off the ground, against the wall next to the fireplace, Sasparilla stalks forward, hands on hips and addresses the still half-naked jolly fellow.

“You knew this day would come, Fat Man!” She says, lowering him down to eye level while constricting her oversized genitalia just enough to make him gasp for air.

Running a finger through his long white beard, she continues. “You should have given me your power back then. I’d have been much more humane to you and your friends.” She grips a handful of his thick mane and yanks him right up next to her face. “Now I’m gonna make you fucking wish you’d never put on that silly ass outfit!!!”

The cock constricts even more as Santa feels a rib pop in his chest. “I-I told you then Sasparilla,” he wheezes, “I can’t give you the power. It’s n-not mine. I don’t control Christmas! I-I’m a slave to its majestic power! I’m only… doing my job!”

Screaming in frustration, Sasparilla slams Santa against the wall further damaging his now throbbing ribs. “BULLSHIT! I’ll fucking rend you into pulp, you fat, red fuck! Your Christmas Power is in there somewhere! And if it’s not?” She laughs maniacally again. “OOPS!”

Stars form before Santa’s eyes. He feels himself starting to lose consciousness as his breaths come in ragged, shallow gasps, each one sending pain radiating from his side. “Y-you won’t get away with this, Saspa…rilla. I-if you stop me from delivering Christmas, there will be dire… consequences. You’ll wish-”

“SHUT UP!” The witch screams, thrusting her pelvis forward. In that instant, before Santa even has time to blink, she lifts her tiny skirt, exposing her perfect, shaved pussy, which transforms into another huge dick and darts forward like a striking snake, jamming its way into Santa’s open mouth.

Astonished, the Christmas Spirit can do nothing but stare forward, wide eyed, frozen in place as the fire hose sized pussy-dong begins to fuck his mouth. To make matters worse, the much larger asshole-dick snakes its way between his legs and inserts itself into his clenched up anus.

Santa screams out in agony as the penises duel fuck his mouth and butt with increasing speed and ferocity. This action only serves to open his throat wider, allowing the vagina-cock further access into his oral cavity.

In that moment, as his butthole is forced wider and wider, and his gag reflex is triggered over and over again, Santa reflects that he and his homies had put many a down-to-fuck hoe in this exact same situation more times than he cares to think about. I’m gonna get duel fucked to death, Santa thinks, bile and tears running down his face. Live by the cock, die by the cock, I suppose…

And then the elves show up.

Bursting from the center of the Christmas tree, out of the stockings hanging on the fireplace, out from under the couch cushions come half a dozen elven warriors. They are led by Jingle and Jangle, elf twins with radiant yellow hair who stand nearly a foot taller than their elven counterparts. Jingle had been huddled around the base of the Christmas tree, while Jangle stood on his brother’s shoulders, mimicking the top of the tree. He still wears the star on the top of his head.

“Stop right there!” Jangle says, brandishing a particularly complex looking contraption that covers his right hand. Wires and tubes connect the contraption to a headset that covers his right eye. His brother Jingle, still carrying the weight of his brother on his shoulders added, “Sasparilla the Weed Witch, you are hereby under arrest under the Nether World rules of conduct for violating section 1 article 7, which states that no magical beings shall travel to the Earth Realm without filing legal documentation through the proper channels!”

Sasprilla drops Santa Claus to the floor, turning to face the contingent of elves. Each of them is dressed in the same green and red uniforms. Their shirts are dark green with white insignia featuring a symbol representing the North Pole. They wear red suspenders over their shirts, connected to a pair of red slacks tucked inside green military boots. Each of them wears a pair of fingerless black gloves, and all the elves save for Jingle and Jangle wear red beret hats on top of their heads.

“WHAAAAT?” The witch screeches. Behind her, Santa strains to catch his breath as he rolls around on the floor clutching his broken ribs, and rubbing his tender butthole.

“Now!” Jingle screams as his brother fires the weird weapon attached his arm. Yards of multicolored tinsel fires from the barrel and, like a contingent of heat seeking missiles, wraps around each of Sasparilla’s limbs, then around her body, tightly immobilizing the evil sorceress, sending her to the floor where she wails and carries on until a ball of purple tinsel forces itself inside her mouth, shutting her up.

Jingle smiles up at his brother, “Great Job, bro! Ju-Jube, Francios, Gralofski, get her outta here!”

The other elves do as they’re told, first wrapping a blindfold around the witch’s eyes, then hoisting her up and carrying her through the kitchen.

Santa sits up with a moan. The remaining elf, Cotelle—a slender female elf with long blue braids and tribal tattoos etched across her forehead—helps Santa to his feet and, with a smirk, leans down eye level with his thick cock as she helps him pull his pants back around his waist. “W-what the fuck are you guys doing here?” Santa says, wincing.

Jangle hops off his brother’s shoulders and walks up to Santa. “Sorry, boss. We couldn’t let you know we were tracking the Hagg’s progress through Strangeville. If she’d suspected that you knew she was here, she might’ve been spooked. This was the perfect opportunity to apprehend that evil bitch.”

Still holding his side, Santa’s eyes narrow, darting back and forth between his two elves-in-cheif. “You used me for bait? You let me walk into a trap set by Sasparilla the fucking Weed Witch?!?”

Jingle quickly walks up to defend his brother. “Boss, maybe you don’t understand just how elusive this criminal is. We’ve tracked her ever since the incident at Nixon’s house. Never once before tonight have we been able to get an exact location on her.” Jingle says, “It was the only way.”

Santa glowers at his elves for a moment longer, creating thick tension in the room, then breaks out in a hacking, full bellied laugh, causing him to bend over from the pain in his ribs. “You two fuckers! I knew I hired your beautiful fucks for more than just your huge cocks!” Santa says, slapping Jangle on the shoulder. “I had you going there, didn’t I? Didn’t I? Ahahaha!”

A slow smile forms on the twins’ faces. “That you did, boss. That you did.”

Santa stares at his elves with pride and admiration. He couldn’t have asked for a more loyal, hard working crew. He opens his mouth to heap more praise on his lieutenants when Jingle’s face explodes in a torrent of blood, brains and pieces of sharp bone. Several shards slam into Santa’s face with the speed of bullets, sending him crashing to the ground, screaming in pain, totally dumbfounded.

That’s when the screaming from the kitchen starts.

Opening his eyes, Santa sees the serpentine cock that ended Jingle’s long life still slithering through the air next to a completely shocked Jangle. The bodies of Ju-Jube and Francios come hurling out of the kitchen, slamming into the far wall before dropping like rag dolls to the living room floor.

Sasparilla, all sultry hips and demoniac smiles slowly emerges from the dark room. She leans in the door way, striking a pose worthy of the classiest of porno mags, the shredded remains of the tinsel that bound her hanging off her shoulders like an expensive scarf. She pulls Gralofski into the room in front of her, held upside down by one leg, her pussy-dick wrapped firmly around the appendage.

“Missing something?” She cackles, tossing the prone elf like so much discarded trash onto the pile of his brothers across the room. “This ain’t close to finished Santa! Not even fucking close!”

A growl starting as an almost imperceptible whisper begins in Santa’s throat, quickly gaining volume until spittle rains from his mouth and his rosy cheeks turn bright purple. This time he’s close enough to his magical Christmas bag to reach inside. He pulls out a gigantic red and green colored chainsaw with a blade that extends nearly three feet in length and more than a foot in width. A bright yellow bow the size of a dinner plate is stuck to the side of the motor.

Santa yanks the pull cord, causing the deadly machine to roar to life. “Get the fuck on your feet, you sniveling sacks of fucking shit, and kill this motherfucking bitch!” He bellows, raising the chainsaw above his head, revving the engine as he shakes his head back and forth, screaming.

Ju-Jube leaps to his feet. He has a tall, green mohawk and a large silver ring in his nose. The witch’s pussy-cock darts forward, nearly taking his head off, but he tucks and rolls, dodging the blow, landing directly in front of the magical Christmas bag. Reaching inside, he pulls forth a pair of giant red and white striped candy canes which end in machete blades. Screaming, he rushes forward, causing Sasparilla to laugh maniacally as she whips her asshole-dick at the wiry little elf.

Ju-Jube jumps into a rolling forward flip, easily evading the deadly penis. Landing, he spins around and slashes the bulbous tip, severing it completely from the shaft. A blood geyser spews from the wounded appendage, causing it to thrash back and forth like a runaway fire hose, painting the ceiling with its crimson spray.

The mohawked elf turns to face Sasparilla, pointing his forward blade at her, causing the witch to take a more serious tone. Finally standing straight, she clenches her hands into fists and grimaces. “Come on you fucking, midget! Gimmie your best shot!”

But as Ju-Jube starts forward, he fails to see that behind him, the butthole-cock has stopped bleeding and has grown two more cockheads in its place, both bigger and nastier than the severed one. Santa yells out to him, but it’s too late. Just as the warrior elf goes to swing his blades, the two new dicks strike with uncanny force, tearing the little man in half from the blow, spraying the walls in green elf blood. His bottom half flies across the room, landing in the hallway near the bedrooms, leaving a long green smear, like some radioactive slug trail. His top half lands just in front of Sasparilla. He’s still conscious, clawing at the witch’s feet, even as his lifeblood gushes in thick spurts from the open maw of his trunk. Spitting up green all over his own face, the elf looks up with fading eyesight as Sasparilla raises one chunky boot, and stomps his head like a melon.

“Noooo!” Santa screams, running at Sasparilla, passed Jangle, still standing wide eyed, in shock after witnessing his brother’s sudden death. Francios and Gralofski finally come to, and rush to meet Cotelle at the Christmas bag for weapons of their own.

Sasparilla backs up a few steps, drawing all three of her dicks in front of her to block Santa’s forward attack. Undaunted, St. Nick slashes the fleshy tubes with savage fury, a look of pure hatred in his eyes. Sasparilla screams in agony as her sex is torn to shreds, turning Santa’s white shirt a deep, dark red to match his pants. Before Santa can launch another attack, the sexy witch throws her hands forward, shooting a toxic green bolt toward the Spirit of Christmas, knocking him backward into the remaining elves.

Cotelle and Francios spring to their feet. They carry an M-16 and an Uzi respectively, both painted red and green, of course. They unload clip after clip into the evil Hagg, moving forward with military precision. The bullets strike Sasparilla in the midsection, arms, legs, face, unleashing a veritable storm of blood and gore into the room. Spent casings rattle off the floor as the two elves continue their onslaught.

Finally, screaming in agony, Sasparilla bloodied and broken, falls to the ground, just as Santa, Gralofski, and Jangle get to their feet.

“We got her, Boss! We got that bitch!” Francios yells. To accent the fact, the elf reaches down and pulls Sasparilla’s gore-soaked head up off the ground. Her tall, pointy hat still sits on top, riddled with bullet holes.

“Put her down, Francios!” Santa screams. “She’s still dangerous!”

“Naw, fuck that, she’s dead as fuck, Boss, look at her!” The ill fated elf looks down at the witch’s head just in time to see her eyes dart open.

She flashes Francios a wicked smile and says, “I think these are yours!” And then, before he’s able to react, spits his own bullets back at him, turning his face and head into a mushy, green pulp. Cotelle leaps back as her friend’s body lands limp on the floor. The deadly witch slowly rises to a standing position. Her left leg and right arm have been severed by the elves’ bullets, but she doesn’t even seem to notice. Picking up her leg, Sasparilla hops around, jamming the limb against its ragged stump until somehow it manages to stick. “Give up the power, Santa, and this can all be over. There’s no need for any more death!” She picks up her arm and does the same. The bullet holes in her body are already starting to fade into small red spots on her porcelain skin.

“Even if I could, you rotten, evil, vile little cunt, I’d die a thousand deaths before I ever let it fall into your twisted hands!” Santa says, brandishing his chainsaw as he steps in front of his remaining crew.

“As you wish!” Sasparilla screams as a dozen new cocks spring forth from her crotch, all darting toward St. Nick quick as lighting.

Jangle, Gralofski, and Cotelle spring forward to intercept the oncoming penis-tendrils.

That’s when all hell breaks loose.

Jangle turns a knob on his arm cannon, causing a tiny flame to lick out from its barrel. Three dicks wave in front of him like sea serpents, each one’s head a thick as a watermelon, their blue veins pulse from their shafts thick as exhaust pipes.

Dodging a cobra-like strike from the leftmost monster cock, Jangle presses a button on his arm cannon, sending a plume of liquid fire screaming into the dicks, enveloping them instantly. Audible screeches accompany maniacal thrashing as the beastly penises try in vain to douse the flames.

Jangle dives to safety as the huge dongs crash to the ground and then fling themselves back up against the ceiling. Their delicate skin sloughs off in flaming sheets, creating pools of fire on the carpet and waves of flame across the white plaster ceiling above.

Elsewhere Cotelle and Gralofski face problems of their own. Six huge dicks wave threateningly in front of them like a basket of vipers. Gralofski reaches into the magic Christmas bag and pulls out a long strap with dozens of compartments as Cotelle reloads her toy gun. Each of the compartments holds a tree topper star larger than the elf’s hand. He quickly wraps the strap around his chest like a gun belt and pulls two stars free. The foremost cock swings itself at Cotelle like a club. She leans back, matrix style, barely dodging the wrinkled dick, opening fire on it as the fleshy thing passes overhead.

Gralofski unleashes his throwing stars into the beast, nailing it dead center in its bulbous head. Blood spews out of the open wounds, and then a funny thing happens. The monster dick cries out in pain. The dick hole actually expands as the guttural sound issues forth. It continues to scream and thrash until the pee hole rips open on either side, creating what looks like a mouth. Then the other cocks do the same. all of them rip open their urethrae as they shriek. At the same time, they all begin to grow even thicker, and odder still, their thickening skins turn a deep red color and their texture become ridged, almost like armor plates. The mouths grow fangs until each of the monsters dicks now resembles more of an eyeless snake or a strangely colored Venus fly trap.

Before the elves can react, one of the snake-beasts darts out and grabs Cotelle by the foot, yanking her into the air. She lets out a cry and opens fire point blank into the thing’s body, but the bullets bounce off its newly impenetrable hide. Another monster clamps down on her arm, pulling Cotelle in the opposite direction.

Gralofski fires off another pair of razor sharp stars, but they bounce free just as uselessly as Cotelle’s bullets. “We’ve got trouble here, boss!” Gralofski screams.

Santa, busy with a pair of dicks of his own quickly finishes his business, grabbing one by the head, shoving his chainsaw blade into its open mouth, turning it into a shredded pulp before slamming the other on the ground, stomping its wide head flat. He then turns and charges the monster penises trying to tear his elf warrior’s limbs off, bellowing an ancient Nordic battle cry, his face a bloody mess, still impaled by the bones of his fallen comrade.

Meanwhile, as his friends battle the dicks and pieces of burning ceiling fall all around him, Jangle sees and opening, and takes it. Switching his arm canon to an electrified whip, he stalks forward, straight toward Sasparilla, who now rides atop her monster cocks like a cowboy trying to stay atop a bucking bronco.

As a huge wang takes a swipe at him, the industrious elven warrior leaps onto its back, using its momentum to push off, landing on another, then leapfrogging to a third and a forth until suddenly, he stands face to face with the most evil witch in the known universe.

“What’s up, maaaaan?” She says, taking a drag off an a two foot long joint, not the least bit phased by the presence of the elf. “Wanna hit?”

“You’ll pay for your crimes against Christmas, Sasparilla! You’ll pay for your crimes against all mankind! I’m going to-”

And then Sasparilla blows a huge plume of pot smoke into his face.

Jangle coughs and coughs, trying to wave the smoke away, but it swirls around his face, engulfing his entire head. Each time he inhales, more of the noxious stuff enters his lungs. Panicking, he begins the thrash, trying in vain to hit Sasparilla with his deadly whip. Her maniacal laughter are the last thing he hears before he blacks out.

“Hey, elf boy,” Sasparilla says in a playful voice. “What were you saying?”

Jangle opens his eyes. They’re bloodshot red and squinted. His arms hang limp at his side, his jaw slack. “Huh?” he manages.

“You were just talking, saying you were gonna do somethin’.”

“I’m going to-” A look of confusion crosses his face. “I’m going to-”

“Yeah? Whatchoo gonna do, baby?” Sasparilla says, grinning.

“I’m gonna kill my friends.”

“That’s right you are!” Sasparilla shrieks. “Go kill ALL those motherfuckers for me!”

Zombie-like, Jangle leaps off the tangle of cocks onto the burning floor and shuffles slowly toward the remaining group of elves.


Santa swings the chainsaw wildly, making quick work of the snake-dick monsters holding Cotelle’s captive. She falls into St. Nick’s arms as the penis heads bounce off the ground with sickening wet thuds. The elf girl smiles up at Santa, gratitude painted across her beautiful face. “Remind me to fuck the dog shit outta you later,” Santa says, grinning.

But Cotelle’s attention has already turned. She’s looking over Santa’s shoulder, horrified. “Jangle! What have you done!” she screams.

Santa sets the elf down and turns around. Gralofski’s headless corpse lays prone on the floor. Fresh blood shoots from its neck stump in quick spurts. Jangle’s pants are around his ankles, Gralofski’s lifeless head is in his hands. He’s fucking the dead elf’s mouth with long, hard strokes, grinning maniacally at the remaining forces of good. The dead elf’s tongue slowly oozes out of his neck stump, eventually dropping to floor with a squelch and a splat.

“Stop it!” Santa screams.

“Ok, boss,” Jangle says, dropping the head. His cock, belly and thighs are smeared red with gore. His still-hard cock bounces as he steps out of his pants, activates his electric whip and charges his friends, naked from the waist down. He stops short, rears back and attacks with his weapon.

Santa lifts up his chainsaw to parry, but one of the huge, red snake-dicks chomps down and flings his only defense across the room, into the raging fire. With no time to dodge, St. Nick closes his eyes as the tip of the electric whip careens straight for his face.

But instead of feeling his face split in half, Santa hears a thud and then a groan. Opening his eyes, he sees Cotelle laying at his feet. She’s jumped in front of him, saving his life. The whip hit her square in the chest. Her top is torn open. A huge, deep gash right between her exposed tits squirts blood.

Santa bends down and scoops her up into his arms.

“N-not the… way I imagined you seeing my tits… for the… first time… Santa.”

The fat man smiles as the elf girl spits up blood, shudders and dies. Carefully setting Cotelle’s body on the ground, Santa raises to his feet, murder set in his eyes. He picks up the two discarded snake-cock heads off the ground and jams them on each of his fists, creating enormous fanged boxing gloves. “Now you die!” he screams, charging his naked elven lieutenant.

Jangle turns to strike again, but Santa catches him first. Manipulating the jaw ligaments still attaches to the cock head, Santa uses it like a crab claw, snapping down over Jangle’s arm, tearing his weapon, and half the elf’s arm off in the process. Before Jangle can react, Santa swings his other arm in a looping right hook, leaving this cock head open, connecting with Jangle’s jaw, tearing huge hunks out of his face, sending him to the ground on his ass.

With the wall of fire behind him, and Santa looming over him, Jangle has no where to run. Santa rears back to deliver the killing blow, when Jangle’s red eyes clear.

“S-Santa? Where… where is Gralofski? Where’s Cotelle?” The elf looks down at his arm stump spewing green blood. “Wha-what happened to my arm?”

The anger drains from Santa’s face. He drops his hands to his sides. His mouth draws back in a grimace as he realizes he’s played right into Sasparilla’s plan.

Before he can react to the wounded elf, a gigantic cock the size of a compact car darts in and snatches Jangle from the ground.

Santa spins around in time to see Sasparilla has somehow combined all of the hydra-like cocks into one giant, menacing snake-dick.

“Can’t finish the job, maaaan?” Sasparilla cackles from some sort of green saddle she’s fashioned onto the cock’s wide back. “Let me help you with that!”

The mammoth cock tosses Jangle into the air and violently chews him up, dropping bits of leg and arm into the fire before swallowing the helpless elf. To add insult to injury, the dinosaur-like monster gagged several times, then threw up Jangle’s mangled remains into the fire.

“Good boy!” Sasparilla cackles, petting the huge dick on the top of its head. “Remind me to let you fuck those two sluts up on the roof after we dispose of Jolly Fatass, here! No doubt their two sizable gashes are plenty wide enough to handle your girth. Might wanna go easy on the length though, might tear em in half!”

Santa stands numb as the remainder of the fully inflamed ceiling collapses around him. The second floor of the house crashes into the already six foot high flames. The only area of the house not complete involved is the spot where Santa and Sasparilla stand.

St. Nick drops to his knees. He lets the scorching hot flames lick at his face as he pours sweat. Tears mix in with the perspiration as Santa slumps forward, now on his hands and knees. But he does not cry. He’s laughing. Laughing like a madman. He throws his head back and howls, eyes wild.

Sasparilla frowns. “Really, fat man? I thought you’d put up more of a fight than that. Hell. I was just getting started, maaaan!” When Santa ignores her, continuing only to laugh and cry, she shrugs and yanks on a set of green reigns that have appeared on the head of her giant cock monster. The beast roars and strikes down to chomp Santa in half.

At the last second, the jolly fellow reaches out and stops the monster cock’s jaws, one hand on its upper mandible, the other on the lower. His eyes are clear. Focused. He spins around, grabbing the giant dick around the neck in a head lock. “You want these powers, Sasparilla? You REALLY want em? Fine!” Santa stalks forward ignoring the smoke and flames billowing around him.

Sasparilla looks surprised and confused as Santa drags her cock-steed across the room to his magic bag. He bends down and pulls it open. “Go see the Gods of Christmas, and see if You can’t persuade them to give em to you!”

A swirling red and green vortex spins violently inside the bag, lifting off the ground, sucking it inside out. It’s no longer a Christmas bag. Santa has opened a portal to another dimension.

Fire and smoke suck through its opening. The discarded Christmas tree, all the fallen debris and even the bodies of the dead elves all tumble inside as though a great wind pushes them toward its opening. Santa stands firm at its side, arms crossed, scowling up at the evil witch.

Yanking on the reins, Sasparilla tries to keep the cock monster from being sucked into the vortex as well, but its no use. The thing yanks its head back, only for its flesh to slough off, revealing a bloody skeleton beneath, until even that gets sucked into the portal. Sasparilla jumps free, landing on her stomach. She scratches the ground as the vortex spins faster and faster, ripping the walls apart and the furniture from the kitchen and bedrooms into its unrelenting maw.

Losing her grip on the floor, because the floor itself rips up and flies toward the vortex, Sasparilla screams in terror, only just grabbing the sides of the opening just in time before being sucked down into twisting, chaotic oblivion beyond.

Santa steps in front of her. Her eyes are wide with horror as her fingertips slip further, leaving her less than an inch before losing her grip entirely. “Make sure,” Santa says, raisng his black boot, “Make sure you tell em, Santa fucking Claus sent you!”

With that, jolly ole St. Nick plants the boot square in Sasparilla’s face, knocking her loose, sending her cascading into the belly of the vortex…

But not before she reaches out and grabs hold of his leg, yanking him down inside with her.



Unfathomable gulfs of utter and complete nothingness.

The void.

Eternal oblivion.

And then something.


Santa opens his eyes, then regretting that decision, closes them again. His head swims, he fells one second away from throwing up his sizable lunch. What happened? Did he go on another meth bender? He doesn’t remember a meth bender. He remembers the witch. Had it been a shitty meth dream after he hit the wall, passed out for days?

When he opens his eyes again, he’s utterly confused. He’s naked. At home. In his bed. At the North Pole. He sits up with much effort, then swings his legs off the bed. Fighting back another bout of nausea. He stands up. His house shoes are right where they’re supposed to be, and his robe. Mrs. Claus might not fuck him, but she’s a good house wife.

Slipping both on, Santa shuffles out into the main part of the house. “Baby?” he yells. No answer. He goes into the kitchen. A fresh pot of coffee waits for him on the counter. God damn good housewife. Three pots usually knocks a meth bender right out of the rotund fellow.

He walks out into the living room, robe open, cock bouncing. He sips his coffee, other hand on his hip, admiring the tundra like conditions outside his big picture window. It had seemed so real. He makes a mental note to fire his drug dealer. And to fuck Cotelle as soon as humanly possible.

That’s when shit gets weird.

A figure comes trudging up through the snow to the front door. He’s a stocky man, about Santa’s height and build, wearing a red overcoat with a hood and red trousers with black boots. He stomps the snow off them and opens the front door.

“Uh,” Santa says, cock shrinking from the arctic blast of cold air. “Can I help you?”

The figure ignores him. “Honey!” the hooded man says. “Got the deer all ready to go!”

Santa drops his coffee on the floor.

Mrs. Claus comes out from the laundry room holding an armful of Santa’s sweaters. Except it wasn’t the Mrs. Claus he knew. At least not currently. She was young, blonde, maddeningly beautiful, even with no makeup and sweating from folding laundry.

The figure at the door pulled his jacket off. Santa was staring at himself. The other Santa pulled his young little wife in for a kiss. She blushed and pulled away when he grabbed her ass.

Santa knew this memory. This was his first run. The first Christmas he worked as Santa Claus. His hair was still blonde, his beard, too. The white was creeping through his natural Nordic color in long stripes. The transformation into the traditional Santa Claus figure took time. He was still thin, too. Man, could he fuck back then. Took enough drugs to drop an elephant, too.

Mr. and Mrs. Claus walk right past the naked man in the center of their living room. Mrs. Claus opens the refrigerator and pulls out dinner for the young man grinning at her like a fool. He knew back then how lucky he was to score such a fine piece of ass.

It’s not an easy sell, telling a girl that you’ve been tapped by multi-dimensional alien godlike beings to carry on a thousands year long legacy that most people think is a child’s myth. She took that shit in stride. It was the moving up to the North Pole and living with a shit load of elves and deer that gave her pause, but only momentarily. She’d accepted him fully, unconditionally as he was: A slave to Christmas. She bore his shackles with a smile and kiss and nary ever a complaint.

The young Santa puts his hands on his wife’s shoulders, kissing her neck lightly. He pushes the straps of her short dress down, causing the top to slide passed her ample and oh so pert bosom. He turns her around, unbuckling his pants, letting his rock hard dong flop out and poke the young woman in the stomach.

The Santa in the living room smiles, feeling his cock grow in time with his younger self. This is better than porn. He licks the palm of his hand and begins to stroke himself.

Young Santa pushes lightly on the top of wife’s head, guiding her to her knees. He slides his cock, easily half the width of her whole tiny head, up her left cheek until his balls touch her thick lips, then slides back down past her nose and up the other side.

It’s when Young Santa tries to stick his big cock in his wife’s mouth that the older man in the living room stops jacking off mid-stroke.

This was the day.

Mrs. Claus closes her mouth. She stands to her feet and pulls her dress straps back up over her breasts. “I’m sorry,” She says. “I just… I can’t do this every day. I-I was basically a virgin when we got married. This is too much.”

Young Santa drops his arms to his sides, letting his wife slip by him. She busies herself packing Santa’s dinner while the young man puts his hard cock back into his pants.

The older Santa turns away, dick now flaccid. He did not want to hear this speech again. Couldn’t bare to hear his wife call him Mr. Insatiable. He remembered clearly going out that night after dropping off all the presents in the entire world and smoking crack in a trap house in Detroit’s East Side while a pair of transsexual hookers took turns ramming huge strap-ons up his ass.

He never did take rejection well. When he turns his attention back to the present, the younger version of himself has already donned the iconic Santa gear and stands at the front door saying a short goodbye to the beautiful wife who doesn’t want to fuck him.

Mrs. Claus shuts the door behind him, standing next to the older version of himself as though he were a ghost, watching her husband climb into his one horse open sleigh and fly off into the night for the very first time.

She smiles, sighs, and sits down on the couch. Older Santa watches her, loves her.

That’s when she peels off the red and green dress and tosses it on the floor. Santa watches slack jawed as she rubs her hands across her neck, down to her breasts, promptly pinching her own nipples. His cock his adamantium hard as she slides her little fingers down her tight stomach to her smoothly shaved little pussy.

Soft moans escape her as the musky smell of wet pussy fills the room. Santa is maybe five strokes away from blowing a monumental load. He shuffles his feet over to where his young wife sits. He doesn’t give a fuck if he’s a ghost, this is a dream or what. He’s going to bust his nut all over her fucking face.

That’s when the door opens.

Startled, Santa spins around, the beginnings of his orgasm already dripping out of his indestructible cock. It was Jangle, followed by Jingle, Gralofski and the rest of the elves, each one baring the same mischievous grin. There were probably twenty elves in his house now, all gathered around his naked, masturbating wife.

Those motherfuckers. Those cocksuckers were supposed to be out in the workshop building the toys for next year. Nine billion presents didn’t make themselves.

Jingle and Jangle pull their dicks out first. They drop their green spandex pants and climb up the back of the couch. Mrs. Claus smiles. “Took you long enough, he’s been gone almost ten minutes.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Jingle says, jamming his cock into Santa’s wife’s mouth. She closes her eyes and moans, drool already running out of her mouth as Jingle piston fucks her wet face. Jangle reaches down and squeezes her tits while he jacks off. Mrs. Claus pulls away from Jingle’s long, skinny dick and trades it for Jangle’s identical man meat.

By now all twenty of the elves were naked, jacking off around the couch. Gralofski steps forward, kneeling between Mrs. Claus’ legs. He licks the pussy juice off her thighs. A huge pool of the precious nectar has already formed on the couch cushion. The elf goes to town on her little box, causing her to moan loudly as Jingle and Jangle try to fit both their skinny dicks into her mouth at the same time, with some success.

Santa remembered her telling him that she’d spilled spaghetti on it, told him that’s why it was reversed when he got home from the route.

Two more elves stand up on the couch. His fucking couch. His wife takes their dicks in her hands, now servicing four dicks. Gralofski slides around behind her, putting his pudgy dick in her pussy from reverse cowgirl position. Five cocks. Francios steps forward next. He played video games with Santa the next day. Sat on that very couch and kicked Santa’s ass at Gears of War. Gralofski pushed Mrs. Claus’ hips up. She pulled the twin’s dicks out of her mouth long enough to spit into her and, then reach behind her and smother her asshole with the lubricant. Gralofski slid her back down, delicately entering her butthole while Francios took her pussy from the front.

That does it. The anal. Santa can sit here and watch his wife get gangbanged by a bunch of lying, backstabbing fucking elves, but she’d never once, not one time, not in his wildest dreams given up the A. Wouldn’t even so much as let him lick her asshole. Said it was gross and made her feel dirty.

“Fuck my fithly shithole!” she screams around the twin elf cocks.

Obviously she still feels that way.

Rage explodes out of him as he stomps out of the room, rock hard cock leading the way, as if adding insult to injury, even his own dick wants a piece of that cuckolding bitch.

He swings open the back door and stomped outside, completely oblivious to the biting cold or the foot thick snowfall. He stops at his shed, blood pressure soaring. Redness creeps into the sides of his vision, pulsing in time with his racing heart. He grabs his wood chopping ax and stomped back inside.

Ghost, memory, hallucination, meth binge, he gives absolutely no fucks at this moment. He bounds back into the door and lets his robe fall to the ground. Totally naked, he wields the ax above his head and runs into the living room.

All of the elves are gathered around Mrs. Claus in a circle. She’s on her knees watching them all jack off. She licks their balls and encourage them as they each start to cum on her face. Francios blows first, raising up on his tip toes to blast a wad across the bridge of Mrs. Claus’ nose and into her right eye, causing her to squint and pull the ropey jizz out of her eye with a finger. Still, she giggles and licks her finger clean. This sets off a chain reaction, first with Jingle and Jangle spurting loads across either of her cheeks, then with elf after elf glazing the woman Santa loved in the middle of his own living room floor.

He swings the ax into the crowd, cleaving the first hapless elf right in the back of the neck, causing him to jerk and squirm as his spinal chord shoots clear fluid into the air. This scatters the crowd. Naked Elves with throbbing boners scream and run for the door, but Santa is faster. Francios pulls the front door open only for Santa to run up, full speed and drop kick it closed. Without missing a beat, the big man screams and swings the ax in a back handed blow, lobbing Francios’ face in half, exposing his brain before he slumps to the floor in a heap.

Jingle and Jangle run for the back of the house. Santa cleaves arms and legs as he stalks forward, not about to let the twins escape his wrath. He vaults over the couch, decapitating two fleeing elves on his way, then lands in a roll, leaping up, gutting another terrified elf as he chases the twins to the back door.

Jangle whips the door open, terror etched in his face, but as he turns to run out, Santa, still ten feet away, throws the ax end over end, scoring a hit right in the middle of Jangle’s back, dropping him half in, half out the door.

Do not fuck a woodsman’s wife in his own home.

Jingle, sensing it too late to run, reaches down and yanks the ax from his brother’s back. “S-stay back!” He bellows, his voice breaking.

Santa wipes the gore from his eyes. The sting of the green blood feels good, makes him feel alive. He grins, ducks his head and charges the tall, skinny elf.

Jingle hops back and forth on his lanky legs, completely terrified. At the last second he pulls the ax back like a baseball bat and swings at Santa. The big man easily stops the blow by grabbing the ax just underneath the razor sharp head. He yanks it out of Jingle’s hands. The elf babbles an apology and backs himself into the door, bumping the corpse of his brother.

Santa turns the head of the ax around to the blunt end and swings, smashing Jingle’s head in on the left side. The elf shits down his legs, and then falls into the shit, still babbling, now incoherently, as half his brain now leaks from the huge wound in the top of his head.

Santa rears back and swings again, bashing the elf’s face in this time. He swings again and again, beating the elf’s face into an unrecognizable green pulp atop his shoulders. Still Santa swings. Swings until sweat pours down his back. Swings until his arms ache and the ax feels a thousand pounds. Still he swings, only stopping when he hears his wife giggle, still seated on the living room floor covered in creamy elf spunk.

Santa turns around, gasping for air, covered from head to toe in slimy green elf blood which smells like liquorish for some reason. He walks slowly up to his wife, who runs her finger through the thick cum splattered from her forehead to her chin and, still smiling, sucks it off.

Santa plants his feet on the ground in front of her and touches the top of Mrs. Claus’ head with the tip of his ax.

“Tell me this isn’t real.”

Mrs. Claus lifts her head, Sasparilla’s face smiles that demoniac smile and cackles. “You really think a piece of ass like this,” Sasparilla points down at her naked body. Cum drips off her tits onto her thick, luscious thighs. “Is just gonna sit at home and wash the shit stains outta your shorts, maaaaan?”

Tears form in Santa’s hate filled eyes.

“While you’re out fucking bitches the world over, you think Mrs. Claus just sits up here at the North Pole knitting sweaters? Come on, Santa! You don’t leave a pair of tits like this sitting around by herself! Are you retarded? Of course this is real! I’m just showin’ you what happened in your house while you were out doin’ your little Christmas thang!”

The ax clangs against the wood floor. Santa drops to him hands and knees. Sobs wrack his thick body. This does it. This is what breaks him.

Sasparilla laughs again, now in her full form. Dreads, skirt, boots and all. Santa rolls over on his back and just cries. “T-take it. It’s yours. Just… Just leave me alone.”

Sasparilla begins to glow. Red and Green energy swirls around her body as she lifts into the air. They’re no longer in Santa’s house. Santa lays on a bed of blackness as Sasparilla floats up into the air. There’s a pinpoint of light up there, like the opening of a black hole.

“I feel it! Yes! YES! Oh my, my Santa! If I would have know all it took to break your will was a healthy dose of truth, I’d have told you your wife was a gangbanging little slut YEARS ago!”

Santa doesn’t care. She can taunt him all she wants. He rolls onto his side, sobs hitting his body like convulsions. “Just… go. Just… let me be.”

Aw, poor little baby Santa Claus. He can dish it out, but he can’t handle coming home to kiss his wife’s mouth with cock on her breath?”

Santa covers his ears. Why won’t she just disappear already? She’s won. It’s over. The Christmas power, and thus the world is hers, and yet she sees fit to humiliate him as much as possible.

That’s when the little girl speaks.

“Santa? Are you in there?”

He opens his eyes and looks up. At the point of light, a girl no more than five years old peers inside his magical Christmas bag.

“Get outta here, you little cunt! You’ll ruin everything!” Sasparilla screams. But the little girl either can’t hear her or ignores her.

“Santa, come out. I forgot your milk and cookies, but I woke up and ‘membered.”

This time it’s Santa who begins to glow. The red and green energy siphons off of Sasparilla, back to its rightful owner. The witch floats back down into the darkness, shaking her head in disbelief. “No! NO NO NO!”

Santa sits up. He’s fully clothed again, dressed head to toe in his delivery garb. “Just a moment, hon.” He says in his best Santa Claus voice. “Santa’s just finishing up some business, he’ll be up in a jiff!”

Now Santa floats upward, meeting Sasparilla on her way down.

“HOOOW? I WAS SO CLOSE!” The Hagg screams.

“I tell you again and again, Sasparilla. The magic is not yours to take.” Now Santa rises above the witch, glowing brighter with each passing second. “The children own this power. Their faith in goodness, their faith in Christmas and belief in me is what fuels my magic. You can never, ever take that from them. They have something you or I can never possess.”

“What?!?” Sasparilla cries, sinking ever deeper into the abyss. “Tell me! Tell me the secret of the Christmas power!”




When Santa opens his eyes again, he’s standing in the living room where all the madness began. But no elf bodies litter the floor. No fire rages across its walls. It’s back exactly the way it was when he first slid down the chimney.

The little girl tugs at his jacket. “Santa! Here, eat your milk and cookies before you go!”

Santa smiles. He takes the glass of milk and the plate of cookies from the toddler and sits down on the floor with her. He dips a cookie in the milk and takes a bite. “Mmm mmm, delicious!”

“So?” the little girl said, hopping around, excitedly. “Did you get me my Christmas present?!?!”

The weariness returns. Santa’s mouth sags. He feel the weight of his eighty years. Fighting back the tears once again, almost wishing the little girl had left him down in that blackness with his nemesis, he puts on a fake smile and asks, “What did you want for Christmas this year, honey?”

The little girl walks over to the coffee table in front of the couch. She picks up a picture frame and walks back over to Santa. She hands him the picture.

Its the little girl’s mother. Her head is wrapped in a bandanna, the unmistakable sign of a cancer patient. “Daddy says I can’t ask for things Santa can’t give me, but I know you can bring my mommy home.” She cocks her head to the side, “You can make the stuff inside her go away so she can home and be with me and Daddy for Christmas tomorrow, right?”

Tears well up in Santa’s eyes. He stands, groaning. Not from weariness, but because he’s fat. A huge smile crosses his face and he laughs loudly. “I’ll see what I can do, kiddo. I’ll see what I can do.” He pats her on the head and gathers up his bag. He turns to leave when she tugs on his coat again.


She motions for him to lean down. He does so.

“Is the bad lady gone now?”

Santa laughs again. “I think so, hon.” He pats the magic bag. “I doubt we’ll see her for a long, long time.” With that, he ducks into the fireplace and zips back up to the roof.

He’s whistling when he walks by Rudolph, who tries to hand him a freshly rolled joint.

“I’ll pass, this time, cowboy. That one’s all you.” He takes his seat at the sleigh and the two girls immediately start grabbing at his crotch. “We’ve decided who’s going to take the load and which one is gonna eat it off, Santa.” The blonde says, playfully.

“Wanna guess?” The brunette says, giggling.

“No thanks, girls,” Santa says, yanking the reins, sending the one horse open sleigh back into the air. “I’ve got a long overdue date with my wife back at the North Pole.”


The next morning, the little girl gets out of bed and runs into the living room as fast as her tiny legs can carry her. Her heart sinks when she finds her dad sitting alone on the couch, looking worse for the wear.

“What’s wrong, Daddy?” She says, climbing up on the couch with him, taking a drink from the cup of juice he has set out next to his coffee cup.

“Oh nothing, squirt, he says, eyes half open. Just had some really weird dreams last night.”

The little girl bites her bottom lip in anticipation. “Daddy?”

“Yes, Princess,” he says, not taking his eyes off the Wallstreet Journal on his iPad.

“Is… is mommy coming home today?”

“We talked about that, baby. I told you not to get your hopes up. Mommy is very sick.”

The little girl slides off the couch, defeated, and slinks back toward her room when her dad’s phone rings.

“Hello? Uh huh. …She is? She CAN? No, no, thank you. T-thank you. Thank you doctor. M-merry Christmas to you, too. We’ll be there in an hour. Bye.”

He sets the phone down on the table, a look of shock across his face. Slowly, he turns toward his little girl. “I guess, uh I guess…”

“I know,” she says, beaming with pride. “I told you Santa would get me what I wanted for Christmas!”



Kevin Strange’s Twitter Horror Stories Week 2

We’re back with another week’s worth of Kevin Strange Twitter horror stories, gang! This week we want to change things up and make this a little more interactive. This week, we’re adding a poll to the post so YOU can choose which Kevin Strange Twitter horror story is the best!

All you have to do is read through this week’s stories and then scroll back up to the poll and choose which one is your favorite. That simple! Let us know, gang. Which Twitter horror story is the best this week?!

[poll id=”3″]

  • Story 01: “Lilly’s fear created things. For daddy, she made a thing that ate his brain spark but left his soul intact. Lilly isn’t scared anymore.”

  • Story 02: “Max knew he’d made a mistake returning to the pond that night. The red eyes didn’t scare him. It was that they were chanting his name.”

  • Story 03: “Gosh,” Mary said, laughing sadistically. “When I wished for the stars to fall, I never expected them to burn up all the other people.”

  • Story 04: “Taking control of the man’s meat-body was easier than Conrad expected. Now if he could only figure out how to make it stop bleeding…”

  • Story 05: “Thad reached through the machine vortex, unaware that the hand clutching his shoulder, keeping him from falling into the abyss was his own.”

  • Story 06: “Dementia didn’t stop Jill from enjoying life. In fact, it was the only thing that stopped the ghosts in her head from killing anyone else.”

Story 07: “The time machine took TJ to a place he never thought possible. He dropped the knife, sat next to his dying father and prayed for oblivion.”