Christmas on Crack (6 page)

Xaman.
The sword, crafted out of black elephant bone, was taller than Aleph but he
could wield the weapon like a master swordsman.

“Gimel,
you take the back. Shaw, you have the side that’s facing us. I’ll come through
the front,” Aleph said.

“Are
we teleporting in or what?” Gimel said.

“Yeah.
We need the element of surprise. Dali couldn’t teleport and maybe that’s why
they were able to get him. I’ll be honest with you. There’s something weird
about that house so I can’t promise you what’s going to happen in there. So
let’s get ready. On the count of three we go.” He closed his eyes.

“One.”

Shaw
closed his eyes.

“Two.”

Gimel
closed his eyes.

“Three.”

All
three elves disappeared in flashes of light.

XIX.

Tortured by an angel. If I ever get out of here and have a
chance to make a TV show, that’s what it’s going to be called.

Santa
was mentally numb to the sugarplums and to the drool clogging nearly every facial
orifice. He just wanted out of there.

Santa
heard Kay’s footsteps. There was the usual clip- clopping and then something
different. A slapping sound on the hardwood floor.

Her
face appeared above him. “Guess what? I have a surprise for you.”

“Errrrrrrrrrrrrr,”
was all Santa could say.

“You
see, honey bunch, if you have been paying attention you know I’ve been wearing
my high heels this whole time. They look great on me, don’t you agree?” She
slapped him in the face. “Right?”

“Errrrrrrrrrrr!”

Kay
bent down, picked up her shoes and held them up so Santa could see. “These here
glittery beauties have been on my feet for
six days
. And when I say six days I mean
twenty-four hours a day. You see, Santa my dear, I don’t sleep. Never had to,
never wanted to. So I have worn these shoes all day for six days.” She brought
a shoe to her nose and smelled the inside. “Ewww, what a god-awful smell!
Really, really rank. Does that turn you on? A woman with smelly feet?”

“Errrrrrrrrrr!”

“Well,
it doesn’t matter because I’m giving them to

you. Such sweet, sweet gifts from me
______
” She brought

one of
the shoes closer to Santa. “To you.”

Santa
had recalled Kay’s shoes being gorgeous and glittery like Dorothy’s shoes in
The Wizard of Oz. But now, with a clear view of the insides of the shoes, they
were anything but gorgeous and glittery. Instead, they looked dark and moist,
stained with days and days of foot sweat. Then he wondered if perhaps Dorothy’s
shoes looked the same after all those hours of filming the movie.

Why am
I thinking about The Wizard of Oz? Dorothy wasn’t a sadistic angel. She never
locked anyone in a bitch- box. Or maybe she did. I don’t know.

Kay
moved the shoes to his face in slow motion, prolonging the torture and letting
the stench waft to his nostrils. Despite being clogged with drool, Santa’s
nose didn’t block the smell.

“Yum,
I bet you can really smell that shit, right?” Kay said. “You should be honored,
too. Oh, not only because they are my shoes in your face, even though that
should
be enough. No sir, you should also be
honored that you have an authentic pair of vintage
Babs Cloantas
in your face. You just cannot find
shoes like these anymore.”

Santa
said, “Errrrrrrrr.” He thought about his wife and how she never once talked about
what kind of shoes she wore. Diana wasn’t into that sort of thing, never put
value on something as insignificant as shoes.

The
reek of Kay’s foot sweat bore through Santa’s nose, up to his brain, and down
to his throat. The odor made its home in his mouth so that now the taste of her
drool mingled with the warm stink from her shoes.

“Hope
you’re enjoying this shit, honey bunch. There’s a lot more where this came
from. I have nearly five-thousand pairs of shoes and you’ll get to smell each
and every one. Not just heels, though. I have clogs and sneakers and slippers
and mules and flip-flops...”

Kay’s
voice became heavy syrup on Santa’s ears. It became sticky syrup that seeped
into his ear canals and covered his brain, erasing all memory of his wife and
his position as Santa Claus, deliverer of gifts. Combined with her foot stink,
her voice made him a masochistic automaton.

“You’re
mine now, honey bunch,” Kay said, dropping the shoes and leaving them next to
Santa’s head. “All mine.”

XX.

When Gimel
teleported inside, the first thing he noticed was the ugly giant snail shell
in the middle of the living room. Who does that? It was such a foolish

decision
in interior decorating.

He
had his gun in one hand and his glove on the other, ready for anything. The
house was silent but Gimel could hear the quiet thoughts of Aleph and Shaw.
They were thinking the same thing he was: the objects in the house were strange
as hell.

As
he tip-toed out of the living room and into the hallway, his ears popped. Something
in his skull clicked and he no longer heard the thoughts of his fellow elves.

Aleph,
can you hear me? Shaw?

No
response.

A
slimy chill on the back of his neck tickled him. Gimel turned quickly but a wet
slap sent him flying to the ground. He looked up and saw the same snail shell
but now it was standing on what looked like two chicken legs. It wasn’t a
snail, though. It looked more like the result of a snail mating with an
elephant. Several trunk-like appendages waved at him, gaping holes hungry for
fresh elf meat. Gimel held his gun up and fired.

The
bullet hit the snail-thing right in the middle of its body but had no effect.
Gimel sent another one at its head but again: nothing. The snail-thing stepped
closer, its trunks sending out sound waves that popped Gimel’s ears even more.

Gimel
stood up. “You ugly piece of shit,” he said, getting his glove arm ready to do
some damage. The weapon was usually reserved for punishing unfaithful spouses
of his clients. The sheer size of the bone-penis glove struck fear into the
hearts of both males and females. When that thing went in, even the most jaded
of infidels felt the pangs of conscience.

The
snail-thing waved its trunks, spraying Gimel with purple spittle. Some of the
fluid hit the elf in the face, burning him. He put his fist up and charged.

The
bone-penis smashed into the snail shell, creating a splatter of green and white
shards.

Gimel’s
fist went right through the beast. Trunks flailed against the elf, wrapping
around his neck.

“No
you don’t, fucker,” Gimel said. He pulled his fist out and started punching at
the trunks. They were no match for it.

Two
more minutes of fisting and the elf was victorious in turning the snail-thing
into a mushy pile of shell and flesh. Gimel’s deafness gradually disappeared as
the beast before him died.

XXI.

While
Gimel was walking through the living room, Shaw was in another room trying to
comprehend why someone would decorate their walls with pictures of rotting
fruit, demolished buildings, umbrellas, and airplanes. In the corner, there was
a bed made of red metallic goop that resembled dried up taffy.

What
kind of weird bitch lives here?

He
had a chain in each hand, swinging them slowly so the hooks would be ready to
carve into flesh at a moment’s notice.

There
were slobbering sounds coming from the next room so Shaw walked slowly, one
hook swinging behind his head. As he walked through the doorway, something fell
from above and covered his head like a Halloween mask. He couldn’t see and
could barely breathe.

“Shit!”
he said, dropping one of the chains and grabbing at whatever was wrapped
around his head. His fingers dug into soft, gritty flesh. It wasn’t working.
Shaw started biting at it, grinding the flesh between his teeth until he felt
air on his tongue.

He
dropped the other chain and used two hands to rip the thing off him. Before
another could drop on him, he grabbed both chains and looked at what he’d
thrown off. It was a giant sugarplum.

On
the floor, the fruit was torn apart but still trembling with life. It
resembled road kill and Shaw almost felt bad for it. Then he looked up. The
entire ceiling was covered in giant, bulbous sugarplums.

Some
were hairy. Some had tiny legs. Some were on fire. Each of them seemed to be
staring at Shaw even though they possessed no eyes.

“You
gotta be kidding me,” Shaw said. He swung one of his chain hooks over his head
and let it go in the direction of the sugarplums. They scattered like roaches
as the hooks cut into several of them.

The
sugarplums that were hit fell to the ground, wounds gaping multicolored blood
and fruit viscera. The scurrying survivors flew into the air and surrounded
Shaw as he swung his second chain hook over his head. A sugarplum with an
appendage that resembled an axe flew directly at him, but Shaw managed to duck
just in time. He swung his weapon and managed to hit a dozen more, sending
chunks everywhere.

One
of those chunks landed right in Shaw’s mouth and slid down his throat.

“Goddamnit!”
he said, nearly choking. It only took a few seconds for it to take effect.

As
he stared at the room full of sugarplums, the colors grew brighter until
everything was overly saturated. The walls turned to liquid, the sugarplums
turned to fiery monster faces, and furniture made of chicken legs appeared in
the middle of the room. A table shook, the grains in the wood cracking to form
a mouth. It said, “Come have a seat, have a seat, have a seat.”

Shaw
closed his eyes. Using only his instinct, he swung both chain hooks while
spinning in a circle, hoping to kill each and every sugarplum or talking piece
of furniture in the room.

He
felt his hooks hit things but couldn’t tell what they hit. Finally, he dropped
to the floor in exhaustion. “Just fucking kill me,” he said. He felt a
sugarplum crawl onto his face and fart, sending poison gas down his throat.

The
Elf Piercer was dead.

XXII.

While
his partners were fighting their own battles, Aleph walked through the front
part of the house. He tried to keep telepathic communication open but could
only hear muffled voices.

The
room he was in looked like it was decorated by a madman or in this case, a
madwoman. Wigs of every color and style were hung on the walls and dozens of
model airplanes dangled from the ceiling. The furniture consisted of large
metal barrels covered in lacy throw pillows.

Aleph
held his sword poised for action.

This
assignment had really turned sour. When he was first asked to join the Elves of
Fuck, he was eager for the adventure. Correcting infidelities through
surveillance and violence seemed like a fun way to earn money. Aleph had always
taken his job seriously, but he was starting to lose the passion and heart he’d
had in his early years with the company. To make matters worse, because of
recent budget cuts, he felt it was harder to justify the hard work

with the
meager salary.

This
will be the last job and then I find something else. I take care of this crazy
bitch, rescue Santa Claus, and then I’m out.

As
Aleph walked into the next room, he saw Santa Claus standing against the wall,
smiling.

“Santa?”
the elf said. “Are you okay? Your wife hired me. I’m here to rescue you.”

“Errrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!”
Santa said. He took a few steps forward and that’s when Aleph smelled the
peppermint.

The
woman must have been standing there the entire time but Aleph hadn’t seen her.
For the first time in years, Aleph felt himself aroused by the sight of a human
woman. She was beautiful. Simply beautiful.

He
was eye-level with her massive breasts. They called to him.
Bury yourself in us...Lick the sweat from
underneath these mountains.