TallBlond1

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An X-rated Xmas
by Steve Geary

Guys, I saw how quite a while back, before I became a CDG contributor, someone had borrowed this story and posted it previously on CDG. This is the first time I've posted it. It felt like a good time of year to share it, and this version is better -- more properly formatted.
Steve Geary, December 20, 2012.



‘Twas days before Christmas,
and all through the frat,
a creature was creeping.
His name? Matt the Rat.


Matt Sweeney’s face was hardened with purpose as he strode through the fraternity’s dark halls. He knew what he was looking for; his security cameras had caught the entire ugly episode on tape.

It sure deflates a guy’s Christmas spirit to lie in bed watching frat boys invade your farm, only to use a couple of saws to cut down one of your prime evergreens. Matt had watched glumly as the pranksters caused the tree to topple. He’d sighed as they made off with his tree. They’d giggled with glee as they tossed the shrub into their pick-up.

True, he could’ve confronted them right there on his property, but he was dressed only in boxer shorts, and these young men had strong arms. Matt knew that by the time he’d corner them with his rifle, the boys would be long gone. Well, it’s not as though he didn’t know where they lived -- a fraternity in that small college just outside Pottersville.

Matt had always had an eye for beauty. He’d admired these hooligans from a distance for quite a while. They were blond twins, probably about twenty years old. He’d often seen them loitering on the street, cruising on their motor bikes and hanging at the local bar. Two days before stealing Matt’s tree, the boys’ truck was one of many that had filed up into the hills to view Matt’s annual Christmas exhibit. Every Christmas season, Matt transformed his farm into one of Vermont’s most elaborate holiday spectacles.

He felt justified demanding admission. “Eight dollars,” he’d said when they rolled down the window.

They’d made disgusting faces. “Eight bucks?! What a rip!”

Matt’s face clouded. “How would you know? You haven’t seen it yet!” he scowled. “It’s got Santa, all his reindeer and elves, Frosty the Snowman, a manger scene, a ferris wheel giving rides to all twelve disciples and so many goddamned Christmas lights it costs two thousand bucks a month just to light this fucker!”

“Okay. Relax, dude,” they’d said. While the boys slowly scraped together their quarters, dimes, and nickels, Matt felt his blood boiling. If they hadn’t been so cute, he would’ve pulled them through their car windows by their necks and clobbered them for keeping customers waiting.

Now, a couple of nights later, he studied their dim, grainy images on his black-and-white monitor. Goddamn it, why were the Christmas holidays so stressful?

Sleepy-eyed, Matt got out of bed and sighed as he forced his hard-on inside his camos. He’d been having a hot dream, the bastards. Matt threw his old military gear over his strong, hairy chest, splashed water on his face, grabbed his shotgun and ambled out to his van.

Images of Robert Mitchum patiently stalking the children in Night of the Hunter crossed his mind as he drove across town. “Leanin’, leanin’, leanin’ on the everlasting arms,” he sang softly to himself. When he stopped at their building, his rifle loaded and ready to fire, he matter-of-factly walked past the boys’ pick-up truck, barely noticing the evergreen still resting inside it. He stared forward, determined. No more Mr. Nice Guy.

Matt cut the telephone lines, jimmied open the front lock and sauntered inside. “Hey, what’re you doing here?” some skinny, half-naked college kid gasped as he jumped out of a living room chair.

Damn, this deep into the Christmas season, Matt had hoped everyone but his prey would’ve gone home to their mommies and daddies. He sighed; a man’s gotta do what he's gotta do. He drew his rifle, and with a loud explosion emptied both barrels directly into the nerd’s face, instantly liquefying the young features into a gooey, crimson cavern the size of a softball. Sticky matter from deep inside the boy’s shattered skull blasted all over the floor and walls. Arms flailed, and what remained of the body fell to the floor in violent jerks and spasms. The dead boy’s life juices shot up from the large facial crater like red liquid from a squirt gun, raining down heavily on the carpet and soiling it, the ever-growing crimson puddle rapidly spreading out and away from the quivering, unrecognizable corpse.

Matt watched the glorious, morbid spectacle before him and admired his work. The dark recesses of his mind pretended that this skinny fresh corpse was a huge boner, the sticky eruptions spewing out of the demolished face and head the hard-on’s climax. As the nerd’s heart gave out, the erupting crimson jizz dribbled off to a trickle, just as a cock would after the fourth or fifth shot. “Pleasant dreams, dickhead,” Matt muttered, satisfied with a job well done.

His Gulf War experience was coming in handy. Matt the Rat, they’d called him during Desert Storm. Finally he was getting to again utilize his military training. He reloaded his rifle and marched up the stairs. If there were other culprits eager to get between him and his prey, he’d be ready for them.

One by one he kicked open bedroom doors, his rifle poised, his trigger finger ready to take out another pussyboy. All the rooms were empty, but when he kicked in the door to the community bathroom, a dark-haired lad gawked at him in disbelief, quivering with fear from his seat on the toilet. His shorts and underwear were at his ankles, and one look at Matt in his military gear was all it took to inspire his bowels to instantly dump. “D-don't shoot!” the boy screamed as he brought his right arm up to shield his face.

Matt took in the vision of the boy’s muscular armpit and the beginnings of hair on his chest. He silently acknowledged the kid’s hot physique and how enticingly pathetic he looked in such a vulnerable position. A shame to waste such a perfect specimen of youth.

“Let me help you take a whiz,” Matt offered. He aimed his rifle at the young man’s crotch and when he pulled the trigger, both rounds blew the kid’s pelvis to smithereens. With urine and blood spraying everywhere, the body jolted several inches off the potty, bloody chunks of cock, hair and nuts falling into the bowl. The boy screamed, his face in painful anguish as his body collapsed to the floor. Matt aimed and fired again, making the punk’s perfect chest explode, red juice pouring from a second mortal wound, bubbling up and out of the cute mouth and nose as the young eyes faded to nothing.

A smudge of excrement still hung from the modest ass hairs inside the corpse’s muscular butt. “Merry Christmas,” Matt said dryly. “Last shit you’ll ever take.”

Matt left the messy bathroom and peered down the hall. Damn. That room had been the last one on the floor. Wait, was there a loft in the attic? He tried what he’d originally thought was a closet door and was happy to see it led to a stairwell. When he heard a heavy rock beat above him, he smiled. His young friends must be having a party.

----------------------------------------​

With their loud sound system enveloping them in rhythm and the sweet smell of marijuana permeating the air, Rick Veller’s blue eyes twinkled within an inch of his brother’s handsome face. “You’ve got such a hot body, Pat,” he said dreamily.

Pat Veller snickered. “You just say that cuz I look like you.”

“You’re right!” Rick grinned, making a fist and playfully pounding his brother’s chest. His jabs created a rich thudding sound. Nice, solid muscle. “I know perfection when I see it!”

Pat ran his fingers through his twin’s blond hair, smiled invitingly and felt fulfilled as Rick’s pink tongue plunged into his mouth, licking at his gums and flawless teeth. The moment was so blissful that neither boy saw their bedroom door open a crack.

Rick pulled back and smiled into his brother’s eyes. “Face it, Pat, we’re a hot combo,” he said. "Our faces, our bodies, everything exactly the same. Think how many people want us. Our looks, so similar. Same measurements. And when I screw you, I know exactly how my butt feels when you screw me.”

“Great ass,” Pat nodded, his hands softly cupping his brother’s bum, not letting go of it as he pulled his brother forward and scooted them both toward the top of their bed. His head rested against the wall, facing the door. “Fuck my face, bro,” he breathed. “I want you to open my mouth up like you’ve never done before.”

Rick was happy to oblige as he enthusiastically straddled his brother’s face. “You've got it, man. I may not even let you breathe til I shoot!” Leaning his hands against the wall for support, Rick aimed his cock into that familiar, boyish face and did a pelvic thrust, instantly burying his organ to the hilt, resting his sex hairs against his twin’s full lips. When he pulled his dick back from the gummy throat, it was sticky with saliva.

His cock began its dance. It was like fucking a virtual reality mirror, the closest he’d ever get to fucking his own mouth. He closed his eyes, but every few moments he’d look down and watch his brother’s face.

Pat inhaled Rick’s intimate aroma. Rick’s pelvis was so slender, his cock so thick, that in this position Rick looked to be all dick. His mouth wrapped tightly around the hefty male machinery. The only sounds Pat could make were grunts. He jacked his own flawless cock as their bodies moved to the same beat as the music, and was gratified as he felt the surging, natural high that accompanies depleted oxygen. After a minute without air, his moans grew more intense.

Suddenly, he caught his first glimpse of the strange figure creeping behind his brother from the bedroom shadows. What the hell was that?!

His blood pressure shot through the roof. Weakened by lack of air, he tried to remove his mouth from the pistoning cock. “I’m not done yet,” Rick cried, putting his hands on either side of Tim’s skull to make sure the purplish face stayed where it belonged.

Pat’s legs started bucking at nothing. He tried to flail his arms and push Rick off him, but Rick’s knees were pinning Tim’s arms to the mattress. The cocksucker’s throat gurgled more urgently, his eyes widening. “MMPHFFF!! MPFHGGGFFF!!!” His screams were muffled from a mouth full of cock.

Rick enjoyed seeing what his prick could do to Pat’s struggling face. The veins were becoming pronounced. It was fun seeing his twin transformed into someone, or something, else. In a way, Pat was starting to look quite ugly, but Rick found it sexy. It aroused him to know that if the roles were reversed, he would look exactly the same.

As Rick’s cock built up to a huge gusher, his fantasies took flight; he was alternately choking his brother, conquering a foe, even annihilating himself. “Fuck, you look so hot, you damned cock whore!” Rick gasped, his body in full arousal. His face became delirious. “Yeah! Gonna cum! Swallow my jerk sauce!”

He was in ecstasy as he opened his eyes to witness the alarmed expression on his brother’s now unrecognizable features. Only when his nuts kicked out their load was he jerked back to reality. That’s when Matt Sweeney’s strong hands slammed both boys’ skulls together and sent the youths reeling into deep sleep.

----------------------------------------​

Rick was the first to come to. That bump had inspired a migraine. All was dark around him. He sensed that he was in tight restraints, face-down, his head and shoulders somewhat higher than the rest of his still-naked body. Attempts to wrestle his tightly-bound ankles and wrists out of their confines caused thick chains to clang above him. There was no support beneath him; was he hanging in some mysterious, pitch-black limbo? His senses tried to pull it together.

From above, a door opened and a switch clicked on, flooding the room with bright light. Rick had to squint his eyes, but as they adjusted, he realized that directly before him, at exactly the same height and angle, his brother’s face was facing his and similarly hovering in mid-air. Pat likewise had a nasty head bump. The rattling of chains and bright light aroused him from his forced slumber.

“Ho-ho-ho! Merry Christmas!” a booming voice called from above before starting down some stairs.

The twins stared dumbfounded as the stranger wearing a fake beard and Santa Claus hat clanged a Christmas bell, making his way to them. As their eyes focused, they realized that the only other apparel he had on was a red leather jockstrap. A slight belly, cultivated from one too many beers every night, hung slightly over the strap. “Who the fuck are you?” they gasped.

“Think of me as one of Santa’s helpers.”

“Where are we?” Pat groaned.

“You’re at the Sweeney farm, punk. Same place where you stole my goddamned Christmas tree.”

Rick stared past the eyes and fake beard. “You’re Old Man Sweeney!” he blurted.

“And you’re Rick and Pat, the Veller boys,” Matt said, removing the hat and beard. “I’ve always known about you two.”

“What’s the meaning of this?” cried Pat.

Matt turned to him. “I suppose I’ve always had a flair for the theatrical. That should be obvious from my Christmas exhibit.” He walked over to his work table and pulled out a notebook. “Now, lessee. I’ve made a list, checked it twice. Seems you boys have been very naughty.”

“You’re no Santa Claus! You’ve ripped off all of Pottersville with your cheesy exhibit for years!” Pat yelled, seething with disgust. “Stupid disciples going around on a ferris wheel!”

Matt marched up to the boy and roughly grabbed his large flaccid cock. “Nice cock, very impressive,” he said, moving between the boys so they could better see him. “I’m guessing you’ve both got close to nine inches. Nice, but that sure can’t beat -- twelve.”

He undid the snap on his jockstrap, causing his sex organ to pop out of its confines. His young captives stared in horror, face-to-face with the longest, ugliest, coarsest looking cock they’d ever witnessed. It had dark, scraggly hairs all around it. There was indeed an inch for each of the twelve days of Christmas. “Don’t worry,” Matt said. “I’m straight. I don’t rape punks. I’m just doing this to get comfortable.”

Rick gulped. “What are you going to do with us?”

“Oh, that part’s easy,” Matt stated nonchalantly. “I’m going to kill you.”

Pat and Rick gasped. “Kill us?!”

Matt shrugged his shoulders. “You punks killed my tree, years before I was ready to take an axe to it. You worked together, did it as a team. I believe in an eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth. Yes, I’m going to destroy your beautiful bodies. Annihilate your brains. Send you to hell where you belong.”

Pat looked at his brother. “Rick -- DO something!”

Rick shook his chains, perspiration starting to dampen the thick hairs in his exposed armpits. “What the fuck can I do strung up like this?!” he shouted angrily.

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave them to know they had so much to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
He was such a bad man! He was such a mean jerk!


Matt grabbed Pat’s testicles, then looked back at the brother. “Rick, it’s game time. I’m thinking of an orchestral piece. Ballet companies perform it every Christmas. To spare yourself what I’m going to do to your brother, what is it?”

“Umm, the Nutcracker?”

“Right!”

“Goddamn it, bro!” Pat yelled. “Why the fuck did you answer him?”

Sharp fingernails pierced Pat’s soft but generous cum sacks, puncturing the skin, squeezing the nuts. His eyes crossed from the pain and he screamed in a falsetto voice that would’ve made the Mormon Tabernacle Choir proud. Matt’s nails cut right through the sack, pulverizing his balls. Raising his leg up, Matt then kicked Pat so hard in the balls his nuts flattened.

“AWGGHH!”

There was a moment of silence as Matt stood back and smiled innocently at the pair. Revenge is sweet.

Pat looked accusingly at his brother, barely able to find the words as Matt smiled and sipped on some egg nog. “Dammit, bro, this is all your fault. You wanted to steal the tree, and if you’d just fucking paid attention to me up in our room, we might’ve escaped!”

Matt laughed. “Tell you what, maybe I’ll just kill one of you. Let’s continue with our Christmas game, boys. The one of you with the least correct answers, I’m going to slice to hell with my chainsaw. Whoever wins I’ll just paint some real nifty Christmas colors.” He walked over to Rick. “OK, Pat, what was all the little kid with the whistley voice wanted for Christmas?”

“Don’t answer him, bro!” Rick shouted.

“His two front teeth?”

“FUCK!” Rick cried.

“Right you are!” Matt said victoriously, grabbing Rick by the hair and smashing his fist into the boy’s mouth so hard his body was sent flying into the air. Rick yelled as he felt his teeth break away from the gums. He spat out one tooth and accidentally swallowed another. The twins no longer looked exactly the same.

The chains eventually swung him back to his original position. Matt next picked up a propane torch. “Rick, your turn. While Jack Frost nips at your nose, what do you love to find roasting over an open fire?”

Rick licked at his bleeding mouth, empty holes where his front teeth used to be, then looked at his brother with growing anger and frustration. “Chestnuts.”

“DAMMIT!” Pat shouted.

Matt fired up the torch. “Correct!”

Sweat poured from every one of Pat’s pores as Matt brought the flame close to his scrotum. Pat wrenched his body, writhed in his chains and sobbed “NOOOOOOO!” Matt had anticipated such an outburst, however, and was able to keep up with Pat’s body movements.

The hairs on Pat’s balls instantly crackled with sparks, burning away like a crinkling Christmas tree during a bonfire. Rick could smell his brother’s burning flesh, and as Pat’s nuts turned lobster red, the orbs inside them danced in a futile attempt to escape the flame. The scrotum grew in size, sizzling as it got bigger, looking like an angry, reddish fruit. Soon it was splitting straight down the middle. The forest of blond pubic hair above the cock flashed with flame as it crinkled up and smoked. Before long, the entire cock was flaming, changing in color, somewhat red, almost translucent as it swelled. Then the cock started to char from the heat. Finally, the pressure from within caused Pat’s sex organ to literally explode -- semen, blood, and charred penile tissue falling away from the handsome youth’s pelvis like fireworks. Only a small, black nub of a cock, still sizzling and sparking from the heat, remained at his pelvis.

Matt looked back at Rick triumphantly. “Guess we can call him Tiny Tim now!” Pat’s sickly eyes were unfocused and his tongue hung out of his drooling mouth. Carefully, Matt cauterized the stub with flame. He didn’t want Pat to die from blood loss -- not yet, anyway.

Matt patted Rick on the shoulder. “Well, you got two points, compared to your brother’s one. So, you’re our Christmas winner. What would you like in your stocking, then, the chainsaw or the paint? Your choice.”

Rick shuddered. “The paint, of course.”

“Fair enough.” Matt adjusted the chains, maneuvering Rick’s body to become more vertical. Soon it was in an upright position, his shackled arms still high in the air and his armpits exposed.

Matt pulled over a couple of heavy paint buckets, opened one and started mixing the contents. Grabbing a heavy brush, he started slathering heavy brown paint all over Rick’s body from the neck down, humming “Oh Tannenbaum” as he worked. When he’d finished giving Rick’s trunk a once-over, he opened the second bucket, containing a green paint, and started applying it. Every crack, every corner, every hidden crevice of Rick’s physique got the benefit. Matt had to hand it to himself; Rick was looking beautiful.

Pat shook himself out of his nauseous haze so he could see what was happening to his brother. What was the purpose of painting Rick brown and green, he wondered, both hues having so little in common with a human being? He tried to put himself inside Matt’s twisted mind. “Uh, oh,” he thought.

Sure enough, Matt left the basement and after several trips back had dropped off many armloads of evergreen branches. “While you boys were unconscious,” Matt said cheerfully, “I took that tree you stole from me and cut it up. Now we’re gonna make a new one,” he snickered.

He eyed Rick. “Sorry, kid, guess I didn’t mention what all went with your paint job.” Taking a power drill, Matt aimed it directly into Rick’s spine, expertly cutting through the bone and effectively paralyzing him.

“YEOOOWWWWW!!!” Rick screamed. His eyes started bawling like a baby’s.

With Rick no longer capable of voluntary movement, Matt was free to easily transfer Rick’s shackled arms to a pole. Using a saw, Matt then carved through Rick’s ankles, chopping off both feet. After cauterizing both leg stumps, he guided them into a heavy pot which was promptly filled to the rim with dirt.

Matt had whittled each tree branch to a very sharp point. “Let’s see, where shall we start?” he mused. “Decisions, decisions.” Matt opted for the right thigh muscle. He used the drill to create deep tunnels in Rick’s hamstrings. Now Rick was obviously in shock. Saliva was dripping freely from his mouth. Pat decided his brother’s eyes had the weirdest expression he’d ever seen. He wondered how similar his own eyes looked.

Matt worked quickly. Each time he pulled the drill out of Rick’s leg muscle, there was a spurting of blood, but Matt made sure to stop up the leakage with a tree branch and prompt cauterization. Taking a smaller twig with only a few leaves at the end, he grabbed Rick’s brown-painted but still intact cock. It took mere seconds to push the thin branch all the way up Rick’s urethra and into the lower intestine.

Then Matt took a larger branch, rough with bark, and slammed it up Rick’s ass, tearing into the boy’s tender anal lining. “The angles are wrong, but we’ll fix that with the other branches,” Matt explained to Pat.

Then Matt aimed his power drill into the boy’s navel. With no abdominal fat to speak of, only strong abdominal muscles separated Rick’s intestines from the outside air. Rick’s flat belly was no match for so powerful a drill. The bit easily chewed through the navel and into Rick’s intestines. After Matt yanked the tool out, a red fountain of visceral material shot out of the belly button. As always, Matt plugged up the bleeding with another tree branch. Rick made similar holes throughout the boy’s torso and armpits.

Now Matt grabbed a ladder and stood on it so he could properly tend to Rick’s face and head. “Such a perfect face,” Matt said. “Not a flaw, other than the broken front teeth! Not a line or wrinkle. Who wouldn’t want to look into those beautiful eyes and kiss that button nose?”

Lovingly, he pinched the nose shut, took a saw, and carved the nose cartilage straight off of Rick’s face. A moan swelled up from Rick’s throat as blood gushed down his mouth, neck and chest.

The ordeal proved too much for him. After several involuntary spasms, Rick’s body slipped forever into unconsciousness.

Matt pulled away to show Pat his work. There was a fresh, ugly red hole in the middle of Rick’s face. Rick’s mouth was wide open, frozen with pain, only jagged edges remaining of his nose. Matt looked back at Pat triumphantly, took the nose and popped it into his mouth. “Aren’t you glad you didn’t get the paint?” he grinned as he chewed and swallowed.

Next, Matt sliced off both ears. Pat assumed his brother wasn’t feeling anything anymore, but when their host violently slammed a tree branch into Rick’s left eyeball, the body did some faint tremblings. Twisting the branch clockwise and digging in deep, the branch became anchored inside the head. Moving over to Rick’s right eye, Matt repeated the process.

Blood and brains were bubbling out of both sockets now, red ooze dripping down the body and mixing with the green and brown paint. “Such beautiful Christmas colors,” Matt observed. A branch was thrust into the nose socket and two or three more were stuck into Rick’s throat. Then Matt painted Rick’s entire face brown to mask his facial features.

Pat numbly stared at his brother’s new look. The body’s sleek physique was camouflaged with branches but generally intact, the muscular arms still raised high to the ceiling, branches speared down the middle of the armpit hairs, which were all gummy with sticky green paint. Blood had mixed with almost all of the oily pigment. Who knew what the skin tone was like underneath that mess of blood, paint, and branches?

Unfortunately, Rick’s handsome face had been devastatingly reduced to little more than an ornament. Pat couldn’t even make out that Rick was minus his two front teeth. The ornament seemed to be looking through Pat and past him, a silent emptiness inside the eerie form and blind eye sockets.

Matt continued drilling into the corpse, replacing each fresh hole with a new branch. Branches were thrust deep into the ear holes and throughout the skull. When all the branches were embedded inside Rick, Matt lovingly pruned him, shaping the plant into a beautiful display. Once rigor mortis set in, Matt would carry the tree out to the yard, where it would quickly freeze into place. Only then would he hang cookies, blinking lights and tinsel, making the display quite a festive eye-catcher.

As Matt put away his saw, he smiled at the remaining brother. “Pretty nifty, huh?”

Pat had sorrowfully watched the entire ordeal. He knew he was a goner. He looked up sullenly at his tormentor. “Why would you do this? Why care so much about your goddamned Christmas display? Why make such a fucking effort if you don’t feel the Christmas spirit?”

Matt laughed. “You think I care about Christmas? Kid, I don’t give a damn about it. I’m a businessman, just like the rest of the world. An opportunist.”

“What do you mean?”

“I do that display for the money. What do you think makes Christmas happen, kid? Good will? Ha! Big business is what Christmas is all about. I make tons of dough off that fucker! Wall Street is what keeps Christmas alive! It’s all about money and greed. Listen, Tiny Tim, there’s nothing logical about Christmas.”

Pat looked at him sadly. "Nothing?"

“Hell, no. It’s Christian mythology. Tell me, why is his birthday on December 25? Did that first year only last for a week, until January 1st? Why isn’t his birthday on January 1st?!”

“I guess I hadn’t thought about it,” Pat admitted.

“Of course you hadn’t; you’re one of many brainless sheep! And where's the logic behind ‘God so loved the world he gave his only son’? He created an entire universe in merely a week; why couldn’t he just whip up another ‘son’? He’s God, after all!” Pat had no ready answer. “And what can you say about a philosophy so hung up about sex that they have to make the kid’s very mother a virgin?!”

“I suppose it is sorta dumb,” Pat conceded.

“Of course it is. Listen, peabrain, the same thing that happened to Jesus happened to JFK and Martin Luther King. When we kill someone, they become bigger than life. So maybe now your brother will become a saint.” He laughed.

Matt strode over to his chainsaw. “Can anybody in their right mind honestly swallow all the shit that comes with Christianity? Adam and Eve? No such thing as evolution? A god who talks to us with a deep bass voice? It’s all so primitive, so silly. C’mon, pal, what’s your take on it? Can anybody tell me what Christmas is really all about?”

Pat thought for a second. Then he had an epiphany. “Yes. I can!”

Matt cocked his head; he’d indulge the little fucker during his last minutes on earth. For this brief moment of time, Matt was all ears.

Pat took a deep breath. “You’re right, it’s a sham, as make-believe as Santa’s elves! But we buy into it, or at least go through the motions! We have to! Cuz otherwise, every last one of us would wind up total psychos like you!”

Matt was stopped dead in his tracks. He appeared to have been hit by a ton of bricks. His mouth opened wide. “Holy shit, you’re right!” he laughed. He had to sit down on his chainsaw, he was so taken aback. “Hot damn! Yeah, that’s it… finally -- a logical reason for Christmas! Someone said something that actually makes sense!”

Pat was quite impressed with himself that his words worked so well. “Uh, does this mean you’re going to let me live -- even though you burned off my dick?” He briefly imagined life without a cock. Not great, he figured, but maybe he could find a dick donor.

Matt considered the proposition. He knew that what the lad had told him was downright profound, as important a speech as the one Linus gave Charlie Brown about the Magi. If Matt was ever to reclaim his soul, it was time for Scrooge to help Tiny Tim. If there was an ounce of humanity left in Matt, now was the moment to fly down Mount Crumpet and return all the presents to Whoville.

Matt stood, shot Pat a look and fired up his saw. “Fat chance, punk.”

----------------------------------------​

Mr. and Mrs. Veller hoped to run into their boys at Matt Sweeney’s Christmas Eve spectacle. They hadn’t heard from their sons in a couple days, but everybody who was anybody was expected to attend. After all, Matt had put up signs all over town promising an event “immensely theatrical,” something nobody would soon forget.

What could it be? A visit from Santa? Fireworks? Perhaps a mock crucifixion?

One of Matt’s new displays sported some humor which left Mr. and Mrs. Veller disgusted but amused. Behind a sleigh, complete with Santa and all eight reindeer, he’d actually had the gall to create a realistic pile of carnage. Large chunks of bloody red meat had been strewn across the white snow, along with a frilly red dress and gray wig. The sign said:

“Grandma Got Run Over
By A Reindeer”

Everyone laughed heartily over that one.

Shortly before midnight, unbeknownst to the crowd, Matt got inside his van, drove up into the mountains, and watched the festivities from a cliff directly over his farm.

It was time to go out in a big way.

At precisely midnight, Matt pressed a remote control button. In rapid succession, explosions blew up his home, his barn, all his Christmas displays, the entire farm and virtually everybody on it. “FUCKKKKK!!” they all screamed as each new explosion sent broken body parts soaring miles into the air. It was total chaos.

Far above the spectacle, Matt shot everyone the finger. He couldn’t help but chuckle at his success; he’d virtually taken out an entire town.

Matt returned to his van. He was still laughing as he turned the ignition key and took a final look at the raging inferno. By dawn, he’d be in Canada.

His chuckle quickly rose to a hearty, sinister laugh. His belly started to shake, much like a bowlful of jelly.


And so, he exclaimed, as he drove out of sight,
“Merry Christmas to all! And to all, a good night.”
 
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