243 lines
15 KiB
Plaintext
243 lines
15 KiB
Plaintext
______ ______ ______________
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\ / \ / ____ \ ______|
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| |________| | / \ | |____
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| ________ | ( {} ) | _____)
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/~~~~~~~~~~~ | | | | \____/ | |______ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~\
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| |~~~~~~~ / \ / \ / | ~~~~~~~~~| |
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| | |______| |______| /_____________| | |
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| | Hogs of Entropy Text Files Present... | |
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| | "Santa Claws MUST DIE!" | |
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| | By: The Chickenlord | |
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\ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ /
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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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"Just look at this! Would you look at this! Look at the roof!!" My
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father pointed down at the torn shingles which littered our roof. A stretch
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of about twenty feet was utterly destroyed. Broken and splintered shingles
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were scattered everywhere, and holes were punched through the tar paper
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every few inches.
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"We're gonna have to have the entire roof redone! At least three
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thousand dollars right there!" My father clawed at his hair as he turned
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around. "And the chimney! There's another three or four thousand!"
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I turned to look at the chimney. What was left of the chimney. What
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once been nearly four feet tall was now merely a pile of bricks. Most of
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them broken or crushed. The roof around the chimney had bulged outward:
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another repair.
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"I can't believe this! We didn't even hear a damn thing. What could
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have done this?" I told him I had no idea, but that was a lie.
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As we made our way down the ladder, I thought about last night.
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Christmas Eve. I had been up late, as always, watching TV. There was
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nothing special on, just countless airings of It's a Wonderful Life and
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continuous episodes of _The Real World_ on MTV. Like I said, nothing
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special. Just as I had turned off the tube, a quick movement in the corner
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of my eye caught my attention. I whirled around in time to see a bit of red
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disappearing up the chimney.
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"What the hell was that?" I had thought to myself. When I stuck my
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head into the fireplace to check it out, something crashed into my forehead,
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knocking me down. The object had been a brick, covered in soot. It was
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followed by many others. After shaking off the blow to my head, I had gone
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up to bed. I decided it would be best to keep quiet.
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When my father and I reached the ground, he drew in the ladder's
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extension and carried it into the garage. I stayed behind to take a peek in
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the bushes by the side of the house. Laying half-covered in the snow I
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found a red and white stocking hat. Just as I suspected. I picked it out
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of the snow, revealing an empty bottle of Jack Daniels. Ah ha! So it HAD
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been Santa Claws. And that old bastard had been drunk too.
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Once again, I decided it would be best if I kept my discoveries to
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myself. I could take care of this situation on my own.
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A year passed, and eventually Christmas came around again. It had
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taken us two months to fix the damages from last year, ringing up a total
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cost of nine thousand dollars. And our insurance company didn't pitch in
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one damn cent. Communist bastards. Fed us some bullshit about a clause in
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our contract, about not being responsible for any acts of God. Act of God
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my ass. Funny thing neither me nor my father remembered that clause being
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in the contract when it had been signed. And I don't think that Santa
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getting drunk and tearing up our roof is an "Act of God." Assholes.
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So my father footed the entire bill himself. Said I would have to
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put off getting a car for a long time. That did it. Not only did that fat
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drunk destroy my roof, knock down my chimney, and hit me in the head with a
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brick, he had taken away my only hope of getting a car. I was gonna make
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him pay.
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I had been plotting my revenge for an entire year. The past three
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months I had saved every penny to buy a crossbow. Top of the line, spared
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no expense. I was gonna do this right. With a 180 lb. draw, it had the
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power to shoot through a concrete block. Which was just what I had in mind.
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The day of Christmas Eve, I snuck the crossbow out of my room and
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stashed it in our tree. I removed the wood from the fireplace and put a
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fake plastic set in its place. Another month's worth of saving. Even
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though the new chimney was less than a year old, I made sure it was clear
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from obstructions. Wouldn't want Santa to get stuck stuffing his fat ass
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down my chimney, now would we?
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By the time I had finished setting up for the big event, it was well
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past four o' clock. My parents were prancing around the house with joy.
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Must've been that "Christmas Spirit" I hear everyone talking about. Never
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experienced it myself. To me, the Christmas spirit was what I hoped to
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watch rise from Santa's lifeless body after I slayed him. But I was
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exhausted, Christmas spirit or not, so I laid down on the couch to catch
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some sleep before night came.
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As soon as I hit the couch I was asleep, and the next thing I knew I
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was sitting up, the living room pitch black around me. I pressed the light
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button on my watch, a cheap Timex from the Christmas before. It said 11:37.
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"Fuck!" I shouted. I had probably missed him. A whole year's worth
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of planning for nothing. I jumped off the couch and found my way to the
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light switch on the far side of the room. I flipped on the light and looked
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toward the fireplace. Even though I had to squint from the light, I could
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still see that the fireplace was still intact. He hadn't come yet.
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I sat down, relieved, and almost fell back asleep again. I couldn't
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believe how tired I was, considering I had just taken a seven-hour nap.
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Maybe it had something to do with Santa. Could it be possible that he was
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some sort of wizard, with the power to put all living creatures in his
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presence to sleep? Or could it just be that I was unexplainibly tired?
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Most likely the latter.
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I shook off the urge to return to my slumber, and walked to the
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fireplace. I HAD to stay awake!! I looked down at the false log set I had
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placed in there earlier that day. It almost looked real. But not quite.
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Oh well, it didn't matter. Santa wasn't going to be staying long anyway. I
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reached up onto the mantle, grabbed the gas ignition key, and inserted it
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into the large square keyhole. I turned the key as far to the right as it
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would turn. Once I heard the hiss of escaping gas, I lit the Zippo I
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carried in my back pocket and held it in the fireplace.
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The gas ignited instantly, burning off the hair on my hand and
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halfway up my arm. "Sonofabitch!" I cursed as I yanked my hand out of the
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flames, dropping my Zippo as I did. It fell under the gas pipe in the
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fireplace, still lit. Seconds later the metal casing popped. A fifteen
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dollar lighter, ruined. Something else I would have to take out on Santa.
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Using my unburned hand, I slowly turned the key counter-clockwise until the
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flame was barely visible under the artificial log set. The plastic on the
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logs had burned quite badly on the underside, producing a cloud of toxic
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black smoke which steadily rose up the chimney. Another treat for Santa.
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After turning off the light, I fetched my crossbow from inside the
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tree. It was a beauty. And so were the ten-inch titanium bolts I had
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bought to go with it. I carefully perched the crossbow on the coffee table,
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pointing it towards the fireplace. With great pains I was able to cock it,
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and I ever-so-carefully placed a single black bolt against the string. All
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set to go. Now all I needed was a Santa. And perhaps a kitchen knife. I
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hurried into the kitchen to fetch our best knife, which was a nine-inch
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serrated butcher's knife. Beautiful. Just then, a crash sounded from
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above.
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I raced to the living room and ducked behind the coffee table.
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Within moments, a clamor came from above as several bricks fell down the
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chimney. They were followed by the butt of a great big fat man dressed in
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red. Santa was here. I took no sympathy on that drunken bastard as I moved
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the crosshairs of the sight onto Santa's chest. Just as Santa turned my
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direction, I fired.
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I would have paid my life's savings and more to capture the look on
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Santa's face as he realized he was being shot at. He stared in confusion at
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first, but then his eyes opened wide and his mouth gaped in shock. Shock
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and fear.
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The bolt traveled smoothly in its short path through the air to Santa
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But the sight must've been off, because the bolt buried itself into his left
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shoulder instead of his chest. The sheer power of the shot forced him back
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against the bricks of the chimney. But the bolt did not stop at the bone of
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Santa's shoulder. It exited through the back and dug two inches into the
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brick. Santa was pinned!
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The puncture wound was spurting blood, darkening his already red suit
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quickly. Drunken screams came from his mouth, but they were mostly shouts
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of shock rather than pain. He was too loaded to feel anything. I
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approached the babbling Santa, brandishing the knife menacingly before me.
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Drunk as he was, Santa recognized the knife as an instrument of pain, and
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attempted to shy away. The titanium bolt held though, and with every effort
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he made, Santa ripped his wound open even more. Blood poured out onto the
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bricks, and was slowly trickling down into the fireplace.
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I held the knife against Santa's wriggling body, and pressed on his
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stomach. His overly large stomach. Enough blubber there to feed a family
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for a week, I thought to myself as I mercilessly inserted the blade into the
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jolly rolls which now shook with terror instead of laughter. A small ring
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of blood formed around the blade as its full nine inches slowly penetrated
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Santa's skin. Nine inches in, and it hadn't even punctured the other side.
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Disgusted, I yanked the blade out, pleased by the tears of anguish coming
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from dear old Saint Nick. Now the blood was starting to flow. From
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Santa's stomach erupted a steady flow of blood, pulsating with every fading
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heartbeat.
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I threw the knife down, leaving a bloodstain on the carpeting. Big
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deal! There was more on the chimney. Santa was still trying to escape, his
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life force rapidly escaping through his two bleeding wounds. When he came
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to the realization that he wasn't going to live, Santa began to cry. No,
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not crying, he was sobbing. Nothing made me sicker than a crybaby. I
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raised a bloody hand, curled it into a fist, and brought it down on Santa's
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fat face. His head jerked to the side with the impact, and he continued his
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sobbing. I hit him again. And again. I beat him until he was on the brink
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of consciousness, his white beard now red from the blood of fresh cuts on
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his cheeks. One eye was nearly swollen shut, and his nose was definitely
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broken. More blood flowed from Santa's mouth, much brighter than the blood
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which was still oozing from from his stomach and shoulder.
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Santa's body had gone limp, all bodily control was now lost. The
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bolt in his shoulder was the only thing holding him up. I grasped this with
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both hands and yanked. Nothing. I braced a foot against the wall for more
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power, and tugged again. Still nothing. That bolt wasn't going anywhere.
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So I grabbed Santa's body instead. With a hand on either side of the
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puncture on his shoulder, I pulled the body toward me. His shoulder slid
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slowly along the length of the shaft, coming free at the end.
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I was suddenly holding up Santa's three hundred pound body on my own.
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I nearly collapsed. Santa fell between my arms, and slumped backwards. His
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body fell halfway into the fireplace, his legs hanging out onto my living
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room carpet. I kicked them in as far as they would go. Santa was still
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moaning faintly, his last breaths being used for useless pleads for mercy.
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No mercy. Not for this overweight sack of shit.
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Reaching down, I found the gas key. With a quick twist of the wrist,
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I turned it to the left as far as it went. Flames leaped up from the
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ignition pipe beneath the plastic log set. It was engulfed in flames, along
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with Santa's now lifeless body. A thick black cloud rapidly filled the
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room, smelling of burnt plastic and singed hair. And flesh. The burning
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flesh was the worst, yet somehow a pleasant odor.
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In less than five minutes, Santa's body was reduced to a pile of
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ashes and smoke. The gas flames reached up the chimney, reaching for more
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fuel. More food. I slowly turned the gas key to the "Off" position, the
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flames dying in protest as they were sucked into the pipe. My hand shook as
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I picked up the bloodied knife off the bloodstained carpeting. Was it fear?
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Nervousness? Perhaps the delayed shock of tonight's events?
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I didn't take the time to think it over. I returned the butcher's
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knife to its place in the rack, blood and all. Not even stopping to pick up
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my crossbow, I walked down the hallway to my bedroom and closed the door
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behind me. What would happen to the reindeer? How would my parents react
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when they found the mess? Who would take over Santa's job? I didn't care.
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I had killed Santa, a justifiable punishment for a crime he had undoubtedly
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committed countless times to peoples worldwide. I had killed Santa Claws,
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and now I was tired. So I went to sleep, with dreams of sugar-plums dancing
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through my head.
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|=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=|
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| _____ Call Goat Blowers Anonymous for the LATEST HOE! _____ |
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| 6/ ^..^ (215) 750 - 0392 ^..^ \9 |
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| \_____(oo) This Issues Featured Support Board is: (oo)_____/ |
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| WW WW Voices in Time WW WW |
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| (603) 898 - 1894 |
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| ...the kings of modern goofiness... |
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Copyright (c) 1994 HoE Publications and Chickenlord. #59 --> 02/04/95
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All rights Reserved.
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