The Devil Don’t Bleed (Secret Santa 7)
The fat red cocksucker lay face-down spreadeagled, like he was prostrating himself before ma imitation fireplace. I went to stand over him, now he more resembled an outsized squished bug on a windshield. I sped-dialed through ma best i-Tunes hooked up to ma live gig-sized speakers. Until Billie came a crooning ’bout “Gloomy Sunday”. Seemed appropriate, seeing as ma damn rug was ruined, what with all that soot.
Wha? I don’t believe it! The fat fuck was even eating on his way down the chimney? Since, lying there on the floor was a half-eaten burger. Winking at me with a mustard tear and katsup lividity. A buzzing suddenly overpowered the room. Ma babies, all that cholesterol’s no good for them, but wha’d’ya gonna do? Kids a’today got no respect for their parents. I needn’t have worried maself. They ignored the processed meat and went straight for the real stuff beneath the red robes. Hellfire! There goes the plan to just burn the evidence, now that ma babies were all over him like a shroud. I need me to think.
Damn me an’ ma vanity. Couldn’t just forge a plain old poker now could I? No, I toasted this marshmallow with a hand-wrought three-pronged trident. Written there on his ass in triplicate. Can hardly say it was one and a half vampires in a cult now can I? I could claim I thought he was robbing ma house. Take ma chances before a jury of ma peers. Except I have no peers. None at all. I’d say there used to be one up top, but if this is the caliber of people on His payroll these days, then I say we ain’t got nothin’ in common. He never shoulda split up our partnership. We coulda cleaned up. He kept the TV channels and I got the biker gangs and hit men. At least ma biker guys’ beards ain’t strap-ons like this hump’s.
I killed Billie and searched for some Robert for some affirmation. A flavor of the good old days. Bobby didn’t let me down, cos there was jis no let up with him. Ever. I could jis try and cover this whole thing up. Keep dead Santa here a secret. But then the damned smell always gives you away. So likely I’m gonna have ta hightail it again. Cross off yet another State from the map. Have I done West Virginia? Can’t rightly recall. They all start to blend into one another. The problem is always with the smell. It takes me so long to mask the sulfur in any new place. How did I settle on that one? Unlike Him with his perfumed breath of lilies of the valley and roses of Sharon. Makes me gag even jis thinking of it.
There was a rap on the door. I reeled round, hand automatically reaching for the poker. Damn, prong side up and I’ve drawn some of ma own blood. This had better only be that old crone from next door complaining about the music again…