Sausagey Santa (3 page)

Decapitron puts on her vulture smile when she sees me in the outfit. Whenever we’re about to have sex she has a weird smile on her face that I call her vulture smile.

“It’s mating season in the winter forest,” Decapitron says on all fours, looking at me from across the room.

She swipes her hand against the carpet like the front leg of a bull as it prepares to skewer a rodeo clown. Then she jumps to her feet and charges at me with full speed, pointing her antlers at me.

“Holy fuck!” I scream as I see her barreling towards me.

I lower my head and her antlers crash into mine, throwing me back into the Christmas tree. My body thrashes the tree around and I can hear ornaments falling from the tree branches in the living room below.

“You have to do better than that,” she tells me. “The winner of this contest gets the mate of his choosing.”

I get to my feet and charge at her, hoping to stab her a little in the chest. She never takes it easy on me when we have sex and makes me pay for it if I ever take it easy on her. She sees me coming at her and starts charging towards me at full force.

Our antlers smash into each other. A loud clack vibrates through the room. She kicks me in the stomach and backs away. My belly explodes with pain and I fall to my knees. I look up at her. Blood is trickling out of her mouth. I must have nicked her lip when we clashed.

Decapitron charges at me again before I’m ready, but I get to my feet in time. We lock antlers. I push on her with all my strength and she pushes back, my heels sliding across the carpeting. She whips her head to the side, twisting my neck around, and forces me to the ground.

“Looks like I’m the alpha male,” she says.

This is the time I know I need to fight back with all my strength or else she’s going to get out her strap-on and fuck me in the ass to really show me that she’s the man. I jerk my antlers around until they unlock from hers and then I plant them directly in her ribs. She yelps at me and kicks me in the face. I squirm away from her and she charges at me again. She backs me against a wall and then rams her antlers at my neck. They miss my neck, just barely. The antlers break through the wall next to each of my cheeks, trapping me between them.

Decapitron’s breath is heavy against my chest. My breath is heavy against her forehead. I have heavy breaths because I am tired, she has heavy breaths because she is turned on. She pulls my penis out of a flap in the green latex and massages it. I can’t see it but I know she has a vulture smile on her face.

We move to the bed and make love. She straps my wrists to the bedposts and pokes at my chest with her antlers as she fucks. Once she approaches orgasm the pokes turn into stabs. When she’s done she curls around me and goes to sleep. She doesn’t untie me. She doesn’t give me my turn to cum. But she’s left my penis inside of her so I wiggle my hips beneath her until a small pathetic orgasm drips out.

I sigh and try to get comfortable. The Christmas lights on the tree at the foot of our bed and the antlers poking into my chest and neck make it difficult to fall asleep.

CHAPTER THREE

COFFEE BIRDS

I awake to the sound of hooves on the ceiling.

Damn it, Christmas Eve sex always gives me nightmares. Last year I had nightmares about being a piece of candy in some kid’s stocking and now I’m having dreams about reindeer on my roof.

My eyes widen. My head clears. The hooves continue scraping at my rooftop. It’s not a dream anymore. I listen carefully. There are bells and animal grunts and clomping hooves.

The Christmas tree at the foot of the bed shakes. I look at it. It shakes again. I hear noises coming from the hole in the floor, belches and squishy squeaks. The tree rustles at me.

“Wake up,” I whisper to Decapitron.

She snores on top of me.

I wiggle under her body and say, “Hey, come on.”

She groans as she wakes.

“What’s going on?” she says.

“Listen,” I say.

The tree rustles and an ornament pops off of a branch and lands on our bed. She sees it and sits up.

“It’s Santa,” she says.

“What’s he doing here?” I ask.

“What do you mean?” she says. “He comes every year .

“Which Santa?” I ask. “Yours or mine.”

“There’s only one Santa,” she says.

“Untie me,” I say. “I wanna see.”

“No,” she says, pressing her cheek against my chest. “Stay here. You’ll only upset him if you go down there.”

“But what if it’s a burglar?” I say.

“I’ll annihilate any burglar that ever steps foot in this house.”

Then she goes back to sleep.

I hear Angelica screaming at the top of her lungs downstairs.

Decapitron jerks awake and nearly gouges out one of my eyes with an antler.

“What’s going on?” she says.

“Angelica is downstairs,” I say.

“Christ,” she says. “Santa’s going to be pissed.”

She unties me and races down to intercept our kindergartener from the intruder.

I see him standing in front of our Christmas tree, oysters in hand. He’s looking at the bottom of the empty stein.

“Arrrgh!” says a thick growling voice. “Who the hell drank me beer?”

It’s him. It’s really him. It’s my wife’s version of Santa. He’s standing there, jiggling. He wears gray and white rather than red and white, but other than that, his clothes looks just the same as the Santa image I grew up with. His face on the other hand is quite different. It is a balloon of sausage. He has a big white beard but his nose is a gherkin and his eyes are green olives. His mouth is a gaping hole that uses walnuts for teeth.

Angelica is just staring up at him, no longer screaming.

He pats her head with his Vienna sausage fingers and smiles his rotten meat hole at her.

“Here,” I tell the blobby Santa, “I’ll fill up your beer.”

He gargles at me as I take him away from my daughter to show him where the beer tap is on the bar.

“Arr, arr, arrrrgh,” he says, pouring himself a glass of stout. “Thank ye very much, me laddo. I’m rarely offered drinks on Ole X-mas Eve and usually have to resort to raiding the liquor cabinets.”

For some reason Santa sounds more like a pirate than I thought he would.

“Arr, arr, arrrgh!”

He even says arrgh instead of ho.

“Drink as much as you like,” Decapitron says, stepping toward the deformed creature in her sexy latex outfit.

“Aye, me lass,” he says, nodding his head at her thighs.

“Aye.”

She vulture-smiles and bows her antlers at him.

Angelica begins to cry.

Santa approaches her and lifts her up onto his lap.

“There, there me wee lassie,” he says to her. “I’m not so bad, am I? I’m just a big hot dog. How can ye be scared of a big hot dog?”

She pouts her lips at him.

“Are ye scared of hot dogs?” he asks.

“Look,” he says, lifting his wiener-like index finger and shaking it in her face. In a cute baby-talk voice, he says, “Are ye scared of the hot dog? Are ye scared, munchie munchie?”

Angelica giggles at him.

“Arrgh,” he says, “Yer a good lassie.”

He puts her on her feet and pats her butt. “Now, go on you back to bed. Have pleasant dreams and I’ll leave something special for ye under the tree.”

The little chainsaw angel sticks her finger in her mouth and runs up the stairs to bed.

“Aye, a sweet kid that one is,” Santa says. “Ye don’t mind if I take a wee break here for a while do ya?”

He leans back in a chair and lights up a corncob pipe with peppermint tobacco.

“Make yourself at home,” my wife tells him.

“Good old Decapitron,” he says, checking out her cleavage. “Always treats her Santa like family.”

I have no idea what the fuck just happened to my reality. If I’m not dreaming, there is a strange piratey Santa made out of sausage sitting on my living room couch flirting with my wife.

I’m not exactly sure what I should do right now so I take off the antler helmet and straighten my hairdo in a mirror.

“Arrgh, the sly guy!” Santa yells at me, raising his beer stein in approval. “Your sly guy hairstyle is legendary at the North Pole.”

The words flow like hot butterscotch through my ears.

“What is that?” I ask him.

“Your sly guy style,” Santa says. “It is very popular amongst the elves. They be grateful ye invented it. Too bad it didn’t catch on in yer neck of the woods.”

I don’t know if he’s yanking my chain or not, but he’s given me the greatest Christmas present he possibly could have given. All I ever wanted was for my hairdo to be appreciated by others. I always wanted it to catch on and become a hip new trend.

“Cheers, me lad,” Santa says.

Then he chugs down his beer.

After he finishes his pipe and another beer, Santa says, “Thanks for ye hospitality, Decapitron, but I must be on me way.” He kisses her on the knuckles with his walnut teeth. Then he comes to me. “And thank you, Sly Guy Matthew Fry.” He shakes my hand with Vienna sausage fingers.

“Take care, the both of ye.”

He pulls out a jar of orange marmalade and digs his hand in to pull out a glob. A whistling-whoosh sound fills the air and causes Santa to drop his dollop of jam on the floor.

His tiny earholes on the sides of his face widen to the sound and his eyes roll in circles.

“No . . .” he says. “It couldn’t be . . .”

Santa gloop-jiggles over to the window and peeks through the blinds.

Several whistling-whoosh sounds are come from outside. “Holy Christ on a cross,” Santa says. “They’ve found

me!”

Whistling-whooshes grow louder.

“Ye’ve got to take the children and get to safety,” he says to my wife. “Go through the back door and run. Run and don’t ye look back.”

Decapitron runs upstairs.

I look out of the window, wondering what the heck the fuss is about. Small black blurs are flying through the air towards

the house.

“What are they?” I ask him.

“Coffee birds I call ‘em,” Santa says. “Bastards come after me every year but they ain’t found me in over a dozen decades. Me deer are just too fast for ‘em.”

They do look like birds made out of coffee. They are flying blobs of hot liquid that pierce through the frosty air, leaving trails of stream. One of them slices into a snowman out front, melting a hole through its icy head. The coffee bird settles inside of the snowman’s brain, causing a mist to pour out of its eyes and skull. Then the snowman comes alive.

It is the one with pineapples on its head like spiky bunny ears and phone cords dangling out of its body like tentacles. The face on the snowman starts to move. Its mouth hisses. The phone cord tentacles flap into the air as it begins to slide across the snow towards the house.

More coffee birds penetrate the snowmen outside, bringing them to life.

“What the fuck!” I say.

“Arr, ye must get out now!” Santa says.

All of the two dozen snowmen we made today are now alive and heading towards the house. The snowmen in our neighbor’s yards are also coming to life and crossing the street. The coffee birds circle above, searching for more snowmen in the area.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll catch you later.”

Upstairs, Nora and Angelica are putting on slippers. Decapitron has holstered the twins to her back but didn’t bother changing out of her green reindeer fetish outfit.

“The snowmen, they’ve . . . ” I begin.

She snaps her fingers to hurry me up.

“They’ve come for Sausagey Santa . . . ”

We go downstairs. Snowballs are being pelted at the side of the house.

“It’s too late, me buckaroos,” Santa says, crying at us and wiping the tears away with his beard. “They’ve got the place surrounded.”

“Don’t worry, Santa,” Nora says, placing her hand on his elbow. “My mom won’t let anything happen to you.”

“That’s nice of ye to say me la—” Santa leaps away from Nora with a yelp as he notices the bloody growth on the side of her face.

Even a sausage hideous monstrosity like Santa finds Nora disturbing.

The snowman with axes for limbs begins chopping at the front door. Santa and I look at each other with squealing faces.

“Quick,” he says. “Up the chimney. We’ll all take me sleigh to safety.”

Santa grabs the jar of marmalade and gives it to Angelica.

“Quick,” he says to her. “Lube yourself up!”

Angelica pretends she knows all about lubing herself up. But, since she doesn’t, she just stands there looking at it until her sister takes it out of her hand and applies it to her own body.

After Nora is finished lubing herself up she rubs the jam onto her sister and gives the jar back to Santa.

“Why are we all orangey?” Angelica asks the sausage

man.

“Arrr, didn’t Decapitron ever tell ye?” Santa says. “There is magic in marmalade. Just a glob of this magic jelly and you will

be able to slide into any sized hole when going down. It is also sticky enough to help you climb up sheer walls when going up.” Angelica pretends she knows all about climbing sheer

walls.

Santa has Nora lead the way. The deformed girl climbs up the chimney like Spiderman with her jammy palms.

“Good,” Santa says.

Then he helps Angelica with her chainsaw angel wings enter the fireplace. Once she gets inside, she scurries up the chimney like a mouse.

The front door breaks away and three snowmen enter the room. One of them with axes for limbs, one of them with a twirling fan for a face, and one with a sledgehammer for a head.

Santa jumps into the fireplace and leaps into the air, squeezing himself through the chimney. After a few feet, he doesn’t move anymore.