Sausagey Santa Read online

  My wife’s favorite tradition is to sit around and tell Santa stories on Christmas Eve just before bed. It seems like a fun tradition when you think about it. I’m sure a lot of kids would like to hear tales of Rudolf, Frosty, Mr. and Mrs. Claus, presents, Santa’s toy shop, elves, and winter wonderlands. But the problem is Decapitron doesn’t tell any of those stories. Her family raised her to believe in a different Santa mythos. One that I find a bit disturbing and not suitable for kids.

  Decapitron tells the story of Sausagey Santa.

  She says it is the true story of Santa Claus. According to her, Santa was once a king of a small country who hated children and Jesus so much that he tried to outlaw both of them in his land. King Kringle was a ruthless tyrant who sent his armies from village to village burning down their churches. All children under the age of twelve were rounded up and shipped overseas to be sold into slavery. And all men were forbidden to impregnate their wives under the penalty of death.

  This went on for only eighteen months until the citizenry picked up arms and conquered Kringle’s armies. But he was not killed. His people instead left his punishment up to God.

  The Almighty Lord decided to damn Kris Kringle to an immortal life. He would spend eternity spreading holy joy and cheer to the children of the world by delivering them presents every Christmas Eve. It was a living hell for the ex-king. He attempted suicide several times, but he just couldn’t die. Whenever he chopped off his head or got his reindeer to quarter him, the elves would just sew him back together and send him on his way. The elves were master craftsmen and there was no organ in Santa’s body that they couldn’t fix no matter how damaged it became.

  For his final suicide attempt, he put his body through a meat grinder. This mulched him up into a thick paste that he was sure could never be put back together again. For a couple days, he thought he’d succeeded. The elves didn’t know how to reassemble him. But then after much discussion, the elves just remade him into a new shape. They stuffed his meat goo into sausage casings and linked them all together until they formed a man.

  Kringle never attempted suicide again after that. It was bad enough he had to live an eternity as a collection of sausage balloons. He didn’t want to make it any worse. After a few hundred years, Kringle started to enjoy his work. Kids didn’t bother him anymore. Jesus stopped being a big part of Christmas. His personality changed from a sour wicked tyrant into a happy jolly soul. When he laughs, his body parts jiggle like balloons filled with meat jelly.

  Then he changed his name to Sausagey Santa, or just Santa for short.

  Decapitron tells the tale to the children, widening her green and yellow cat eyes as she speaks. She tells it more like a ghost story than a happy children’s fantasy. But the kids never get scared. They get excited. They don’t care that she describes Santa as a horrible tyrant turned jolly meat creature. They just care that he brings them presents.

  “But Momma, how does Santa get down the chimney?” Angelica asks.

  “He greases himself up with orange marmalade,” Decapitron says. “And he’s inflammable so the fire never burns him.

  “But Momma,” Angelica says, stretching her arms around her chainsaw wings, “how does he get around to every house in the world all in one night?”

  “He rides in a sleigh made out of lightning,” Nora injects with an uppity tone, as if her little sister is a complete retard for not already possessing the knowledge. “He can travel at the speed of light”

  Angelica nods her head in agreement, pretending she knows all about the speed of light.

  The twins are passed out on the couch and Nora’s eyes are getting weak and droopy, probably from all the blood she lost while running around in the snow today. Decapitron decides it’s time for everyone go to bed, but Angelica is wide awake and wants to hear more stories.

  “Santa won’t come if you don’t go to sleep,” Decapitron says. “He’s hideously deformed and doesn’t like kids to see him in his sausagey state.”

  “Ahhh, but Momma . . ” Angelica cries.

  “Help Momma put out oysters and chips for Santa.”

  “What’s that?” she asks.

  “Sausagey Santa doesn’t eat milk and cookies like mainstream culture thinks he does,” Nora says, holding in her goopy head. “He likes deep fried oysters with freedom fries.”

  Nora calls them freedom fries because she’s a big George W. Bush supporter.

  “We also leave him a tall glass of coconut stout,” I say, pouring a creamy beer into a large holiday stein.

  “He doesn’t drink on the job,” Nora tells me.

  “Well, just in case . . ” I say.

  Decapitron flash fries some oysters and chips for a couple minutes, then puts them on a mistletoe-patterned paper plate and hands it to Angelica. My little chainsaw angel carries it out to the living room and sets it on the coffee table next to my frothy beer.

  “It’s just going to get flat,” Nora says.

  “Well, I bet you five candy canes that the stein will be empty by tomorrow morning.”

  Nora just puffs her lips at me. “I don’t need to bet you. I know I’m right.”

  After Decapitron takes the kids up to bed, I chug Santa’s beer until only foam remains. That’ll teach the little freak not to question the sly man.

  “Sly Fry: one, Nora: zero,” I tell the fireplace.

  I spin around on one foot and groove my way up the staircase, singing the hit Spelunker song “Sky Diving Escape Plan” in my head.

  I’m lying in bed, waiting for Decapitron to get out of the bathroom.

  Christmas time isn’t so bad. It could be worse. I could be at work. My day job was supposed to be a dream of a career. I work as a video game designer for Nintendo. But it’s really a piece of crap job that hardly pays and usually forces me to work long grueling hours in order to meet deadlines. I’m usually always working on the worst games, too. Most of them tend to get cancelled before their release. Right now I’m working on Video Foosball. Not only is it a retarded concept to make foosball into a high definition 3D holo-game, but the gameplay and controls are just horrid. You have to use both joysticks on the controller with each of your thumbs, and you control your goalie using your index fingers.

  The only part of the game that I like is the facial expressions on the faces of the little bowling pin-shaped people that hit the ball. That was my idea. If they miss the ball their faces get sad or angry. If they hit the ball they get all excited and howl.

  I have a feeling that after this game flops my career will be

  over.

  There’s one more Christmas Eve tradition that Decapitron forces me through every year. That is: Christmas sex. Every year she has to have some kind of Christmas-themed kinky sex.

  Decapitron comes out of the bathroom wearing green and white holiday latex. Her hair is all tucked inside of a green rubber helmet strapped to her head. Deer antlers are attached to the sides of the helmet. They are real deer antlers, two feet high and nearly scraping the ceiling. Around her neck are reindeer bells. She’s wearing dark green lipstick and eye makeup. She’s even colored her eyebrows green.

  “You didn’t open your present,” she says.

  I look at the present near my feet.

  “I was waiting for you,” I say.

  I open it up to find a matching green latex outfit. Only it is designed for a man and comes with a cape. Every year she buys us costumes for our Christmas Eve sex. They usually create a theme that we can roleplay. In the beginning, she didn’t have me dress up as anything. She would usually just dress as a sexy Mrs. Claus for me. Then she had me dress up as a sexy Santa to go with her sexy Mrs. Claus. Then she had me dress as Mrs. Claus and dressed herself as Santa. Then she has us dress like Santa’s elves. Then she dressed us up like snowmen. Then she had me dress like the nutcracker and she dressed as a music box ballerina and we did it inside a giant present. Last year she had us dress like Christmas candy and we did it inside of a giant stocking that was suspe
nded from the ceiling.

  This year we are reindeer. I put on my outfit for her, trying not to ruin my hairdo too much, and discover that my antlers aren’t as big as hers. She probably likes the idea of having bigger antlers than me.

  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.