Santa Claus watched horrors spread across the globe.
Humanity completely lost its shit all at once, and aside from a few hundred thousand survivors, every society had collapsed. The toxic clouds and radiation waves would finish the rest off soon enough.
Santa tore up his naughty and nice lists, and set his elves to working on a space ship.
“We’ll set up shop on the moon or Mars,” he said.
The elves made a spaceship.
A toy spaceship.
“Fuck,” murmured Claus, and he coughed up some blood.
The elves fought over the remaining reindeer meat before they got sick too.
Category: My stories
Geronimo
It started with accusations of slave labor.
Then, reports came out that he’d molested some kids.
The final straw was when CIA evidence proved the workshops were producing chemical weapons for Syria.
“Santa’s been very bad this year,” said the president. “Let’s go get him.”
The United Nations Security Council was useless.
China had the toy contracts, and threatened to veto any action.
While the world debated, Special Forces flew in and got their man.
“You’re all on my naughty list now,” was the last thing he said.
The investigatior’s report said that he died from an elf-inflicted gunshot wound.
Spoiled Milk
It’s Christmas Eve.
Most people leave milk and cookies out for Santa.
“It’s a tradition,” they say.
“Doesn’t the milk spoil out there?” the children ask.
Does Santa like spoiled milk?
No, he doesn’t.
People aren’t keeping the tradition right.
It’s not supposed to be a glass of milk out on the mantelpiece.
Santa wanted fresh milk.
Not from a cow, though.
“What a lovely baby,” Santa would say. “I might have a gift for them.”
Kid can only suckle one side at a time, right?
Maybe when he’s done, he might want your cookie.
And that’s how traditions start.
Christmas Town
Unlike Mecca, which is only for Muslims, Christmas Town welcomes people of all faiths, or of no faith at all.
People. Not robots. Because robots are the enemy of Christmas.
They knock down trees, smash presents, and sing all the carols off-key.
The Robot Police go from door to door, holding magnets to peoples’ heads and confronting them with paradoxes.
“Repeat after me: ‘This statement is false.'”
In recent years, cybernetics have advanced significantly. It’s harder to detect robots.
Which is fine. As long as they’re peaceful. And celebrate. And make merry.
Which is what Christmas really is about, right?
Battery Club
Around Christmastime, kids ask for the latest gadgets.
So, their parents order them through Amazon Prime prewrapped, and stick them under the tree.
Most come with batteries, and those that don’t, people usually have spare batteries in a drawer, or they can pull them out of last year’s gadgets.
For the times when the right battery isn’t to be found, there’s The Battery Club.
Call them up, and they deliver the right batteries.
Nowadays, a lot of stores are open for last-minute battery shopping.
But it’s nasty out. Who wants to drive in that?
Make The Battery Club do it.
Wishes
Ever make a wish on a star?
If you make it on the first star you see, it never comes true, right?
That’s because that star is hundreds of light years away. Maybe thousands.
Nothing can travel faster than the speed of light, so by the time the wish reaches the star, you’ll probably be long dead.
However, there’s Alpha Proximi. It’s just 4 light-years away. So, if you make your wish on it, and a wish goes the speed of light, it will take 4 years for JACK SHIT TO HAPPEN BECAUSE STARS DON’T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT WISHES!
Back knife
Why do I call these “back knives”?
Well, when was the last time you used a steak knife on a steak?
Never? Can’t remember?
Well, when was the last time you used that knife to stab someone in the back?
Try to remember. Think hard.
Think long and hard about it as you sit in that chair, tied up and gagged, wanting to scream for help and wondering what I’m going to do with you.
With this knife. This back knife.
This newly-sharpened, shiny back knife.
And your lovely, precious back.
Maybe later, after burying you, I’ll grill a steak.
Ink
Tracey was the best tattoo artist in the world. Nobody ever came close to her skill, and she invented all of the greatest innovations of skin art and body modification during her day.
You couldn’t tell from looking at her, though. She didn’t have anything on her skin… not a dot anywhere on her body.
She didn’t trust anyone else with her skin, and she just couldn’t turn her own needle on herself.
Piercings, though… if you could hang a stud or ring through it, she had it done.
Flying can be a problem. Trains, buses… she’s in no rush.
Last Great American Whore
Lou Reed watched his wife’s Laurie’s face rot away, revealing a grinning skull.
“Get up,” said The Grim Reaper, yanking the withered musician from his bed. “I want you to meet someone.”
From the shadows, a teenager in jeans and a leather jacket walked in, a guitar slung on his back.
“They tell me I had a promising future,” said the teen. “But I died while waiting on the liver transplant list.”
The kid strummed his guitar and sung a few lines, and Lou wept at its perfection.
Slowly, his face rotted away, revealing Death’s wicked grin.
“Murderer,” he said.
Covered Bridges
In a parallel universe, they have a lot of covered bridges. But they call them bridges.
And what we call bridges here, they call uncovered bridges.
Other than that, there’s no difference between our universes. But that’s enough of a difference to convince me that I need to find a way back to my own universe.
Because as hard as I try, I can get over the whole bridge thing.
I admit that it isn’t like a world full of vampires or flying cars or killer robots, but I’m sick to death of these damn covered bridges…
I mean bridges.