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It is Christmas Every Day in Hell

Santa bled to death while the E.B. sang him Christmas carols all the way to hell…

Story by Phil Sick- frankiemachine@hotmail.com Photos by Muge Karamanci
Photo © Muge Karamanci

Photo © Muge Karamanci

Unlike most of the children I knew, X-mas was soon a festivity I didn’t dream about so often. I liked Halloween a hell of a lot better. Actually, I recall having nightmares about X-mas before I could even jerk off. Thing is I was born on Christmas Eve, half an hour before J.C. was… Not only that, I was born after eight months, so people said it was kinda my fault. My friends joke about it, and say I’m the Anti-Christ. I usually say I wish I were…

The twenty-fifth of December… According to some studies Jesus was born around springtime, but the Christians had to fill in pagan festivities with their very own so they thought the twenty-fifth of December was just about right in order to take over the good old pagan holidays. Celebrating the winter solstice was what the entire western world did until some hippy Jew got himself into some beef with other Jews backed up by the mighty Romans (At the time they represented what the US is today).

All the same, I never really got to have a birthday party without being accused of being selfish and blasphemous… So forgive me if I don’t really take to the Ho-Ho-Ho… spirit… Shit, I was seven years old and I only got one present every year because I was born on this shitty day where everyone’s supposed to be good and sing Christmas carols while wasted on eggnog and God knows what. Can you imagine having an eggnog hangover? Or the eggnog shits?

One sunny morning on Spring Street, Manhattan 1983, I woke up before my folks did, since they had a lil’ pagan holiday of their own once I’d gone to bed wasted on some hash cookies some jerk had fed me ‘cause he thought I looked cuter when I was wasted. Nonetheless, I took my little boy duties seriously and that is why I left milk and cookies for Santa, as every little kid I knew, except for my Palestinian friends in apartment 32B. Just after mom passed out, and dad left with some hotter chick I took hold of the situation… I did a little math and figured that if Santa ate even half of the shit us kids were leaving for him, he’d have to weigh as much a whale, a big fat one too. Perhaps the reindeer dug in too.

Photo © Muge Karamanci

Photo © Muge Karamanci

So next morning (slightly hungover myself), I crept into the living room hoping to catch Santa in the act of stuffing his hole just to tell him that last year’s Star Wars action figures weren’t the ones I asked for and that if he kept eating like he did he’d get a heart attack just like my uncle Carlo. But no… Santa didn’t show up as usual (I mean… pretty damn stealthy for a fucking fat guy…), and the gingerbread guys me and mom had left by a glass of nasty eggnog (boy do I hate that shit) had been massacred, probably by my folks’ hippy friends who stank up the house with their “natural” cigarettes. God, I so much more liked junkies at that age, at least they kept to themselves unlike pot heads who talked and talked and talked… Nonetheless, something was slightly off…I took a closer look and realized that behind the glass of yellow badness a little brown figure was hiding. It was a gingerbread survivor. Apparently he could move too, even though he was limping because some asshole had chewed off one of his feet, probably out of sheer boredom.

“Fuck… You okay little guy?” I asked. Then I felt really big, like a giant almost. I imagined my baby dick was probably big as the gingerbread’s man arm. Fuck, I was the monster now….
“Do I look okay to you? Stop thinking about your dick… Some piece of shit ate my foot… I’m Hank by the way…”
“Hank… Do you read minds?” I asked, trying to look nonchalant.
“Occasionally…”
“Is that your pet cockroach, Hank?” I asked him.
“Like fuck he is… Shit, get that motherfucker off me…” The Ginger bread dude screamed in sheer terror.

Photo © Muge Karamanci

Photo © Muge Karamanci

It was funny to see little guy limping his way around the cockroach, almost a Vaudeville act. “What are you a sadist? Help me out, will you… I’m on good terms with the tooth fairy… I’ll let you bang her a couple years from now, no charge, honest…”

I took the cockroach and put it in a little matchbox. I’d feed him later. “Alright Hank, since you don’t seem to want him he’ll be my pet then…”
“Okay Phil, suit your fuckin’ self…”
“You swear lots…”
“You collect cockroaches…”

We stared at each other for a full minute. “How about you help me get over to that pool of eggnog so that I can cheer myself up a little…”
“Ain’t you happy? It’s fucking Christmas, Hank.”
“Nope. How ‘bout you? Happy it’s your fucking birthday and everyone around you is fucking passed out? Go check their fucking pulses… So… Enjoying your birthday are you? ”
“I guess not…”
“You don’t look that happy. Well, imagine if they called you Noel instead of Phil…”

I helped the little guy to his yellow booze, hoping he would stop making me feel bad. Then I glued Han Solo’s foot onto Hank’s stump and wished him good luck… Then again, some people have uncanny abilities… My sister could queef her way through Beethoven’s Ninth without flinching or shedding a drop of sweat. It was said she once stitched an ill prepared patient with some dental floss and a safety pin off some punk wannabe just outside the Death Valley. Unlike her brother, she was real modest about it. Then again as a doctor, Assia was bound to save lives as I, a bad writer, was bound to destroy some.

In my own mind, I always relied, wrongly, on the idea that at some point she’d write me enough prescriptions to dull the pain of being the dumb one in the family. My vicious fantasies were nevertheless crushed by the solidity of her Hippocratic oath. Damn that Greek bastard. Unlike her, I was provided by uncanny gifts as well. My corrupted self; given the right amounts of Thorazine, witchcraft and voodoo crack, could give life and mold into reality the incoherent produce of my wicked fantasy. I once made a clay Golem and got him to leave the house to buy me cigarettes… Motherfucker never came back…

Photo © Muge Karamanci

Photo © Muge Karamanci

In another part of town… English Mike managed to score a Frosty costume, while Jackie “Two Times”, given his bulk, had managed to borrow a Santa outfit from a charity shop on skid row. “Phlebitis” Joe and “Eldorado” decided to have their stepmother sew them gingerbread men costumes. Little did they know, they actually looked like walking turds with candy sticking out of ‘em. Maybe it was the brown of the suits, or perhaps it was the flies chasing them… There shouldn’t have been any by that time of the year.

“You know what I like ‘bout these outfits?” Said “Eldorado” scratching his ass.
“Dunno…” Said “Phlebitis” Joe right back.
“The M&M eyes, they really work… I see everything nice and glossy… I sort of see and smell chocolate…”

In the front seat, English Mike wasn’t so merry. “My costume is starting to bloody get to me. I think I’ll take the head off for a moment, breath some air…” Said Frosty aka English Mike.
“Don’t. We gotta go pick up Santa’s little helper-helper…” Said Santa “Two Times”.
“Who?”
“A midget who got just got out of the joint last week-week… Can’t go without him. He’s just perfect for the job-job…”
“Wow, a real fuckin’ midget?”
“Sure. But he says he’s a little person… You know, like faggots are now homos or something like that, and niggers are African-Americans…”
“Does he smoke crack? I’d love to see a little guy smoking his rocks off…”
“No, don’t think so”
“Why’s that? He thinks drugs will block his growth…?”

Photo © Muge Karamanci

Photo © Muge Karamanci

A roar of sick laughter filled the unspeakably smelly car. The lovable characters started the Camaro and headed toward a place on Perfido St. When Gerard, the night watchman, reported a suspect vehicle that in his opinion was casing a pawnbroker on the corner of High Street no one really paid him much attention. It was being too thorough with details that made him lose the stupid ass job. Afterall, what would you make of a black Camaro with Santa at the wheel passing a pipe back and forth to his pal Frosty while the gingerbread twins were wrestling over a shotgun…

“That fuckin’ canuck Gerard, you wouldn’t believe what he just told me over the radio…” By the time the black Camaro made it in front of the pawn shop, the gingerbread bros had blown off their noggins with the shotgun. While in the front seat, Frosty and Santa where calmly waiting for Santa’s little helper to join their ranks.

“Wow, how come them two are headless gingerbread men? Neat costumes, with the fake brains and all, but ain’t we gonna attract more attention…?” Said the little one, a crowbar painted in red and white like a candy cane.
“Come on in, don’t worry ‘bout it….” Said Santa Claws.

By the time Santa’s little helper got into the car the voodoo crack had totally made Frosty and Santa change their plans. They weren’t hungry for riches any more, but for flesh. They ate the little guy in no time, like he was some kind of East Coast human sushi. Sucking his blood soaked pants in an almost pornographic fashion.

Photo © Muge Karamanci

Photo © Muge Karamanci

“What next?”
“I’m still hungry…”
“Me too…”
“We still got the gingerbread assholes in the back…”
“Yeah…”
“The shotgun did a pretty horrid job though, like we say in the UK, there’s just lips and arses left…”
“I see, so you’re a prime rib cannibal now?”
“I just started. I’m not sure. Guess it’s an acquired taste, like gorgonzola and tripe…”

By now, Zombie Santa and his pal, Decaying Frosty had really developed an unhealthy liking for the voodoo crack. Unlike normal crack, the voodoo version gave you the munchies. I mean, I heard boisterous yuppies in the nineties claiming the coke they were scoring was so good you could actually do a couple of grams and then eat a full course meal at Nobu. Thing is when you get into the voodoo C, a chocolate bar or a slice of pizza just ain’t gonna cut it. After you smoke a few voodoo rocks you start craving for flesh, the more human the better… Not that after a couple of hits you’d leave your neighbor’s Golden Retriever alone… Thing is you hit the pipe hard and you’re going to eat your neighbor’s ass too… And, believe me, when I say “eat” there is no sexual innuendo attached, just a gory and ugly act of metropolitan crack cannibalism taking place. So be it. They say the Encino breast chopper, a California based serial killer, once pulled this very sick routine at motel close to Encino, hence the name. The man, obviously high on voodoo C, had dismembered his fiancé in the changing room. He then got out and started giving shit to a kid who wasn’t wearing a swim cap.

“Listen kid, do you think you own the frigging pool? How’bout some fuckin’ manners, wear a swimmin’ cap like everyone else…”
“But sir, there is no one around…”
“Well, didn’t you ask yourself why?”
“Alright, alright…”

Photo © Muge Karamanci

Photo © Muge Karamanci

The kid shrugged, but the Sicko said he had an extra cap so he shouldn’t worry. The Encino Butcher dipped this pink swimming cap into the motel’s pool and filled it up with water, which strangely became pink. Then, he walked over to the boy and placed the cap right over his head. Mind you, the thing was filled to the brim with the pool’s water. Gravity does the rest. Problem is, on the top of the kid’s swimming cap there appears to be a nipple. Sticking up like on a cold winter day…

Also there were sinister veins sticking out of the side of the kid’s head. The smell of death descended over the pool, and the kid slicked back the Encino Butcher’s hair by puking straight over his forehead. When the cops stormed the place, most of the evidence was compromised by the vomit of a dozen or so bystanders. It was also said that the Encino Butcher had a thing for Frosty the snowman. Who doesn’t? Once in jail the Encino Butcher had his cellmate put on sixty pounds in time for Christmas, he also forced him to grow a beard and bleach it otherwise he’d turn him into his bitch.

“Now Henry, you either become Santa in time for the festivities or you’ll become my bitch in no time…”
“Sheeeet…”
“See how that costume grabs you… I knew we’d get along first time I laid my eyes on your sorry ass…”

He wanted this poor devil to cheer up the mood around the holidays. Right. But one day the Santa look alike refused to go “Ho-ho-ho…” for about the millionth time that day, so his cellmate cut his balls off and put them on the plastic tree they were allowed to keep. Santa bled to death while the E.B. sang him Christmas carols all the way to hell…

 

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