Twisted Christmas! This is not the humorous one that I intend to post (self-evidently), but still, enjoy:

December 24th had always been his night. Just thinking about it made his spine tingle with excitement, raising goose bumps across his massive chest, sweaty and putrid beneath the enormous red wool coat.

There was once a time when he would smile with happiness as he left a shiny present under the tree for each child, saying a silent prayer for each one before moving on to the next house. There had been so many houses, so many presents, and so many prayers. And they forgot about him so quickly. He stared through the green polarized lenses at the stockings on the mantle, his large sack beside him. He looked closely at the stockings; he liked trying to guess which stocking was theirs before resorting to hist list...naughty and nice, naughty and nice, naughty and nice...

***

All it had taken was one instant, a simple twist of fate. A chimney a couple of inches too tight, a belt buckle caught on a chipped piece of brick. A father drunk on eggnog, lighting a roaring fire as Santa squirmed, trying desperately to get free. Christmas music blared through a stereo that cost enough to feed a third-world village for a month, the volume so loud that no one heard his muffled screams. He spent months afterwards perfecting the springs in his new bladed gloves. They enabled to feel where his fingers and skin could not, providing just the right amount of resistance. It wasn't the same as before the nerve damage, but in a sense, knowing that made it better; it made him angrier. It had been so long that he wasn't even sure whether he was so angry at the memory of being able to feel, or the fact that he knew it was harder and harder for his mind to recreate it every single year.

***

He knew that little Rebecca had been naughty. No, evil was a better word. Impressively evil, as a matter of fact, just the kind of little monster who would make a perfect minion - snatched from her bed like all the other wicked children, sentenced to a life of service at the North Pole, where they would continue to age, but not grow. Stunted by the freezing winds and wretched rations they received, they morphed into hideous trolls - the evil within them manifesting itself in their twisted faces, yellow teeth and eyes, and breath like rotting flesh. The word "elf" wasn't menacing enough. Under the whip of the merciless Mrs. Claus, the elves worked like slaves, torturing the reindeer and designing toys; most recently, the kind of toys that could injure the innocent tots who received them.

As punishment, he used to give coal to the bad boys and girls. He had to show that it mattered how you behaved, how much you loved, and how much joy you spread. And the coal was punishment enough. Now, it was customary to give each potential recruit three chances: a piece of coal in their stocking served as a warning, marking them. A special type of the blackest coal mined from deep within the earth. A coal that brought out the worst in anyone who received it. Once marked, very few children could turn it around and change their evil ways. He thought about all the millions of names he had sorted through in his time, how he made it a point to check each one twice. Rebecca had gotten coal three years in a row; she was the age of pure evil, and it was her time.

***

Delicately, he reached out for her. Two razor-sharp blades pinched the top of her covers. They were so sharp, anyone else would have cut the sheets to ribbons, but he was an artist with the blades. This was his masterpiece - his Sistine Chapel, his Mona Lisa. And it was just as beautiful no matter how many times he painted it. He knew oppurtinities like this only came along once or twice every century. He took the evil ones, both boys and girls. But it was the little girls who were truly rare.

He stared through the green polarized lenses at her peaceful sleeping face. He noticed the little things; that her lower lip quivered in and out so slightly it was almost unnoticeable as she let out each warm little breath. He held his breath and listened to the rhythm of her breathing. He mustn't wake her too soon. He sucked in a deep breath of filtered air and used a bladed hand to pull the mask from his face. Strands of pus and spit-thin lines of viscous blood clung to it as the mask settled against his chest. Half of his face was gone. What remained was a foul gangrenous mess of rotten meat.

Rebecca's little nostrils flared at the acrid smell of his rotting flesh. He knew it was time. He played a little game in his head trying to guess what color her eyes were going to be when they finally shot open. This was his favorite part. The last thing this evil little girl would see, was a sight so terrible it would be unequaled if she lived to a hundred. He wanted her to feel even a small portion of the fear he had felt being burned alive, and being unable to die. Knowing the last thing he would ever smell was the flesh from his own burning face. Knowing the last thing he would ever taste was the remnants of cookies while his tongue boiled within his mouth.

He placed his large sack at his side and pulled the top open wide, the edges of the blades on his gauntlets catching and scratching as they scraped along the edge. The noise caused Rebecca to stir. Too late - her eyes, blue as the sky, shot open wide. Horrified, her lips parted for the inevitable scream. But it was too late. His bag engulfed her quickly, swallowing the noise.

Quick as a wink, he was back to the sleigh and on to the next rooftop.

***

And Bernice, don't show this to your mum haha.