“I’m getting too old for this shit,” he thought as he took another swig from his flask. “Every goddamn year.”
Santa stumbled on the roof. He sauntered over to the chimney and looked down. He looked down at his waist and lamented. “I haven’t even seen my dick in a hundred hundred years but I’m still supposed to fit down this thing?” He wondered why they had waited until he was as old as dirt to give him immortality. Mrs. Clause had been lamenting that for years. He shoved himself down the chimney and fell. It might have been more graceful if the ground wasn’t so blurry.
“Only 976,845,132 more houses to go.”
He plopped on the ground and got his whiskey out again. This was the only way to deal with this stupid holiday. He’d never asked to be Santa Clause. He had wanted to die drowning in a pool of Crown Royal when some stupid elf had “saved his life.” He hated elfs. Sprite, happy assholes, though slave labor for free was a pretty sweet deal. Now he was stuck with Mrs. Clause forever. Old person sex was like a tube of raw ground beef slopping in a metal bucket.
The reason he hated this job was simple. Basically, all kids are assholes, so grouping them as good or bad made no sense to him. They were all simply little pricks. He saw a plate of cookies on the table and scarfed a couple down, passing up the milk for his trusty sidekick in the flask. Suddenly, he had a moment of clarity.
“Fuck this,” he said out loud.
He checked his list. Little Sam and Sarah Peckinpah were supposed to get bikes and iPads. But Santa had been watching. Sam liked to kill animals and Sarah lied about boys in order to get them in trouble at school.
“They don’t deserve any of this shit.”
He took all the nuts and bolts out of the bike and put them in his sack, leaving two jumbled messes on the ground. He pulled out his member and pissed all over them. His urine stank of alcohol and old man.
The commotion had woken up the people in the house. The children came out and saw Santa wiping their iPads on his balls. Their father came out brandishing a hand cannon.
“Shit, we’re in Texas,” Santa thought.
“What the hell are you doing!?” the man yelled.
“Fuck you and your dipshit kids!” Santa screamed at all of them. “I’m sick and tired of going through all of this to give crap to terrible kids! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHO—“
A gunshot sounded. Santa fell to his knees, gazed lovingly at his whiskey and welcomed the sweet lament of death.
As he lay there, in pain, he closed his eyes. And lay there. And still lay there.
“Goddamn immortality,” he thought to himself. He pulled out his ninja star and a split second later it was lodged in the man’s throat. As the children screamed and cried, Santa doled out his brand of justice on all of them. There was one less household full of unworthy recipients of presents next year. Santa drank and waited.