“What did I do?”
“You performed unnecessary surgery on your neighbors’ pets.”
“Killing neighborhood pets gets you kicked off the Good list?”
“Yes, Peter, it certainly does.”
“Why? They’re just animals. Cats, dogs, frogs, hamsters-“
“You don’t have much respect for life, do you Peter?”
“No respect at all,” Peter said, spittle flying from his mouth. “You want to see what I think of humanity? Here.” He thrust a photograph at Nicholas.
It was a picture of a dead man--age indeterminate--sprawled on a blood-dotted floor. The business end of an electric toothbrush protruded from his anus.
"Oh, Peter, that’s disgusting." Nicholas turned away.
“Yeah? I think it’s beautiful. Look at this one.”
Santa only caught a glimpse-a woman with certain parts spilling from her-before Peter ripped it away. “You made me do this,” Peter said as the rifle tumbled from his hands. Entwining his fingers in his wild hair, he screamed “Oh GOD, I HATE CHRISTMAS, oh DADEEEEEEE-“ Staggering away, he rammed his head into the filthy wall, and then slid down to the floor, tearing at his hair, speaking languages only the voices in his head could understand.
Nicholas took the opportunity to retrieve the weapon. Tipped with a sound suppressor, it looked like something a trained sniper might use. Lucky for him it wasn’t equipped with a scope, or he might be lying dead in Therese’s apartment right now. He felt even luckier that Peter was not some master criminal or deadeye marksman; he was just a lunatic, a cancer on the skin of the city.
Settling on the toilet, Peter eventually stopped writhing. He wiped the tears from his eyes with his shirtsleeves. He looked like an insane king, settling for a porcelain throne and a crown of blood.
Looking up, the last laughter died in Peter’s heart as he noticed Santa sighting him down. "I thought you were a saint."
"I am," said Nicholas. "And this is divine wrath." Nicholas fired twice into Peter's chest. Nicholas knew that the first shot killed him--the second one was only for insurance.
Peter’s eyes rolled to white. He slithered off the toilet, smashing his forehead against the tiled floor.
Nicholas took in the scent of gunpowder, and then caught himself. “I’m having such a Clint Eastwood moment...”
# # #
Outside, the storm had finally arrived. The roof had turned white.
The reindeer looked happy to see him.
With a sigh of relief, he slid the plastic-wrapped body off of his shoulder and dropped it headfirst into the sleigh. The old, discarded shower curtain reeked of mold, but it would be gone soon enough.
“Let’s get it on, guys,“ he said as he jumped in.
As they flew over the Cuyahoga River, Nicholas dumped their unwelcome passenger.
Whether or not Peter Kilmacko was fished out of the Cuyahoga and found to be the North Coast Ripper is beyond the scope of this narrative. St. Nicholas, Santa Claus, whichever name you prefer, rode on into the aging night.
There were still deliveries to make.