A visibly inebriated Santa Claus wheezed into the diminutive naked groin of his elven mistress Salamandra. Though she was receiving deep tongue-scrubbing action from a fat old man, she took no notice. She was, after all, out cold. Elves can't hold as much whiskey as full-size humans, you see, and towards the end of the Christmas Eve party Salamandra had ill-advisedly tried to outdrink her employer/exploiter. That's how she had ended up in this wrapping-paper storage closet without her knowledge or express permission, unclothed below the waist. Santa pulled his face slowly away from his unconscious little friend's cunt, cracking a smile. Never mind that dainty black pubic hairs stuck out from between every other tooth in his mouth-- he was having fun! He chuckled and began manipulating his by-now fully extended (though chapped) pink love snausage between her lax lips, manually rubbing whatever of its 12-inch length still remained outside her throat. "Oh! Oh! Oh!" He was about to deposit a few ounces of green and red holiday icing into her belly when he realized, with horror, that it was nearly midnight! Here he was wearing nothing but leather boots, lace garters and silk stockings (never you mind) and he hadn't even started to deliver the world's gifts! How was the job to be done before dawn?!
Hmmm, she thought as she looked around the corner of the loft the party was in. She had come with her friend because Becky did not like to go to these things alone. In her mind she knew this would be like all the other ones; dull boring people talking a-chit-chatting to each other about their boring fucking little lives trying to be this weeks poet or artist... She hated that. She walked out the of "social room" and explored the dark passageway in the warehouse. It had been cut off into several tiny seperate rooms. She walked up to a door and tried to open it. Locked. "Fuck this," she said, "There has got to be something better to do in this place." She wandered down the hall and heard some sounds coming from a room. She walked up to the door that way and cracked it open just a little bit. She peered through the crack to see this women tied up in chains hanging from the ceiling. The man standing there was apparently whipping her. She thought, "awww this is more like it!" and proceeded to watch the girl being tomented.
The Lord Hellbeast hizz-veryown-self, Santa (for as we all know, Santa is just another word for SATAN!) looked up from his flagellations of the now dead elven body of Salamandra. He'd beaten her to death for distracting him from his yearly mission of "instilling the virtues of greed 'n' capitalism in Christian yewts tha woild ovah!" He sniffed the air with his piggy nostrils. His nose, like a cherry, twitched out an evil tattoo of pain and suffering. Actually, cherries don't do that, cannibal drummers do that, so nevermind. But his nose was like a cherry, nonetheless. In three powerful, black-booted strides he had reached the door where Becky had minutes earlier been masturbating furiously in a voyeuristic frenzy only to discover a pair of cum-bedrenched panties. "Fee, Fie, Foe, Fum! Someone's been frigging off to the sight of me nekkid bum!" Santa then cooly stepped up to the emergency fire panel and broke the glass (with his LEFT nut!) and pulled out the requisite fireman's axe in a shower of tinkling glass. "Summbitch gonn' pay..." he grunted out in a bilious cloud of whiskey vapours. "Summbitch gonn' pay wit' huh LIFE!"
Satan (er, I mean, SANTA) ran through the labyrinth of the joint huffing and puffing, his jolly belly bouncing like one humungous, perky boobie. He swung the ax back and forth furiously as he ran, chopping chunks of wood and plaster off the walls as he raced past. ka-BOOM! ka-BOOM! ka-BOOM! The entire place shook violently with every step he took. The smell of the little bitch's panties was thick and disgusting in his huge, candy-like nose. Oh yeah, he *needed* to smell her blood now. He stopped, looking around. He stood silent, waiting, the bloodshot orbs in his skull shaking as they darted back and forth, the booze on his breath making them tear slightly. He smiled a snaggletoothed grin he could smell that little pussy now, just mere feet away. He was ready for action. Ready for blood. Ready for a good, hard corpse fuckin'!
Suddenly Tumnus and Suncat bum-rushed the show and began kicking ass and taking names. In one fell swoop Suncat shot Santa in the belly with a .44 Mag and opened a transdimensional nexus. Tumnus sang the Tumnus family song and a rabid dingo, freshly skinned, leapt out. The interstitial fluid glistened off his ripped, skinless muscles and he jumped from his landing position to on top of Santa and began to mate with his belly o' jelly. After a long rabid gut-fucking, Santa tried to get up, but try as he would, Tumnus was prepared. With cat-like grace and ruthless efficiency, Tumnus put on his glove of pain and extended the razor sharp talons. What ensued was nothing short of glorious, as Tumnus rid the earth of a pox as disgusting and imaginary than the lies most parents bring their children up with. "There will be no Christmas Santa this year," Tumnus said to Suncat, who replied, "Fuckin' A."
The pair climbed into Santa's sleigh and drove it straight to Cambodia where the women are cheaper than the wine, and dropped it like a laxative-laden shit on the grave of Pol Pot.