Jingle Bell Rot

The idea of Santa Claus is a curious thing. A gentle, fat, joyful man who delivers gifts to good little girls and good little boys. The same good little girls and good little boys are told not to accept gifts from strangers. But Santa doesn't count, does he? He's magic...he's an exception...so definitely can be trusted.

If I'm honest, the whole Jimmy Saville and a large number of Catholic priests being disgusting predators almost ruined things for me. The truly altruistic people are actually predators in disguise. I thought Santa Claus would be a dead and buried thing. Surely, no one would welcome me into their homes, knowing that very often, the people that seem so squeaky clean, are not very clean at all.

But, as long as Christmas is celebrated and people remember good ol' Saint Nick, I'll be fine.

You're probably thinking...how do I get away with it? I mean, although a lot of children die at Christmastime...especially if they are below the poverty line, homeless or have abusive parents, there are still not the kind of numbers you'd expect to have if a homicidal flesh-eating monster was travelling around the world on the December 24th. That is true. But who said I need to kill them?

Not me.

Aside from the odd little brats that succumb too quickly to my grips...most of the children, I drain slowly over time. It's a slow and gradual process. But it helps to sustain without drastic action being necessary.

Often, it's the eager, overly suspicious little brat like you Timmy, who wanders in at the wrong time when I'm busy...that I need to consume, there and then. Even if their parents didn't believe them, it's a problem I don't want to carry around with me for the rest of the year when I'm enjoying a peaceful existence. Besides, if I'm perfectly honest, eating a whole child every now and again makes for a delicious side dish to a mince pie and a dram of whisky, brandy or whatever cheap muck some have a custom of leaving out for me.

One thing I miss about consuming children whole is the look on their faces when the smiley, fat man disappears, and the claws and rotting flesh come out, and they are faced with the real question - not whether Santa Claus is real or not - no, the real question of what is Santa Claus. I enjoy the screams and think it's a shame, Timmy, that you won't be able to tell anyone of your once-in-a-lifetime meeting with me. Here comes the claws and rotting flesh. Ho Ho Ho!

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Ah, the tape stopped, Blitzen. It was a close shave that I spotted the camera in the corner of the room. I liked my speech, though. Poor, delicious little Timmy...I can enjoy the rest of the year now. I'll keep this movie for next year.

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Thanks for reading!

Author's Notes: Just Paul Stewart trying to ruin Christmas. I make no apologises. Inspired by Stephanie Hoogstad's prompt, which you can find out about here:

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