The black BMW 5 Series uttered a low, guttural growl as it crawled along through the slush on Sycamore. Ethan was in the driver’s seat and he was dressed as Santa Claus. Riding shotgun was Ethan’s older brother Frank. He palmed a magazine into his Desert Eagle pistol, chambered a round and then tucked it into the waistband of his own Santa Claus suit. Behind them both the morbidly obese frame of Country Bob was sprawled across the rear seats. Country Bob was chewing strawberry Hubba Bubba and trying to remember that he too was wearing a Santa suit. If he tried to blow a bubble through his fake chin whiskers it was going to end up in one almighty gloopy mess.
‘What’s this guy’s name again?’
Ethan knew the guy’s name but when he was nervous he couldn’t stop himself from yakking. It was just the way he was.
‘Sticks. The man’s called Sticks’ replied Frank.
There was a loud snort of derision from the back seat. Frank flicked his eyes to the rear-view mirror and then back to the road as Ethan gently guided the car to a stop on the corner with Willow, killing the engine.
‘Something to say there big fella?’ Frank’s eyes were back on the mirror as he addressed the fat man in the back seat.
‘What kind of dumbass name is Sticks?’
Frank thought the beard improved Bob’s looks. It meant you didn’t have to watch his chins wobble when he laughed. Or spoke. Or
breathed.
‘Well gee-whiz Country Bob, I guess that would be a nickname. He used to be a drummer. A good one by all accounts’
Bob snorted again but didn’t say anymore, instead he turned to look through the window at the last minute shoppers waddling around under the combined weight of layers of winter clothing and bags full of gifts.
‘What’s his real name Frank?’ Ethan pressed, still jittery and not ready to let it go just yet. That was okay, there was family and then there was family. And while fat Bob could go fuck himself (assuming he could even find his itty-bitty pecker under that gargantuan gut of his), Frank had infinite patience with his little brother.
‘Sticks is all I know. That’s was his handle inside and we don’t need to know anymore than that.’
‘Don’t seem right to me, doing a job with a stranger’ There was a trace of petulance in Ethan’s voice now. Sometimes Frank forgot how young he was.
‘He ain’t a stranger to me, little bro. We did three years in the same cell block, remember? Besides we didn’t have a lot of choice after Trey got his stupid ass busted, did we?’
Country Bob grunted but carried on staring out the window. Trey was Bob’s step brother and the crew’s enforcer of choice. He had been busted the week before by a couple of State Troopers, pulled over for a broken taillight while hauling a trunk full of grass. Cousin Trey’s third strike. Season of goodwill or not he wouldn’t be seeing daylight anytime soon.
‘We could do it ourselves, Frank. I could come in with you, it would be fine.’ Even though they were pulled over Ethan still gripped the wheel in both hands.
‘Ethan, look at me.’ Frank introduced a subtle edge to his voice, a stranger wouldn’t have noticed but Ethan immediately recognised the
difference. This was Frank’s taking care of business voice, his you listen up and don’t answer back voice.
‘The gig is four people, you know that. The Driver never comes inside. Never, do you hear? Doesn’t make a difference if it takes thirty seconds or thirty minutes, the driver stays with the car. Inside we need three men. One to watch the door, one to grab the cash and one to put the fear of God into everyone. Trey was our badass motherfucker, but he’s gone now. That’s why we need Sticks. Now, we okay to do this?’
‘Yeah, we’re okay Frank. Sorry, I know you know best.’
‘Oh fuck me sideways!’ howled Bob from the rear, ‘Don’t tell me this is him coming now, Frank. Don’t tell me this is your Badass Mutha-Fucka!’
He used the sleeve of his suit to wipe the condensation from the window and pressed his fat face up against the glass to get a better look. Frank and Ethan both turned to look out of the front passenger window. Shambling up Willow Street towards them was a scarecrow in scarlet. He was maybe five feet six in his boots and as thin as a rake, the arms and legs of his suit flapped in the breeze around his wasted limbs. Extra holes had been punched in the wide black belt, cinching his jacket tight to his waist, but it fell open above to reveal a scrawny pigeon chest clad in a grimy vest, what Frank would have called a wife beater. A thick mass of chest hair sprang forth over the neckline and seemed to be entangled with the fake white beard he wore.
‘Yep, that’s my boy’ confirmed Frank.
‘Well shit on me’ said Bob laughing, ‘Drummer my ass. He’s made of twigs, that’s why they call him Sticks.’
‘Frank….’ began Ethan, but Frank cut him off.
‘Shhhh, it’s okay Ethan, trust me. This guy will not let us down’.
As he drew close to the car Frank lowered the window.
‘Hey Sticks, you found us okay?’
Sticks leaned down and stuck his head through the window, his pale blue eyes were heavily bloodshot and he looked and smelled like he was on the tail end of a bad drunk. Up close the man could have been any age between thirty and sixty.
‘Hey Frank. Yeah found it no problem. You give good directions.’ To Ethan it sounded like Sticks kept his singing voice in shape by gargling with rusty nails. He seemed to be wheezing as well.
‘Okay, well hop in the back next to Bob there. Bob. Move your fat ass over and make room for Sticks.’
Bob begrudgingly did as he was told, but even squashed right up against the driver’s side door he still took up most of the space. Luckily Sticks didn’t need much room.
‘Okay then’ said Frank, ‘Let’s head out.’ Ethan started the engine and slowly got them moving again.
‘What you got in that sack for me, Frank?’ asked Sticks.
Frank reached down to the big burlap sack stuffed into the passenger side footwell and pulled out a long, narrow box with a big gold bow stuck on it and a gift tag proclaiming ‘Merry Xmas’ in red lettering. He lifted it over the back of his seat with some effort and handed it to Sticks who laid it across his knees and lifted the lid. Inside, wrapped in tissue paper, was a Remington pump-action shotgun. Sticks nodded approvingly and then replaced the lid.
‘Thank you kindly Frank, it’s just what I wanted.’
Frank then pulled out a shorter, squarer box and handed it to Country Bob. Bob didn’t need to look inside to know that it contained a Steyr machine pistol. It was Bob’s favourite and what he always asked for. Frank didn’t know why - guessed he’d probably seen it in some movie - but it didn‘t matter. The guns were for show, if it got to the point you actually needed to use them on a job then you were probably already fucked. And the Steyr looked nice and lethal, even if he
suspected Bob might struggle to hit the side of a truck from ten paces.
‘What time you got Ethan?’ asked Frank turning back to face front. Ethan looked at the Casio on his wrist without taking his hand off the wheel.
‘I got eleven thirty seven Frank.’
‘Okay little brother, I want us walking in the door at eleven forty exactly. Sticks, Bob. The Sheriff’s office is within spitting distance of the bank, if anyone triggers the alarms they’ll be on us in two minutes tops. Even if they’re out on patrol they always leave at least one deputy dawg behind for just such an occasion as this. Course, they very rarely get it, and they tend to wet their panties when the call comes through, but we should be prepared for them nonetheless. Sheriff’s men we can handle. But when they get the call they will notify the State Troopers as well and we don’t want anything to do with those guys. To avoid that, we walk out of there in under five minutes. Sticks you’re our man, you got to persuade them that it’s in their best interests to help us get out of there as quickly as possible. But you can’t kill anyone. None of us want to be looking at a murder rap if this gets fucked up. Is that gonna be a problem?’
Sticks did not answer immediately and actually seemed to be carefully considering the question, as if not killing someone might call into question his professionalism. But in the end he agreed to the terms.
‘Okay Frank, I won’t kill anyone.’
In the end, as Country Bob took great delight in pointing out, they didn’t actually walk through the door until eleven forty two. Ethan, after timing his drive immaculately parked the car nose first in one of the half dozen slant parking bays in front of the bank. His face turned as red as his suit when Frank had to remind him they were
there to rob the place and it might be handy if the getaway car was pointing away rather than toward the scene of the crime. After he had swiftly pulled our and reversed it back into the space, Frank and the others got out.
Frank went in first. The Desert Eagle was still tucked in his waistband, in his right hand he held a collecting tin for the Children’s Defence Fund. Sticks and Country Bob followed behind carrying their gift boxes. All three wore surgical gloves and tucked through their belts were empty burlap sacks.
As Frank had anticipated the place was doing frantic pre-Christmas business. Every window was manned by a teller and every teller was dealing with a customer, the queue waiting to be served was at least twenty people long. There were assorted hangers on as well, a couple of young kids in one corner waiting on a parent, a fat woman with a half dozen shopping bags sitting at the loan officer’s desk fanning herself with a mortgage brochure, the loan officer himself drafted in to help behind the counter. And then there was the security guard of course.
He was posted just inside the door and as they entered he tipped his hand to his hat in greeting. As soon as Frank had finished his quick assessment of the main floor he turned his attention to the guard. The guy was big, middle-aged, maybe a bit paunchy but strong looking. He raised his eyebrows as he saw Sticks and Bob follow in close behind and Frank understood he wasn’t dumb either. He wouldn’t be packing - the most these rent-a-cops got was a taser and some pepper spray if they were lucky - but he still looked like trouble. Frank knew the type. Too much to prove to not at least try and intervene, he’d put his life on the line rather than risk coming out of this without a war wound and a story. So be it. Without taking his eyes off the guard Frank spoke.
‘You’re up Sticks’.
Sticks was at Frank’s side now and without hesitation he flipped over his gift box so that the lid fell off. He caught the barrel of the shotgun in one hand at the same time as letting go of the bottom of the box with the other, using it to grab the stock as both parts of the box tumbled to the floor.
The guard was lunging forward as soon he saw Sticks’ hands flip the box, add fast reflexes to his size and his wits, but he had been thrown off by the movement. He should have gone for Frank who was closest to him, fast as he was he would have had time to grab him and either put him down or use him as a shield. As it was, Sticks had the shotgun in both hands and was swinging it hard, up and towards the guard as he was still closing on him, head tipping low as his momentum carried him forward. The stock caught him full in the face and there was a sickening crunch as his nose exploded. His legs went out from under him and as he went down hard, Frank saw the blood running between the fingers of the hands clasped to his face as he fell. The guard ended up on his knees bent forward, head touching the carpet as if in prayer, and there was a thick, wet sound as he tried to breathe through his mouth and choke down the blood at the same time. It made Frank think of someone vacuuming up the dregs of a thick shake with a straw.
The rest of the bank was completely silent, every pair of eyes was turned towards the three men in the Santa Claus costumes. Deer frozen in the headlights, they couldn’t have forced themselves to act even if they wanted to, and Frank was pretty sure that they didn’t want to. This was going to be easier than he thought. He dropped the collection box and reached inside his jacket to draw out the Desert Eagle, intending to make his way to the tellers and to start issuing orders. And then Sticks started to speak. He didn’t raise his voice but his sandpaper whisper commanded attention nonetheless.
Using the shotgun which he still held in both hands he gestured
toward the crumpled figure of the guard.
‘This man did what he had to do. That’s okay, that’s his job, and I respect a man who does the job he’s paid to do. That’s why I took it easy on him.’ As he said this he made a show of slapping his palm against the stock of the shotgun. ‘But none of the rest of you are paid to be heroes and if any of you try we will have words. Just to be clear the next time I have to talk to somebody it will be with the business end of this thing. And you don’t want that, not if you were planning on having an open casket at your funeral anyway.’
Frank stood next to Sticks gun in hand, but he might as well have not been there. These people were terrified, but they only had eyes for Sticks.
‘Course the problem with this gun is that it only holds eight rounds, and I don’t need to be no genius at maths to see we got a lot more than eight people here. So after I’ve spoken to the first eight of you I will have to make the rest of you try and see my point of view by talking to you with this.’
He took on hand off the shotgun and reached down into his boot. He pulled out something small and black that from a distance looked a little like the plastic combs that they had in boxes next to the register at the drug store. Then he gave a quick flick of the wrist and there was a flash, as the silver blade of the straight razor reflected the light from above. Sticks wielded it deftly, his little finger and his ring finger curled around the handle just below the hinge, the blade lightly gripped between thumb and forefinger. He moved it back and forth in front of his eyes, flicking his wrist with each change of direction, it shimmered like a trout in a mountain stream.
‘That’s a conversation none of you want to have.’
Then, with another flourish, the razor vanished as quickly as it had appeared, stowed somewhere safely on Sticks’ skinny little body, and
he had two hands on the shotgun again.
‘Okay, everyone hit the floor, hands behind your heads, eyes closed.‘ And they all obeyed, dropping like stones.
Sticks gave a little nod of his head towards Frank as if to say, Okay boss, I got them warmed up for you, they’re all yours now.
Frank looked at Bob, he was already in position covering the door.
‘You’ he said to Sticks, ‘Put a hole in anything that moves’
He said it on every job, to instil fear and promote compliance. Of course Sticks little performance had already taken care of that, but he said it anyway and he made sure he said it loud. It wouldn‘t do any harm to remind everybody exactly who was in charge here.
He grabbed the sacks from the others’ belts and made towards the tellers, picking his way between the bodies on the floor.
When he got to the desks he stood on tip toe to look behind the glass at the tellers lying on the floor. There were six in total, two old maids, an old geezer, the loan officer, a young male teller and a little slip of a thing with red hair.
‘Hey red!’ Said Frank.
The girl whimpered but did not look up.
‘Hey red, I’m talking to you.’
‘You l-leave her alone.’
It was the loan officer, Frank ignored him. He hadn’t seen her face yet but if the front matched the back she was undoubtedly one tasty dish. No doubt the young buck in the expensive looking suit thought so too, why else would he be risking so much to impress her?
‘Red, look at me or I’m going to tell my friend over there to start explaining the situation, and I’ll tell him to start with the kids.’
From somewhere behind him a woman screamed, the mother no doubt and someone else, a man, found enough balls to call him a bastard, but he ignored it. He had gotten the redhead’s attention when he looked back she was looking up at him, tears streaming down her cheeks. She
looked like she was just out of high school.
‘Red, I need you to get up and open the security door for me.’
He jabbed a finger to indicate the door to the left of the desks. It was big and had a wooden veneer, though Frank knew it would be steel underneath. There was a security key pad on the wall next to it. That was how the tellers got to and from their desks. Behind it was the money. Everything behind the tellers desks of course, but more importantly on a busy day like today just before closing time, two or three trolleys stacked high with currency in a holding room waiting to be transported to the vault.
The terrified girl looked imploringly towards her colleagues for some sort of guidance, but her head snapped back at the sound of Frank’s voice again.
‘Don’t look at those dumb bastards, look at me!’
She looked up again to see Santa Claus using two fingers on his left hand to indicate his two eyes.
‘Now you’ve ten seconds to get that door open, or people are gonna start dying.’
This elicited more whimpering from behind him but it had the desired effect, the girl got to her feet and disappeared from his view. Seconds later the door swung open and Frank walked through, gun in one hand, empty sacks grasped by their necks in the other.
The trolleys were there just as he thought and he emerged three minutes later pushing one loaded with the three full brown sacks. The red headed girl walked in front of him, head down, shaking as she wept.
‘Walk me to the door sugar,’
He trained his gun on her as their little convoy made the short trip to where Bob was standing.
Frank handed Bob one of the sacks which he took it and hefted it over one of his massive shoulders, but he seemed more interested in the
girl than the money.
‘Hey’, he said, looking her up and down, ‘Why don’t we take her with us?’ Frank saw a momentary flash of pink between the nylon whiskers as the fat man licked his lips. ‘She can help Santa guide his sleigh’ There was an evil gleam in his little piggy eyes.
Frank turned to the girl.
‘We’re done here. Get back behind that desk.’
She didn’t need to be told twice. Sticks was walking among the customers lying on the floor, looking for an excuse to do something. Frank wondered if he had even noticed that he was back.
‘Hey Saint Nick!’ he yelled, ‘Time to hit the bricks’
Ethan had been studying the door of the bank in the rear-view mirror and when he saw it swing open and the three Santas emerge, each one carrying a full sack over his shoulder, he slapped both hands down on the steering wheel and gave a triumphant yelp.
‘Drive’ was all Frank said as he slid into the passenger seat beside Ethan, and Ethan didn’t need telling twice. He accelerated at speed and the Beemer fishtailed in the slush, but Ethan was a hell of a driver and he brought it under control easily. Despite the conditions the needle was touching fifty by the time they left Cooper’s Mill. No sign of the cops.
They stayed on the back roads. Sticks’ little performance had meant that the bank staff had been too scared to trigger the silent alarms during the robbery, but there was little doubt they would have been reaching for the button as soon as they’d been out the door. Ethan had made the most of the head start he’d been given, but there would be no avoiding the law on the highway.
They drove mostly in silence. Ethan asked how things had gone inside the bank and Frank had said ‘Fine, just fine.’
After about half an hour Ethan left the stretch of tree-lined two lane blacktop and turned onto an old dirt road. The tarmac had
provided a relatively good driving surface - it was at least ploughed in between heavy falls of snow - but whoever owned this old access road was either unwilling or unable to keep it clear. Ethan had to bring the speed right down as he struggled to keep control of the car over frozen snow which dipped into deep troughs on the uneven surface. The heads of the four men inside rocked from side to side and the suspension complained loudly that it hadn’t been meant for this. After about a quarter of a mile the road began to slope gradually upwards and the car began to struggle for grip, but Ethan was able to nurse it delicately up the incline. When they crested the top they could see the blackened, timber skeleton of a burnt out farmhouse. Next to it, close enough for the wood to have been scorched, but not close enough for it to have gone up itself was a barn. Ethan brought the car gently to a stop in front of the double doors, They were secured by a chain run through the handles and held in place by a large, solid looking padlock. Ethan killed the engine and got out, everyone else followed.
‘We changing up Frank?’ asked Sticks
‘That’s the plan.’
Frank produced a small key from a pocket in his Santa pants, opened the padlock, unwrapped the chain and flung open one of the doors hard so that it banged against the side of the barn. A crow which had been perched on the roof cawed once angrily and took to the air. Sticks turned to watch the bird fly low across the fields, wings flapping lazily, a perfect black silhouette against the snow.
Inside the barn was a large vehicle under a tarpaulin, Frank dragged off the cover to reveal a battered looking Land Cruiser. He opened up the tail gate to reveal the carcass of a deer. He reached behind it to pull out a couple of canvas sports bags which he hauled out and dropped on the floor of the barn.
‘From now on we’re hunters’ said Frank. The bags gaped open to reveal
orange high visibility vests, checked shirts, thermal underwear. Everything the good old boy needed to look his best on a little pre-Christmas hunting trip with his buddies. Ethan and Bob started stripping off their Santa clothes to get changed.
Sticks thought about the crow. Bad luck for someone. Maybe for me.
‘Frank, I got to take a piss’ he said heading back out of the barn door, ‘Don’t run off without me now, boys’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it, Sticks’ answered Frank.
Sticks checked the drivers side window of the BMW on the off-chance but it confirmed what he thought, Ethan hadn’t been dumb enough to leave the keys in the ignition.
He carried on round to the side of the barn, didn’t look back. He could hear footsteps in the snow behind him. He got to the back of the barn and faced it, legs apart, hands at his crotch as he would if he really was taking a piss.
Frank rounded the corner gun in hand.
‘Frank it doesn’t have to go like thi..’ began Sticks before a .50 calibre shell punched a hole in his forehead and blew out the back of his skull. Blood and brain matter, the colour and consistency of oatmeal splashed over the snow and began to steam immediately.
‘Sorry Sticks, take came up short. Can’t afford four cuts. Nothing personal, just business.’
Frank, Ethan and Bob finished changing in the barn. Frank briefly thought about torching the BMW and the Santa costumes but didn’t want a fire to bring anyone running while their tracks were still fresh. He settled for getting Ethan to bury the clothes under the snow and for getting Bob to wipe down the car even though they had all been wearing gloves. The guns went in a compartment underneath the deer carcass which was starting to smell but which would look pretty good to the cops if they were stopped. Hooked over the rear seats of the
Land Cruiser was a gun rack with three high powered rifles, all with permits. The guns on display would mean that no one would think to look for the ones that were not, or so Frank figured anyway. They rolled out in the new wheels, Ethan driving again, a case of beer on the back seat next to Bob. They drove for an hour and a half, slowly following the road into the mountains. As they ascended the air grew colder and the road grew more icy and treacherous. Even with four wheel drive Ethan had to nurse the Land Cruiser in low gear to stop it spinning it’s wheels and slipping back on the incline. They reached the hunting lodge just as the light was beginning to fade and the first flakes of a fresh snow fall were beginning to appear in the air. Ethan who had been tensed up over the wheel let his body go slack and let out a huge sigh of relief as he turned off the ignition and put on the handbrake.
‘We made it boys’ laughed Frank as he clapped one hand onto his brother’s shoulder and turned to offer Country Bob a huge grin.
*************
‘Kid, I ain’t messing around, open the fucking door or there will be no presents for anyone this year’.
Charlie was six years old, which was young enough to still believe in Santa Claus, but old enough to know that the guy in the red suit who sat you on his knee at the department store wasn’t the real deal. How could he be? He was there from the end of November and the real Santa was too busy to leave the North Pole before Christmas Eve. But today was Christmas Eve, so it was at least possible that the skinny old guy with the scratchy voice standing in the hospital parking lot and banging on the window of his mother’s Prius was the real Santa. He just didn’t really look like Santa. Even though he had the suit and the beard he looked like someone Charlie’s mother might call a “lousy
bum”.
‘If you’re Santa you should be in Australia already. They get Christmas first, Miss Hitchin told us that in school.’
Sticks cleared his sinuses noisily and spat something blackish-red and about the size of an oyster onto the tarmac. It was dark now and the sodium lights which lit the front of the parking lot caught the wetness and made it twinkle. Sticks regarded it with something like awe. He had been dead, he had no doubt about that. He remembered Frank following him out of the barn, he remembered the gun being raised and he remembered the deafening roar as the muzzle flashed and then his world turned dark.
When he had opened his eyes again the light was already fading but he could still see his blood on the rotten old timbers that made up the side of the barn with no problem. He was slumped on his side, as he had fallen after the bullet had pierced his skull. He rolled onto his back and then shakily got to his feet. Gently he probed around his forehead with one finger, feeling for a hole that wasn't there. He took off his Santa hat and found that to be intact as well. Pulling it back on he noticed the red splash peppered with bits of brain and skull in the snow. He didn’t even have a headache.
Good deal. He thought. Fucked up beyond all reason, but good deal.
He had headed out across the fields, there was business to attend to and he meant to get to it sooner rather than later. His path was straight and true and he didn’t think about the direction he had picked, for Sticks it was enough that his instincts told him he should go that way. Had he thought about it he would have realised
that he was travelling on the same bearing as the crow that had taken flight from the barn just before he died. Eventually that bearing led him out of the fields and across a road to the Stone County Hospital patients parking lot. And here Sticks started systematically trying the handles of cars with no luck. Then he came across Charlie. The Santa costume had been enough to get the kid to crack the window so he could talk to him, but it was going to take more to get him to open the door.
‘The reason I’m not in Australia is because my sleigh was stolen. By terrorists’
Charlie gave a sharp intake of breath and his eyes grew wide.
‘Terrorists’ he repeated in an awed and fearful voice.
‘That’s right son. Terrorists. Those filthy bastards hate Christmas and they want to ruin it for everyone. They tried to kill me, left me for dead in the snow and stole my sleigh. If I don’t catch up to them soon they’ll kill my reindeer and then they’ll eat them.’
‘No!’ Charlie cried.
Sticks nodded.
‘No fooling son. Now open the fucking door, I need these wheels to go catch those heathen bastards and save Christmas.’
Charlie looked at the keys stuck in the ignition. Charlie’s mom was delivering a change of clothes and some ‘women’s things’ to Mrs Eversham, the lady who lived across the road. Mrs Eversham had a had a fall and broken her hip, and while Charlie’s mom didn’t mind helping out she didn’t want to get stuck talking to the old girl on
Christmas Eve when she still had so much to do. With that in mind she had left Charlie in the car to give her an excuse to rush back. She had left the keys in the car so Charlie could listen to the radio and she had watched from outside as he had leant forward between the seats to push the button on the key fob that engaged the central locking. When she was sure it was locked she held up one gloved hand with the fingers spread to indicate that she would be back in five minutes and then hurried inside. That had been ten minutes ago.
‘I should probably wait until my mom gets back.’ offered Charlie, ‘I don’t think she will be long.’
Sticks shook his head slowly from side to side.
‘That won’t do son, every minute we waste Rudolph is getting closer to being turned into hamburger. Now are you going to man up and help me or not?’
Charlie considered his options and then sighed to himself in imitation of the way that grown ups did when they found themselves forced into doing something they didn‘t really want to. Mom would just have to understand, this was Christmas they were taking about after all. Once again he pushed himself between the gap in the front seats and reached out to the key. The central locking disengaged and Sticks immediately threw open the door and climbed into the driving seat. He turned to face Charlie.
‘Thanks Son, now get the fuck out. Santa’s got some dirty work to do.’
‘You shouldn’t curse so much Santa, my mom says it’s not nice.’
‘Is that so? Well you might want to remind your mom of that when you tell her what happened to her car. I have a feeling she’s liable to
forget. Now get the fuck out.’
The boy did as he was told and Sticks tore out of the parking lot as fast as the Toyota would take him, which wasn’t nearly fast enough.
************
‘Pair of eights and a pair or tens. Hand it over boys.’ Bob roared with laughter as he threw his cards down on the rickety little table and began gathering up the cash. The hunting lodge really wasn’t much more than a shack with a tin roof but Frank and Ethan’s father had called it the ‘Hunting Lodge’ when he had brought them here as kids and the name had stuck with them. Frank had no idea who it belonged to - back then it had been a friend of a friend of their pop’s, or some such. Frank had come up a week earlier to check it out and had seen straight off that it hadn’t been used in a long time, maybe years. It wasn’t the Ritz, it wasn’t even a cheap motel but it was perfect for laying low for a day or two. He’d come back with Ethan and stocked it with food, booze and wood for the stove.
When they arrived Bob and Frank got to drinking pretty quickly - Ethan never touched a drop - and as there wasn’t anything for entertainment but a deck of cards it wasn’t long before they got a poker game going. The snow started coming in thick and heavy after they arrived and the wind howled, shaking the windows in their frames and threatening to lift the thin, corrugated roof clean off. No one cared though, the stove was loaded up to bursting and was just about putting out enough heat to keep them from hypothermia. And of course, the take had been a dream. Frank hadn’t counted it yet but he reckoned over a hundred grand at least, maybe a hundred and fifty.
‘You’re a cheating bastard Bob!’ screamed Frank and picked his Desert
Eagle off the table and pressed it against Bob’s jowls, ‘And we don’t take kindly to cheaters here’ Then he erupted into howls of laughter himself.
Bob slapped the pistol away and this only made Frank laugh harder, Ethan looked at Bob and shrugged as if to say “What ya gonna do?”
‘Screw this’ said Bob staggering to his feet, ‘I need a piss’.
He walked into the small kitchenette that adjoined the main living area and began unbuckling his belt. He pushed his belly up against the sink and raised up on tip toe. He was reaching in with one hand to pull his pecker out when Frank shouted at him.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing? Go outside.’
There was no toilet inside the lodge, the outhouse was about twenty yards beyond the back door. It was just a plank over a deep hole in the ground, and their father had told them that was why it was put so far from the cabin, because the smell in the summer would choke you.
‘It’s blowing a Goddam blizzard outside!’ Bob protested.
Frank picked up the gun again and pointed it in Bob’s direction.
‘Outside, or I will put a hole in you. No fooling this time.’
Bob cursed incoherently but he did tuck himself back in and stomped to the back door. When he opened it the wind screamed in victory and a flurry of snowflakes blew in before he pulled it shut behind him again.
Frank snorted with laughter and then grabbed the bottle of Johnny Walker he’d been working on, raising it aloft.
‘Merry Christmas little brother’
‘Not quite.’ replied Ethan tapping his watch, ‘It’s only just past eleven. Still Christmas Eve.’
Frank reached his hand under the table into one of the sacks and pulled out a huge wad of bills which he slapped down on the scarred wooden surface.
‘Well I’m buying an extra hour. Merry Christmas now you smart-ass bastard’
‘And a very merry Christmas to you too Frank’ said Ethan grinning broadly.
After five minutes Frank was restless and itching to get another hand going. Ordinarily he wasn’t much of a card player but there really wasn’t anything else to do up here. There weren’t even any books.
‘What’s keeping that moron, how long does a man need to take a piss for chrissake’s?’ Frank slurred the last word badly.
‘Maybe he’s taking a dump?’ offered Ethan
‘That could take all night, that boy’s full of it.’ Frank laughed at his own witticism and actually slapped his thigh.
Ethan got up from the table.
‘I’d better go check on him. He’s been hitting the sauce pretty hard, he could fall asleep on the john and freeze to death out there.’
Frank snorted his derision as he watched his brother head out into the snow. He took another big tug on his bottle and started peeling cards off the deck one by one and building a house. His buzz was turning into a pretty good drunk and his perception of time slipped from him somewhat. It was only when he ran out of cards that he realised that Ethan hadn’t come back either. Probably they were playing some sort of joke at his expense, but if not something was very wrong. Frank picked up his gun, it wasn’t going to hurt to be prepared.
He could hear the muffled howl of the wind in the lodge but when he opened the back door it shrieked in his face and tried to force it shut again. He had to get his shoulder behind it and push hard to swing it back on it’s hinges, and when he had forced it far enough he let go and let the wind take it, this time forcing it open by slamming back against the outside of the cabin. He couldn’t see much more than a couple of yards in front of him as snow whipped into his face, making his cheeks burn and forcing him to narrow his eyes to slits.
‘Ethan!’ he yelled at the top of his lungs but the words were carried away on the wind as soon as they left his mouth. He looked down at his feet and saw two sets of footprints trailing off in the direction of the outhouse. He squeezed the gun in his hand and the weight of it felt reassuring. He thought there might be a torch in the Land Cruiser and briefly considered going back through the cabin to the front where the car was parked to get it. Pussy! he thought and
instead dug in and got moving towards the outhouse. It was up a slight incline and the wind and the snow made it hard going (it was drifting against the cabin and already above his knees ) but it still took less than a minute to reach it.
It was a relic from a bygone era, similar in size and shape to a phone booth but made from wood and with a swing door with a half moon cut out of it. Frank hammered on the door with the pistol, the weight of it made the flimsy wooden door shake.
‘Bob! Ethan! Get out here and stop messing around.’ He was screaming to be heard over the wind, it was driving harder now, chilling him to the bone even through his heavy clothes and his thermal underwear. There was no answer, of course. He tried pulling the door open but though it shook and bent in the frame it didn’t give, he knew there was a simple hook and eye catch on the inside.
‘Last chance, I’ll give you to the count of three then I’m kicking the door in.
The snow blasted against his body, the left side was coated making him look like a giant, half-iced gingerbread man. Still no answer and he hadn’t expected one. Grabbing the sides of the outhouse with his hands to brace himself he kicked out with his right foot, the lock broke first time. The door swung in hard and then rebounded almost immediately as it hit something solid. Someone solid.
Frank slowly pulled the door open and held it so the wind couldn’t slam it shut again. At first he didn’t understand what he was seeing and then, as his brain slowly began to accept the evidence of his eyes his stomach rebelled and threw up a gutful of whisky into the snow.
What Frank saw was Bob’s massive torso, upside down, feet leaning against the rear of the out house, head invisible, shoved through the hole in the plank. The shit chute. The stench was unbearable, but it
wasn’t coming from the whole that Bob’s head was shoved into, it was coming from what decorated the walls. Bob had been gutted, cut open from crotch to sternum and his bowels were a steaming, stinking pile on the floor. Blood coated the walls and the ceiling, rained down in fat, dark drops. Frank’s legs turned to rubber an it took all his strength not to collapse.
‘Ethan!’ he screamed again into the wind and he was answered by the piercing squeal of the Land Cruiser’s alarm.
In the heat of the moment he assumed it was Bob’s murderer trying to make a getaway and he ran back to the cabin and then carried on around to the front where they had parked the car. He came from the side that approached the rear of the car and saw the turn signals flashing in time with alarm. All four doors were wide open and even with the drifting snow he could tell from the way the vehicle canted to one side that the tires had been slashed.
He raised the gun and held it out in front of him at eye level, two handed grip. He began to sidestep his way carefully around the side of the car, seeing the outline of something on the hood through the rear window. It was Ethan.
‘Oh Jesus no!’ it was barely a whisper, the last of Frank’s strength had deserted him.
His little brother had been stripped to the waist and laid out on the hood, arms stretched out to his sides as if he had been crucified. His head tilted up at a slight angle where it lay against the slope of the windshield. His legs were together and ran down the length of the hood, feet dangling off the edge.
His throat had been slashed across and it gaped open revealing the ruined gristle of his windpipe in the bloody canyon. Both cheeks had been laid open from the corners of his mouth right up to his ears, face frozen forever in an insane grin of death. A string of fairy lights wound around his head and he wore it like a crown of thorns.
They flashed, multicoloured, the flex trailing around through the open door and jammed into the cigarette lighter. ‘Merry Christmas’ was carved into the flesh of Ethan’s pigeon chest.
This time his legs did give out and he collapsed into a wailing, shaking heap of snot in the snow. He heard a bottle smash inside the cabin and managed to haul himself to his feet and stagger towards the door, determined to have his revenge. As he barged the door open and lunged through the opening something big and heavy came down on the back of his head, he sprawled forward awkwardly, carried forward by his own momentum. Unconscious before he hit the floor.
When he woke up again he couldn’t move. He was in a sitting position, arms and legs lashed to one of the crappy little wooden chairs with duct tape. There was another strip of tape across his mouth. He tried to scream anyway and though it was muffled it was loud enough to attract the attention of his captor. The back door opened and in walked Sticks.
Frank’s eyes grew wide and a damp patch bloomed on the front of his pants.
Sticks walked over to his former prison mate and ripped the tape from his mouth. Some skin came with it. Frank immediately started screaming.
‘You’re dead! You’re dead motherfucker! I blew your brains out.’
He strained and writhed in the chair, almost toppled it over. His face was purple and cords stood out on his neck with the effort.
Sticks was perfectly calm.
‘Yeah, funny thing about that Frank - and I just figured this out myself a couple of hours ago, so don’t feel bad for not knowing - but apparently you can’t kill Santa Claus on Christmas Eve.’ His voice was a testament to years of hard living.
Frank shook even more violently in the chair and began howling incoherently with rage.
‘I know’ continued Sticks, ‘Ain’t that just one almighty kick in the ass. I mean I should be dead. You did blow my brains out, but I woke up. Look, not even a goddam hole!’ Stick pulled the red floppy hat off his head and pointed towards his forehead, he then turned around to demonstrate that the back of his skull was also intact.’
Now Frank gave one almighty heave and did succeed in toppling himself and the chair over. Sticks continued regardless.
‘See, I figured it out when I was taking to this kid. I think it’s because they all believe in Santa, all the little ones at least. Even if they pretend they know there isn’t a Santa Claus they secretly still believe, because they want it to be true. And not just for the presents either. It’s because they want there to be something magic.’
‘Arrrrrgggggghhhhhhh! You’re……not……Santa……fucking………Claus!’ Frank was on his side, still stuck in the chair and trying to propel himself along with his feet. Splinters dug into his cheek as it slid across the un-sanded planks that made up the floor.
Sticks sighed, then bent down and dragged the chair and Frank back into an upright position.
‘Obviously I’m not the Santa Claus, but I’m a Santa Claus. At least today I am. And there’s a lot of kids out there with a lot of Christmas spirit. More than enough to go round it would seem. Fuck me Frank, you and your boys made a hell of a mistake when you changed your clothes.’ Sticks gave a throaty chuckle, his eyes which had been old and tired before were now a vibrant blue and they twinkled with mischief.
Frank felt his gorge rise, but he had voided it all outside and his stomach didn’t have anything left to give.
Sticks grabbed another chair and set it down directly in front of Frank. Then he sat down cross-legged in front of his betrayer and reached inside his jacket to once again remove his straight razor. Without warning his wrist flicked, there was a flash of steel and he
lunged forward arm outstretched, then just as suddenly he resumed his position in the seat as if he had never moved. For a fraction of a second Frank didn’t realise what had happened, just that a shadow had suddenly appeared on the left of his field of vision. Then he felt the wet thickness oozing down his cheek and he screamed.
‘Don’t worry, I won’t take your other eye before the end. I’d hate for you not to be able to see all the fun things I have in store for you.’
‘Did I ever tell you how I came by the name Sticks, Frank?’
Frank only moaned.
‘It’s not my real name in case you haven’t guessed. My parent’s christened me Nicholas. Can you dig it, little Nicky?’ As he spoke he absent-mindedly opened the blade of his razor again and carefully wiped the grue off on the leg of his Santa pants.
‘And I was a serious little boy Frank. Took everything seriously, schoolwork, chores, didn’t matter. To me it was all business, and even though I was too young to know what business really was I knew it needed to be taken care of. If there was a job to be done I’d keep at it and keep at it and I wouldn’t stop until it was done. And my pop, he would watch me and he would say, “Little Nicky sticks at things. Oh yes, our Nick sticks.” And my little brother eventually picked up on it, and then his friends and soon they were calling me Nick Sticks, and eventually that became plain old Sticks.’
Frank moaned again and then started to cry.
‘Now the business I need to take care of is putting a hurt on you Frank, and believe me when I tell you that serious little boy grew up to be a very serious man. When the pain finally becomes unbearable and you heart gives out under the strain I will crawl down into hell after you and keep right on going because Nick still sticks.' Then he opened the blade of his razor and he didn’t close it again for a long time.
*********
Dear Charlie,
Thank you for helping me to save Christmas. I eventually managed to catch up those terrorist bastards and I made them sorry they was ever born and Rudorf and the other raindeer did not get ate.
I have brung back your moms car if you look out your window you will see it parked across the street. But frankly you can tell her from me it’s a reel peace of shit and it’s a wonder I was ever able to catch up to them. Sorry it is late but I wanted to get you a special present for helping me out but I forgot to ask you what you like so I hope money is okay. There is fifty grand under the spare tyre by yourself something nice. If you are feeling generous by your mom a decent car. That thing really is a peace of shit.
Your Pal
Santa
