Christmas on Crack Read online

  Christmas on Crack

  Eraserhead Press

  Portland, OR

  ERASERHEAD PRESS 205 NE BRYANT PORTLAND, OR 97211

  WWW.ERASERHEADPRESS.COM ISBN: 1-936383-38-1

  Copyright © 2010 by Carlton Mellick III, Jordan Krall, Jeff Burk, Andrew Goldfarb, Kevin L. Donihe, Edmund Colell, Cameron Pierce, Kirsten Alene, and Kevin Shamel.

  Interior art copyright © 2010 by Andrew Goldfarb

  Cover art copyright © 2010 by Ed Mironiuk http://www.edmironiuk.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written consent of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Printed in the USA.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  EDITOR’S NOTE - Carlton Mellick III

  SANTA CLAUS & THE ELVES OF FUCK - Jordan Krall

  FROSTY & THE FULL MONTY - Jeff Burk

  UNWANTED GIFTS - Andrew Goldfarb

  TWO-WAY SANTA - Kevin L. Donihe

  THE CHRISTMAS TURN-ON - Edmund Colell

  THE ELF-SLUT SISTERS - Cameron Pierce & Kirsten Alene

  CHRISTMAS CRABS - Kevin Shamel

  EDITOR’S NOTE

  For some, Christmas is a time of family bonding, Christianity, and awesome fucking toys. But for me, it is a little more special than that. I view Christmas as the time of peppermint dominatrixes, elf orgies, snowjobs, and getting drunk with fat guys. So I have decided to share with you my true meaning of Christmas with this book, Christmas on Crack, a collection of magical holiday tales written by members of my family: the bizarro fiction community. Besides releasing this as a companion piece to my own Christmas book, Sausagey Santa, I’ve also released it as a way to introduce my readers to other writers in the bizarro fiction scene. So read these tales and if you like them check out some of the authors’ books. Underground writers could use your support.

  So, I hope you enjoy these Christmas tales of bizarro debauchery. Consider it my Christmas present to you. If you’re good I might give you another Christmas present next year. But if you’re bad, I guess you’re kind of fucked, because Creepy Cowboy Santa (pictured left) likes to hang naughty boys and girls . . . Not to kill you or anything, he just hangs you for a few minutes because he’s got a strangling fetish. He might even pay you if you let him do it, and that’s pretty cool. A little extra money around Christmas is always good. It’s a win-win situation.

  Merry Christmas and shit,

  - Carlton Mellick III 12/01/10

  Jordan Krall is one of my favorite writers in the bizarro fiction scene. He’s got a way of writing that is completely addicting to me, especially if you read a few of his works in a row. I recommend picking up his books Squid Pulp Blues and Piecemeal June. By the end of them you’ll be rushing out to get his crazy spaghetti western, Fistful of Feet, and then wishing he could write books faster. Because Jordan’s work is always filled with characters who have crazy fetishes, I knew he would be perfect for this book. In fact, if I couldn’t get Jordan I wasn’t planning on doing Christmas on Crack at all. This book was made for him.

  So get cozy around the crackling fireplace and enjoy this tale of Santa’s encounter with Ms. Peppermint. It will surely send visions of sugar plums dancing through your head . . .

  SANTA CLAUS & THE ELVES OF FUCK

  I.

  Christmas.

  What a pain in my ass!

  Santa Claus picked a flea out of his beard and flicked it into the sky. He pulled on the reins, cursing those fucking reindeer for not going fast enough, for not ending his hell sooner. Once a year he had to endure the most ridiculous of responsibilities which was to provide toys to the children of the world.

  Santa wouldn’t have much of a problem with Christmas if he just had to deliver to poor kids or orphans. But no, much of his time was devoted to delivering to rich, spoiled brats whose parents gave them everything they wanted anyway. That was the worst. Those were the times when he was tempted to take a big old shit in their stockings. It took every ounce of his jolly spirit to resist the urge. He had to tell himself it was only once a year, but even that wasn’t enough to extinguish the hate that engulfed him.

  And shit, this year was just too much for him. His back was sore, his stomach upset, and his dick, well, his dick was desperate for some action. Mrs. Claus hadn’t given it up for months, not since she caught Santa with that Russian whore.

  That was a bad fuckin’ night.

  Santa had ordered the girl from Russia with the intention of just getting a quick screw to satisfy his need for variety. Wasn’t it normal for any man to want to dig into some strange pussy every once in a while? It wasn’t that he didn’t love his wife but he had to be honest about it. After three hundred and fifty years of marriage, the young and beautiful Mrs. Diana Claus just wasn’t giving the same effort in the bedroom as she had in the beginning.

  So last year Santa had forgotten to lock his workshop door and Mrs. Claus had caught him squeezing his jolly red penis into a tight Russian clamhole. If it wasn’t for the poor hooker bursting into tears, there would’ve been a double homicide. Mrs. Claus was furious to the point of putting a blowtorch to her husband’s crotch and threatening to burn his pecker off if he didn’t repent right then and there.

  Fortunately, Santa dropped to his knees and repented.

  He also agreed to send the Russian girl back to her home country, but the girl begged and pleaded for him to send her anywhere but there. She said if her uncles found out she didn’t fulfill her part of the transaction, they’d lock her in that toxic waste barrel again. She couldn’t stand another week in there. It had made her brain bubble.

  Despite her own emotional turmoil, Mrs. Claus agreed to instead send the young Russian girl to New Jersey where she could get a job as a stripper. After all, it hadn’t been the girl’s fault that Santa Claus was such a letch.

  Santa had promised his wife he’d never do that sort of thing again and he meant it. But after a few weeks, that didn’t satisfy her. She kept hounding him to explain why he’d pick some young Russian whore when he had such a hot, young wife at home. Santa didn’t really have a reason. He admitted it seemed strange, since most men would kill to have a young wife like Diana at home. She had cute, perky breasts and a petite body that would bring any cock to attention. But the Russian girl he brought over was plump and voluptuous like a juicy sugarplum. Yes, it was true Santa was one of the most magical men in the world, but he was still a man.

  He had promised Diana that he wouldn’t stray again and had intended to keep that promise. But couldn’t she at least give him an occasional handjob or something? Instead, she neglected the intimate part of their marriage and expected him to satisfy himself alone. The whole fucking thing was just too damn frustrating and on top of that, he had to deliver fucking toys again.

  Let’s get this shit over with.

  Santa shook his head free from stress and looked down at the last stop on his Christmas delivery route. It was a new town that had just popped up out of nowhere. There didn’t appear to be any industry nearby, no coal mines or anything like that. It was as if a group of people just decided to settle themselves on a plot of land like their ancestors would have done hundreds of years ago.

  It was situated between two snowy mountains, cradled like a nursery filled with brick and wood babies. Santa thought the place looked like a shit-hole but it possessed a weird, quaint sort of charm that wasn’t usually evident in new towns. If he didn’t know better, Santa would have guessed the town was at least three hundred years old.

  But Santa really didn’t give a shit about the specifics
of the place. He automatically resented it and its residents for providing him with an additional delivery stop. He couldn’t wait to get home and kick back with a drink. That would be the routine for the next eleven months. Twelve hours a day of watching kung-fu movies while drinking rum and donkey’s milk. That is, until next December rolled around and he’d have to start preparing for the holidays.

  “Okay, you rat bastards, bring me on down,” Santa said to the reindeer. “Let’s dump our shit and get the hell out of here.”

  The animals answered by snorting and dropping straight down through the air, forcing Santa back in his seat. “Okay, okay, not so fast!” he said, pulling the reins until they cut into his hands and drew blood. “Shit!”

  Deep red blood leaked onto the sleigh and formed the shape of a pair of high heels. Santa looked down at it and smudged it with his elbow as the reindeer pulled the vehicle down closer and closer to the town.

  As the sleigh reached the rooftops, Santa saw a decorative wooden sign, lit up by multi-colored Christmas lights:

  WELCOME TO TUSK Population 2,976

  “A little town.. .just for you_____ ”

  “Yeah, yeah, kiss my ass,” Santa said, as he landed the sleigh on the first house.

  II.

  Diana Claus sat on her front porch and looked out at the North Pole, her village of Christmas Spirit, her kingdom of holiday cheer, her dominion of toys and joy.

  “Son of a bitch,” she said.

  She knew that it was her husband’s job to be out all night delivering toys but she couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d use the opportunity to screw around behind her back. Despite his tight schedule, Diana knew he’d find a way to squeeze in a blowjob or a quick fuck somewhere, probably Amsterdam or Newark. He’d probably hire some slut to dress up like that one-eyed woman from that movie he liked so much, the one where the bad-ass chick gets revenge. The eye patch really made Santa’s dick hard but Diana refused to wear one. It was just plain weird. But that probably meant some other bitch was wearing one for him.

  Well, fuck it.

  She had it. She was sick of being humiliated. Sure, he’d promised he’d never cheat on her again but could she believe him? He was a man, after all. Diana was considerably younger than he was, still had her figure, and had not a wrinkle on her face. Yet he still found the need to order himself a chubby Russian girl!

  The rage and resentment had been building inside her ever since “the incident” and it had boiled over into a plan.

  It was a plan that involved sacrificing her lifestyle or at least temporarily altering it. That is, if they could be settled. The plan would have to be executed with meticulous skill, but Diana didn’t feel like she had the patience to do it herself.

  That’s why she called them.

  The Elves of Fuck.

  Contrary to popular belief, Christmas elves weren’t the only kind of elves around. In fact, they were a small minority among the elf race. There were dozens of varieties of elves and Mrs. Claus counted on the rumors being true, that the Elves of Fuck were the ones to call when you needed something done about an unfaithful spouse.

  Apparently they also had their tiny hands in the pornography business, producing fetish films for customers who found midgets to be a bit too disproportionate. Diana had actually found out about them after viewing one of their films, Spit Shine My Face #4, which consisted of five elf women spitting on and slapping a regular-sized man. It hadn’t been her cup of tea but she was thankful that it introduced her to the Elves of Fuck.

  So there she was, sitting on her front porch on Christmas Eve, waiting for her elf contact to come along and give her an update. A part of her hoped that her fears would be unfounded and Santa would not be sniffing around strange snatch. Maybe then they could repair their marriage and she could go back to trusting him wholeheartedly like she had done in the beginning.

  From behind her, a voice said, “Diana?”

  She turned and saw that it was Smitty, her squidfoot. Smitty had been found roaming the North Pole ten years prior. At first, Diana was terrified of him. After all, he was seven-feet tall and hairy, looking like a cross between a sasquatch and a squid. After spending some time with him, however, Diana learned that he wasn’t the monstrous beast she had expected. In fact, Smitty was quite gentle and cultured.

  “Hey there!” she said.

  Smitty said, “So you’re really going through with it, Diana?”

  “Yeah. Why? You don’t think I should?”

  “I’m just saying, you open up this can of worms and who knows what kind of repercussions will come squirming out. Those elves mean business, you know.”

  “I know. That’s why I hired them.”

  “Did you speak to them already?”

  “Yeah. Someone should be here any minute. I told them not to do anything until I say so.”

  Smitty put a tentacle on Diana’s shoulder. “And what if they tell you he’s messing around with someone else?” “Then I tell them to kill the son of a bitch.”

  Smitty sighed. “Spoken like a true wife.”

  “Hey, I’ve given him more than enough opportunities to show me that he truly wants to be faithful and if he’s not messing around, he has nothing to worry about. If he is, then he deserves it.”

  “But what about all the kids? What about Christmas?” “Oh, fuck Christmas. If no one is able to take over the job, then all those whiny brats don’t get their stupid little toys.”

  Before Smitty could respond, a flash of light appeared in front of them. The flash morphed into a cloud of purple smoke and out of that smoke walked an elf. A naked elf.

  III.

  Santa had delivered to three houses when he realized something was strange about the town.

  The three houses he had delivered in didn’t seem right. The living rooms felt phony, as if they were all sets from a movie or television show. Sure, there were signs of habitation (framed pictures, children’s toys spread across the floor, food in the fridge) but there was an emptiness that could only be felt and not seen. Santa was tempted to look into the rooms so he could see for himself that there were people living there, but he resisted the urge. Doing something like that could only bring trouble.

  It was while sneaking around the back of the fourth house that he smelled the peppermint.

  Santa sniffed and realized that it wasn’t just peppermint. There was a musky odor in there and a fishy smell that was not entirely unpleasant.

  He was about to try to follow the smell when, from behind him, there was the sound of giggling.

  “Yoohoo,” a woman’s voice purred. “Oh my, oh my, oh my. Is it true?”

  Santa put his hand to his forehead. Awww, shit.

  This had happened two years before. Santa had been caught by some nosey good-for-nothing teenage boy over in Dayton, Ohio. It had resulted in his having to commit his first and only kidnapping. He felt slightly guilty for having to drop the fucker into a volcano on the sleigh ride back to the North Pole but it had to be done.

  Still, he didn’t want to have to do it again.

  He turned around but didn’t see the woman. She was in the shadows. He said, “Shhhhhhhh.. .Be quiet. You’re dreaming.” It was a lame trick that rarely worked but he had to try it.

  “No need to be quiet, sweetie, oh, sweetie,” she said. “I know who you are, I do. See?” She stepped out of the snowy shadows.

  Santa nearly fell over. The woman that stood before him was the most beautiful he had ever seen. If he had believed in angels, he’d have sworn she was one.

  She seemed ageless, though if Santa had to guess, he’d say she was probably forty, maybe forty-five years old. Even so, every one of those years must have been smooth ones. Even the small wrinkles on her face looked as if drawn by a god.

  Her breasts were massive, bulging forward, struggling against her dark red business suit. Santa’s eyes moved downward and saw she wore high heels, glittery red like

  Dorothy’s shoes in The Wizard of Oz. San
ta thought that was funny. Sexy, but funny. He imagined those shoes clicking together, summoning the Lollipop Guild but instead of munchkins, they’d be elves whose sole purpose was to give those shoes (and the feet within) a tongue bath.

  His eyes went back to her breasts. “Uh,” was all he could manage to say.

  “No words?” she said. “You’re looking at my chest. Have anything to get off yours?”

  The peppermint scent grew stronger, forcing itself up Santa’s nostrils and into his head until he felt like his brain was aflame with mint fire. He kept staring at the woman, from her wiggling toes trapped in her glittery shoes up to her thick thighs that were barely covered by her tight skirt. What was she doing out in the snow dressed like that? She didn’t even have a coat on. But he wasn’t complaining. If she had worn a coat, he would never have gotten such a

  good look at her___

  “Chest?” he said.

  The woman took a step closer. “Yes. Do you have anything to get off your chest? Such as who you really are. You’re not some shopping mall Santa Claus, are you? You’re the real deal, the real McCoy, the whole kit and caboodle. Saint Nicolas himself, not some butter-and-egg man coming through the humble little town of Tusk.”

  “I, uh, don’t know what you’re___ ” he said. Before he

  could finish, however, Santa realized he was an inch away from the woman, eye-level with her cleavage as it spoke to him like erotic hieroglyphs. Snowflakes were falling between her breasts, moistening them. Santa imagined the woman drooling onto her own cleavage, making it sloppy for him to bury his face in. A snow and saliva ride through her plump, milky valley.

  She said, “Oh, silly man, I know all about you. I know your real name isn’t Nicolas but I do know you’re a saint. Well, you used to be, anyway. So sad to hear what happened.”

  Still staring at the hypnotic cleavage, Santa Claus tried shaking himself out of whatever witchcraft the woman had him trapped in. How did she know who he really was? How did she know what had happened to him all those years ago? There were perhaps five people, maybe six, who knew about his losing his sainthood back in ’23.