Contributor: LA Sykes
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Eye eye. Who is this dodgy looking cunt? Suspicious behaviour indeed. Creeping around the alley at this time of night? What the fuck is he wearing? Who does he think he is? Which house is he planning to hit? Time to find out.
Out the back door and jump the fence. Creep up on this thieving fucker from behind and boot him up the arse as he bends over mauling about with the canvas cover sheet on his getaway vehicle. Rip off his silly hat and grab his hair snapping his head back. Crush his bulbous nose with a quick crack. Look him square in his pleading eyes taking in the white beard slowly turning crimson with blood.
"Don't tell me, you're Santa Claus delivering presents for all the boys and girls?" I ask sarcastically.
"Yes, look please I really am S...."
I cut off his driveling bullshit with another backhand slap. Never could stand thieves.
"Shut up scumbag".
Claims he has a heart condition and needs the pills from the glove compartment of his sleigh. Santa with a bad ticker? Too many mince pies and sherry? Nice try.
“No pills for you thief. Picked the wrong street to burglarize this Christmas!”
Degenerate fool keels over playing dead. Very still. Good acting my son.
The vehicle moves beneath its cover so I rip it off and step back in stunned shock. Nine docile reindeer all stare at me with accusing glares. Harnessed to a quaint wooden sledge.
On the seat is a dirty cotton sack that appears empty. With shaking hands I untie the twine and open it. Stardust sprays the air and a kaleidoscope of colour bursts all around me bathing my senses, illuminating the pitch dark and my soul.
Tie it back up and head to the man in red with a thousand apologies on the tip of my tongue. Won’t rouse, no pulse. Shit.
Desperate times call for desperate measures. Only one option.
Drag the stiffening corpse into the garden. Quickly strip it and cover the pale flesh with firewood and leaves. Have to bury it in the woods before sunrise.
The suit is miles too big and the crotch smells. Dirty bastard. Least the braces keep the pants up.
Clamber into the driver’s seat and grip the reins. Quick tug gets no response. How the fuck do you drive a sleigh?
‘’Mush you stupid cunts!’’
Realise mush is for huskies and go beet red. Glad nobody was around to witness that.
Whip hard but still these dopy bastards don’t go.
No time to spare. Lean over and kick the nearest one in the arsehole. That did the trick and away we go.
Gonna be a long night.
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LA Sykes is a psychotherapist and published sports writer from Manchester England. Bringing a new voice of musings and satire from the inside.
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Eye eye. Who is this dodgy looking cunt? Suspicious behaviour indeed. Creeping around the alley at this time of night? What the fuck is he wearing? Who does he think he is? Which house is he planning to hit? Time to find out.
Out the back door and jump the fence. Creep up on this thieving fucker from behind and boot him up the arse as he bends over mauling about with the canvas cover sheet on his getaway vehicle. Rip off his silly hat and grab his hair snapping his head back. Crush his bulbous nose with a quick crack. Look him square in his pleading eyes taking in the white beard slowly turning crimson with blood.
"Don't tell me, you're Santa Claus delivering presents for all the boys and girls?" I ask sarcastically.
"Yes, look please I really am S...."
I cut off his driveling bullshit with another backhand slap. Never could stand thieves.
"Shut up scumbag".
Claims he has a heart condition and needs the pills from the glove compartment of his sleigh. Santa with a bad ticker? Too many mince pies and sherry? Nice try.
“No pills for you thief. Picked the wrong street to burglarize this Christmas!”
Degenerate fool keels over playing dead. Very still. Good acting my son.
The vehicle moves beneath its cover so I rip it off and step back in stunned shock. Nine docile reindeer all stare at me with accusing glares. Harnessed to a quaint wooden sledge.
On the seat is a dirty cotton sack that appears empty. With shaking hands I untie the twine and open it. Stardust sprays the air and a kaleidoscope of colour bursts all around me bathing my senses, illuminating the pitch dark and my soul.
Tie it back up and head to the man in red with a thousand apologies on the tip of my tongue. Won’t rouse, no pulse. Shit.
Desperate times call for desperate measures. Only one option.
Drag the stiffening corpse into the garden. Quickly strip it and cover the pale flesh with firewood and leaves. Have to bury it in the woods before sunrise.
The suit is miles too big and the crotch smells. Dirty bastard. Least the braces keep the pants up.
Clamber into the driver’s seat and grip the reins. Quick tug gets no response. How the fuck do you drive a sleigh?
‘’Mush you stupid cunts!’’
Realise mush is for huskies and go beet red. Glad nobody was around to witness that.
Whip hard but still these dopy bastards don’t go.
No time to spare. Lean over and kick the nearest one in the arsehole. That did the trick and away we go.
Gonna be a long night.
- - -
LA Sykes is a psychotherapist and published sports writer from Manchester England. Bringing a new voice of musings and satire from the inside.
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LA Sykes
