Warnings: Language, Mature Sexual Subject Matter, Threats of Violence, possible War on Christmas connotations.
Don’t even.
I’m not in the mood.
People who know me know I’m not a braggart. I don’t beat my chest, bare my fangs, and tear up a throat just to show off. That’s not my style.
I’m descended from Alexander the Great (I’m actually his nephew if you must know). So I don’t need to do that shit, okay?
But I swear. I will shred you to pieces if you make fun of me in my Santa suit.
I was talked into this stupid game by my friend Charly. No, not the dumb ass who wrote my story. That idiot doesn’t even know his own name. I’m talking about my friend Charly, who, if you read my longer story (written by the idiot), you know I met while he was munching on some factory owner in Chicago during Prohibition.
I say munching because Charly’s a slob when he feeds. I leave two perfect little punctures and a pristine neck when I suck out the blood. Charly tears a neck up like his canines are designed to dig for elusive treasures.
Anyway, Charly talked me into wearing this Santa suit. And playing this inane game where we pick a home and we dive through the chimney like we’re Santa Claus.
“You first,” I say.
“No, no, it was my idea,” says Charly. “You gotta go first. Here’s a bag full of toys that Daphne scrounged up. Go on, man. Some little shit may even have left you a cookie and milk.”
“I fuckin’ hate milk,” I say as I snatch the thick, three-ply plastic sack.
What the hell. It’s not like there’s a lot else to do on Christmas Eve. I’ve been depressed since I lost an entire house of vampire influencers and streamers during the attack on Jerrold Mountain. Anything helps.
Those people meant the world to me. I guess you could say Raygun was my favorite. He wasn’t one of the vampires, but our romps in the bedroom were legendary. He’s gone, too.
“Up you go, asshole.” Charly’s smiling from one bulbous cheek to the other. The usual accumulation of perspiration is beading across his big, black, bald head.
“Shit,” I say.
I jump to the top of the roof. It’s a two-story flat, so I need a running start, but I make it. I stare at the snowy rooftops, taking them in, appreciating the flurries dancing in the wind as they drift downward.
I look at the chimney and yell down to Charly, “This thing isn’t big enough for me, you idiot!”
He yells back, “It’s a bit of a tight squeeze, but you’ll make it. Just make sure you toss the toys down first!”
So I do. The bag scuffs along the walls of the chimney as the toys fall. When they hit the bottom of the chimney, a dazzling, sparkling light erupts from underneath. I want to ask Charly what it is, but since he doesn’t see it, I don’t bother.
This is crazy. What the hell’s wrong with me? I may as well feed when I get inside to make all this worth my while. I sit on the edge of the chimney. A loose brick bounces down the gabled roof and nearly hits Charly in the head. “Serves you right!” I bellow downward.
Charly laughs, then motions for me to slide down. Still smiling.
It starts as the tight squeeze Charly said it would, but the chimney walls seem to expand as I slide down. They quickly expand to several times my size as I float to the bottom as if I’m pulled down by a weight underwater.
None of this happens without a touch of grief. None of my discourse with Charly or anyone else ever happens without it. It taints my every moment. I think of this as I slowly float to the bottom of the suddenly expansive chimney. Visions of Wurdulac attacks dance through my head as I descend.
When my feet gently touch the floor, I kick the bag to my side.
The living room is not as I expect. I anticipated a Christmas scene. Stockings at the fireplace, a glass of milk, and some cookies that Charly mentioned. Instead, I see a bank of monitors bolted to a long wall. They light up the room so much there’s no need for any other lighting.
A woman walks into the room draped in nothing but a long purple-feathered shawl that falls to her knees. I want to peer behind her to see if her butt is exposed but she’s standing in front of me wearing a long thin smile on her chestnut face. Dozens of beads pierce her ears. A long hoop ring is fastened to the bottom of her nose.
It’s Princess Time Slut. I can’t believe it. “But you were taken out by the Wurdulac…” I try to say.
She puts a finger against my mouth. “Shhh,” she says. “Everyone’s here.” She nods to the wall with the monitors.
“I don’t understand,” I say, but when I look at the monitors, I immediately understand what she means when she says they are all there.
Because they are all there. Even Raygun, who is still wearing his overalls over the Free Willy T-shirt he was wearing the last time I saw him. I choke up a little when I see him smiling with those big fat teeth that are so huge you could project a slideshow onto them.
Blacktard is on one monitor in her luscious black leotard. She’s hovering over a kitchen counter with a glimmering huge knife. She smiles at me as she chops an onion. “Hi, Jade,” she says.
AngryJoe is on another monitor sitting at a podcast mic in front of an upside-down American flag. He lifts a fist toward me and nods his head.
Lovelace and Ice Game Z are on separate monitors too. Ice Game Z smiles broadly as he says in his infectious Nigerian accent, “Here for you, Jade Mourning.” Lovelace, always the OnlyFans lady, unbuttons her shirt and smiles seductively.
They’re all here. All the vampire influencers and gamers who perished on that awful day. Why? How?
“How are you here?” I ask Princess Time Slut.
“Ah, ah, not here for that. Or, if you want, ask them.” She nods again at the monitors.
“Merry Christmas, Jade Mourning!” all twelve of the influencers say at once.
“But you guys don’t believe in Christmas,” I respond.
“But you do!” they say in unison.
When they sing their unique lyrical adaptation of “The Twelve Days of Christmas” in perfect a cappella harmony, a tear pushes out of the bottom of my eye.
I’ve lived for two thousand years. This is the best gift I’ve ever received.
Thanks for reading! This story is based on characters from my novel, Psalm of Vampires (under my real name, not my pen name). You can check out excerpts here:
This short story began as a prompt for a Medium publication called Dominium Tenebrarum — The Underworld.
Good laugh from your line, "no, not the dumb ass...." great way to start the morning! Merry Christmas Charles.