The center of the mall is trying very hard to be merry.
In the middle of it all, lit by twinkling lights and the relentless cheer of the seasonal Christmas music playing on the mall sound system, sits Santa’s Village. You know, that merry little set up we find in the center of every mall at this time of year. A painted replica of the North Pole, complete with painted candy-canes, plastic gingerbread men, and at the center of it all, a gold and red velvet throne where Jolly Ol’ Saint Nick himself sat.
The line of eager and entitled children lined up around velvet ropes, eyes wide with sugar and demands. Parents hovered around their children, adjusting collars, smoothing hair, hissing threats in tight, whisper-shouts about “smile or no presents.” Great parenting, huh?
Halfway down the line, the festive illusion had begun to glitch and give way to something more surreal.
Anthrax and Twisted Sister stood among the children like someone dragged a horror movie frame into one of those cheesy Christmas movies you might see on the Hallmark channel. Both of them wear their usual Gothic leather attire. Twisted Sister’s makeup was smeared corpse-pale, eyes ringed in dark shadow, lips painted a red so deep one could be forgiven for thinking them black. Anthrax had a Santa hat perched crookedly over his brow while sucking on a candy cane, making loud slurping noises .
Two kids behind them whisper, eyes bulging .
Kid #1: Is he in a band?
Kid #2: He looks like the kind of guy who eats bands.
A little girl in a reindeer sweater stared at Twisted Sister’s spiked choker like it might pop off at any moment and impale someone. Twisted Sister caught the girl’s eye and flashed her a grin that was all teeth stained with lipstick. The girl gasped and hid behind her mother’s coat.
Anthrax finished part of the candy cane, crunching down with a sharp finality that made the nearby mothers flinch. He flicked his eyes toward a display of shiny toy trucks, then back to the line inching forward.
An elf in felt shoes and a green and white striped tunic tried not to stare as Anthrax and Twisted Sister near the front, failing miserably.
Elf: Santa will see you soon. Remember, one photo. No props and no … weapons.
Anthrax blinked, crunching another piece of the candy cane.
Anthrax: We left the chainsaw in the car. We’re being festive!
Elf: Next! Little girl in the, um, skulls and snowflakes?
Twisted Sister’s face lit up like a Christmas tree.
Twisted Sister: That’s me!
She stepped past the velvet rope with a childlike bounce. She stopped in front of him and just stared, eyes wide, head tilted.
Santa Clause: Hello there!” And what’s your name, young, er, lady?
Twisted Sister didn’t answer at first. She took in everything about him, like a cat sizing up the mouse skittering across a linoleum floor. Then, very slowly, she clambered up onto his lap, all spurs and leather and belts. Santa tried not to wince as an elf coughed into her hand, badly hiding a laugh.
Twisted Sister: My name is Twisted Sister.
Santa Clause: Well, Twisted Sister, have you been a good girl this year?
She just looked at him. Twisted Sister’s head tilted the opposite way now, like she was assessing him, like she was waiting to see if he’d say something stupid again. Her lips pursed. Three beats passed like that, her eyes locked on his, the silence stretching just a little too long for comfort.
Then, abruptly, her face split into a huge, childish grin.
Twisted Sister: Oreos!
Santa Clause: I’m sorry?
Twisted Sister: Oreos! The ones in the little packages and the big packages and the holiday ones with the red centers and the weird ones no one likes! Oreos! I want to build a house out of them!
The elf at the camera station choked and Santa laughed a little too loudly.
Santa Clause: Well! I’m sure we can, uh, see what we can do about the cookies this year. That’s a very sweet wish!
Twisted Sister slipped off his lap in a fluid movement and landed with a jingle of bells. She spun on her heel and pranced off to the side where the photo backdrop waited.
Elf: Next!
Anthrax was taller up close than Santa expected. The mall lights caught in his eyes, making the pupils look just a little too wide. The Santa hat drooped over one ear, and the candy cane between his fingers was now a jagged, wicked-looking spike.
Santa Clause: Ho ho … hokay?
Anthrax stopped and lowered himself onto Santa’s lap with an awkward, angular grace. The throne creaked in protest. Santa’s hands hovered in the air for a moment before settling gingerly on Anthrax’s shoulders, as if ready to spring away if something bit.
Santa Clause: And what’s your name, young man?
Anthrax studied him for a second, then smiled. It wasn’t comforting.
Anthrax: They call me Anthrax.
Santa Clause: Well, uh, Anthrax? Have you been a good boy this year?
Anthrax’s brow furrowed. He blinked once, twice, like Santa had just started speaking in a dead language.
Anthrax: What an odd thing to say.
Santa Clause: All right Anthrax, what would you like for Christmas this year?
Anthrax’s lips curled.
Anthrax: If you wanna run down Brayden Hilton with your reindeer, that’d be swell.
The entire line went silent.
Santa Clause: Well now, that … that’s very naughty. We don’t hurt people with reindeer.
Anthrax’s expression didn’t change.
Anthrax: You did it once with Grandma! They wrote a song about it!
An older woman in a Christmas sweater clutched her pearls so hard they creaked. The elf at the camera let out a strangled little noise that might have been a laugh or a sob. Santa stared, mouth opening and closing like a fish.
Santa Clause: Riiiight! Well! Let’s, uh, let’s get a nice picture, shall we?
The elf behind the camera, to her credit, remembered how to do her job.
Elf #2: Okay! On three! One…! Two…!
Twisted Sister launched herself back into the frame. She came from the side in a blur of black leather and jingling bells, practically dive-bombing into the shot. She wedged herself into the tiny space between Anthrax and Santa, arms spread wide like she was presenting some bizarre holiday family portrait.
Twisted Sister: Cheese!
Anthrax turned his head at the last moment, candy cane between his teeth like a cigarette, eyes blazing with wild amusement. Santa was frozen in the middle, caught between horror and his contractually obligated smile, beard slightly askew, hat tilted.
The elf hit the button and the flash exploded, capturing the nightmare Christmas card forever.
The camera glitched in on static and sleigh bells. When the picture finally stabilized, Santa’s Workshop was wrong.
The jolly little place you saw on postcards had been torn apart and reassembled by a madman. The walls were streaked with red and green spray paint. Santa’s sleigh was turned over. Broken toys littered the ground.
And sitting on the steps that led to Santa’s overturned and wrecked throne was Anthrax, dressed as a psycho Santa. The red suit was stained, the white fur trim gray and matted, patched together with duct tape and safety pins. The Santa hat drooped over one eye, bells sewn along the brim that jingled every time he twitched. His beard was a tangled mess.
He grinned into the camera.
Anthrax: Greetings from the wrong side of the naughty list!
Somewhere in the background, “I Want A Hippopotamus For Christmas” played extra slow, drawing out every syllable and making Gayla Peevey sound absolutely demonic.
Anthrax leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gloved fingers steepled.
Anthrax: Brayden Hilton! You’ve been a very naughty boy, haven’t you? You strut around like you’re on the nice list by default. You pose. You preen. You play to the crowd like they’re gonna save you. But you and I? We know better.
We know what you do when the cameras cut. We know how quick that smile turns sour when you don’t get your way. Entitled little boys are the worst of the worst on the Naughty List!
An elf lurched across the frame, really just Twisted Sister in a shredded green tunic and striped tights, her hat askew, face painted in wild swirls of red and white like a candy cane that had melted. She had a doll in her hands, its plastic limbs twisted the wrong way, head turned upside down and eyes missing. She squealed in delight and disappeared off to the side again, humming a butchered Christmas tune.
Anthrax: They say this is the season of giving. The time of year when good ol’ Saint Nick hands out presents, and everyone pretends they’re better people than they are. But I take the season seriously, Brayden. I believe in giving. And I wanted to give you something! I wanted to give you a fun time with Santa you would always remember and always cherish! I wanted to give you the kind of Christmas memory that woke you up in the middle of the night in July, sweating and shaking and wondering if the bells you heard were in your head or right outside your door!
He licked his lips, smiling wider.
Anthrax: Because Santa Anthrax plays rough! He doesn’t come to read you a story and tuck you in at night. He comes to pull the ring ropes around you like wrapping paper and see how much noise you make when you can’t breathe and you eventually break!
He stood up from the throne, the whole thing creaking ominously behind him. He paced through the destroyed workshop, boots crunching over broken toy parts.
Anthrax: When the bell rings, I’m not seeing ropes and turnbuckles. I’ms seeing conveyor belts full of broken toys. I’m seeing elves running for their lives. I’m seeing Santa’s Workshop in ruins, every candy cane shattered, every pretty little bow ripped off the box. And you, Brayden? You’re what was inside the box. And I’m what happened when someone shook that box until everything in it broke. And do you know what made it better? You aren’t coming alone, are you? You got family watching. You got that sister of yours. Oh, Brayden! Merry Christmas to me!
He chuckled, low and pleased.
Anthrax: The fun part is that while you and I are playing inside the ring, she gets to play outside of it!
Twisted Sister slid back into frame, crawling on hands and knees across the floor like some deranged holiday goblin. She was humming off-key, a twisted version of “Here Comes Santa Claus” under her breath. She stopped, looked up, and grinned wide enough to show every tooth.
Twisted Sister: I like sisters! They scream different!
Anthrax: Twisted Sister’s been dying for some playtime. Company policy says we can’t just turn her loose in the mall. Something about lawsuits and fire codes. But ringside? Ringside’s a sandbox. And your sister gets to be her new favorite toy! Think about it, Brayden! Every time you hear a laugh, every time you hear a shriek from the outside! You’ll know it’s your precious, precious sister bringing joy to Twisted Sister!
Twisted Sister giggled, clapping her hands, then scuttled away again, yanking a string of lights down with her as she went.
Anthrax: You’ve been a very naughty boy. You thought you could dance your way through December, flash those Hilton smiles, and skate by on charm and timing and eternal dislike. But you got on the wrong list. You’re on the one where the stockings are stuffed with thumbtacks. The one where Santa doesn’t care if you’d been good or bad. He just cares how loud you’re going to cry when he tells you the truth about Santy Clause!
He tapped his own forehead with one knuckle.
Anthrax: Inside here, Santa’s Workshop was already in ruins. The elves were gone. The reindeer bolted. The sleigh was on fire. The only thing left was me, standing in the middle and loving every second of it! And when that bell rings, I’m inviting you into this place, Brayden. Into my season. Into my holiday!
He giggled. The lights cut out, leaving only the sound of Twisted Sister’s high, delighted laughter and the faint jingle of bells.
Static.
