In the shadows of the wine cellar, a man in a soot-stained red suit groaned, leaning against a rack of overpriced Chardonnay. This wasn't the Christmas Santa Claus—the real Santa Claus—had envisioned. He was tired. He was disillusioned. He was nursing a gut wound and wondering when children stopped wishing for wooden trains and started wishing for cold hard cash.
The first mercenary died near the chimney. He didn’t hear the heavy boots; he only felt the crushing weight of a sack filled with heavy toys smashing into his jaw. Santa didn't use a silencer; he used a sharpened candy cane and a heavy-duty sledgehammer he’d nicknamed "Skullcrusher" back when he was raiding coastal villages a thousand years ago. Noche sin paz (2022)
Upstairs, young Trudy Lightstone clutched her walkie-talkie, whispering prayers to the man in the red suit. She was the only one who still believed. Her belief was a beacon, a tether that kept the old man from simply hopping on his sleigh and leaving this pit of vipers to their fate. In the shadows of the wine cellar, a
Above him, "Mr. Scrooge" and his team of professional killers were methodically dismantling the house, looking for a three-hundred-million-dollar payday. They thought they were the baddest things under the moon. They thought they were prepared for everything. He was disillusioned
They weren't prepared for a man who knew exactly who had been naughty.
"Merry Christmas," Santa spat, wiping grease from his beard.
Santa moved through the mansion like a crimson ghost. He wasn't the jolly fat man from the soda commercials tonight. He was a warrior. When a mercenary cornered him in the kitchen, Santa didn't reach for magic dust—he shoved the man’s head into a deep fryer and finished him off with a meat tenderizer.
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