Wednesday, 29 December 2010


Buffalo Gal, Won’t You Come Out Tonight and Give Hell’s Bells a Shake

Santa’s grave was a bitch to dig. She’d never dug a grave before, and the cellar floor was frozen. She wished she’d taken care of this last summer, but Santa had asked her to trust him. Trust. He insisted trust was key to holiday cheer that would last all fucking year. Ho! Ho! Ho!

She jumped on the shovel. It chipped at the cold dirt. She jumped again, and it broke through. She tipped the blade and tossed the dirt aside.

The only thing she could trust in this world was a shovel made of steel and the creepy crawlies that would find Santa’s body and eat his eyeballs out.

“Ho! Ho! Take that fat man.” That’s what she called him when he was drunk. When he was sober, she said it inside her mind. Fat man. Fat bastard. Fat son of a bitch. Mother fucker.

She jumped on the shovel again. Sweat dripped down her neck, between her breasts. She wore nothing but his old wife beater, a pair of boxers with tiny reindeer and his combat boots.

The combat boots were his. From ‘Nam. They both knew Santa’d never been to ‘Nam. But the guy at the military surplus swore on his life that the boots had. And it gave Santa a real feel of importance. As if he gave a damn for those boys, although he had a thing for good little girls.

The shovel slipped easily through now that the surface had been broken. Santa had taught her that too. It’s always hard the first time, honey. Breakin’ through those barriers. Santa knows best. Ho! Ho! Ho!

She heard a creak from the floor above. Santa had awoken and was drinking his coffee and cookies she’d left him. She shoveled faster.

Naughty. This year she’d been naughty. And she didn’t ask for anything nice. She never wanted to be on his damn list anyway. Nice had gotten her nowhere but a popped sugar plum and a real good spanking when she tried to run away. Life at the North Pole isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

He had his booze. He had his reruns of It’s a Wonderful Life playin’ on the VCR. Bars on the windows. Alarms on the doors. Jingle bells on her calves.

They jingled as she moved. She stabbed the shovel into the dirt. She pretended it was his soft white belly. Over and over again, she’d played the scene in her mind. The problem was the blood. It was red. His skin was white. Red and white were Santa’s favorite colors. The hell she’d grant him death in his favorite colors. Ho! Ho! Ho! Fat bastard.

The hole grew wider, deeper. The earth smelled good. It was dark, moist. She preferred those colors. The natural ones.

A thump upstairs sounded as if reindeer had just landed with Santa’s sleigh. And perhaps they had. In that great big red bag would be just what she wanted.

When she was finished, she tossed the shovel aside and picked up a handful of dirt. A spider scrambled up from it and onto her arm. The bare bulb from above didn’t provide much light, but she noted the size, the fuzzy hair along the abdomen leading to where eight little eyes watched her.

It was smaller than her, innocent. At the wrong place, at the wrong time. She could squash it the way Santa had squashed her. She cherished the bond they shared. In many ways, they were the same, they both were doing as nature intended.

It clambered up her arm, but she caught it before it slipped into her tank top. It bit her. “Son of …” and she flicked it. She watched its small mass fly across the room and hit the sack of Lyme.

She sucked on her bitten finger, then spat it out. Lyme. Santa put it on the lawn regularly. Grass was green. The salts within the bag were not, but just the word Lyme, made her think of that fruit that grew in places warm and sunny. Places Santa would never go, but claimed he had. Like ‘Nam. The faker. He was a great big fake. And there was only one thing to do with fake fuckers.

Behind the bag of Lyme she had discovered rat poison. Just a sprinkle in Santa’s coffee and sugar cookies would give her what she wanted under the Christmas tree. Under the cellar. In the ground.

She wiped her hands on her boxers and made her way up the stairs. In the kitchen, his favorite Starbucks mug lay in shards on the red linoleum. Next to it, Santa sprawled face up on the floor. His pale, fat body glowed like a snow angel. Cookie crumbles scattered in his beard.

Santa’s gift peaked out of his boxers. She glanced at the scissors on the counter, and considered cutting it to ribbons, but that would mean more red. She hated red.

“Buffalo gals won’t you come out tonight! Come out tonight! Come out tonight!” The TV played on for Santa. An electronic elf. She’d pull its plug later.

She grabbed his ankles and dragged him to the cellar door. When her shirt caught on the handle, she hesitated. She didn’t want to drop his ankles to unhook her tank. What if he came back to life? Ho! Ho! Ho! Santa’s back in town. And he’s got more than a trumpet to blow up your ass. He’s gotta horn. A reindeer horn. And it’s sharp enough to open your heart to give. Give to the good folks who are in need.

She yanked on his feet, and the tank tore off. For the first time, it felt good to be exposed. To be the beast Santa made her pretend to be. Her bells jingled all the way down the stairs to the thump of Saint Nick’s jolly head. At the bottom, she rolled Santa into the grave.

She wrapped Santa in his unfavorite colors--the natural ones, the dark ones--and stomped the dirt down when she was through. “Merry Fucking Christmas, Santa.”

She ran upstairs. Killed the TV. Ejected the video, and ripped the tape out of it. She wrapped the dark film around her breasts, her ribs, stomach, then used duct tape to secure. She used wire clippers to snip off the bells. She threw them down the cellar stairs and slammed the door shut. She washed her arms and face in the kitchen sink.

And left the North Pole.

Henrietta had nowhere to go but south.

Jodi MacArthur would love to wrap herself in “It’s a Wonderful Life” film tape and give Santa’s reindeer a good crack of the whip. Henrietta fully approves. Together they pull a lovely sleigh of the slayed at


  1. Ho, Ho, fookin' Ho!
    'Happy' Hols, Jodi. :)

  2. Merry f*cking Xmas, Col & the gang! Thanks for giving this nightmare a comfy grave in TKnC's lovely dark cellar.

  3. That was awesome. Violent and amusing at the same time.

  4. Totally and completely deviant and over the top! What an opening line and it got better and more depraved from their. Jodes, this is a stonker!

  5. Insightful and intimate. An astounding expose of the impact of abuse. Well written, Jodie.

  6. Huh, of course. Yay, Jodi. I do love cheery christmas stories.

  7. The animosity here, blended with humor, and revenge, is delightful! Love it. Red...I'm not particularly fond of Christmas colors unless they come in a different context, such as murder!
    Great penning, Jodi. Enjoyed it much.

  8. The return of Henrietta is a welcome thing especially 'round Christmas time.

    Excellent, Jodi!

  9. A twisted delight Jodi. I absolutely loved it. Always thought there was something off about the fat perverted bastard.

  10. Dark, twisted and fantstic, Jodi. A classic MacArthur tale!! Well done, Jodi!!

  11. From the utterly brilliant title to the ending this is one hell of a ride on Jodi's darkly imaginative prose. Like an acid trip in a house of horrors, a great story.

  12. Well, this woke me up! Love the title, the suspense, kept me reading from the great opening to the end. Happy Christmas, and so glad I don't believe! Peace...

  13. Twisted! I love it when you write crazy, and this time with a nice holiday feel. :)

  14. I had almost forgotten about Henrietta, and now I'm going to have nightmares again.

    This is wickedly, maliciously good. "Bad Santa" stories are great, "bastard gets his due" stories are better and "bastard gets his due at the hands of a dark and sexy psychopath" are just "Wow."

    Great job.

  15. Brilliant stuff, Jodi. Like all the best stories, just below the surface there's a world of metaphor there, just waiting to be scratched. A fantastic write, my friend. On top form going into the new year. Looking forward to more :)

  16. Go Henrietta! Great to see her deviance back on form. Loved it; I smiled all the way through then my entire soul grinned at how she wrapped herself in A Wonderful Life at the end. Fantastic, Jodi.

  17. Nightmares? Hell, I'm gonna have good dreams again! Thanks, Jodi!

  18. I think at times that I'm fairly twisted. reading Jodi's stuff reminds me that I'm as straight as a Green arrow. Wow! I bow my head to the truly twisted.

  19. Uh, isn't your middle name Henrietta? Just saying...I worry about you. A lot. You've created another masterpiece. I love your bizarro fiction, but you write some spectacular straight down and dirty horror. I keep a spear standing straight up the stained hearth of my fireplace during the holidays. Hey, you never know.

  20. SPR~ Happy to entertain, violently and amusingly! Let's do again, shall we? Gotta find my Bowie first. Somewhere in all this wrapping paper on the floor...

    Mike S~ Thank you not only for your kind words on this story but the PR on all the websites including the post on your own. You are freaking awesome. You’ve caught Henrietta's attention. She knows the town where you live. What is that? Your Sweetie is sharpening her knives you say? Oh the crazy things people do! ;-)

    CBHF~ Your comment made me smile. There is much more metaphorically than just entertainment to this story. There is raw emotion & anger. Also, humor. Humor keeps us from going insane. Even when we are insane (if that makes sense). I think this is what people are sensing when they say “crazy, twisted, depraved!” I think you’ve caught the big picture. Thank you for your kind words.

    Sean M~ Huh, I do too (of course!) Be nice or Easter Bunny is next (per comment from other site)

    Erin~ Your insight into my mind… I mean… stories, always surprises me. It shouldn’t by now. I should know better. Animosity is a perfect word for her, and of course, the humor helps us deal with the extreme emotions. The American soldiers boots from ‘Nam were a metaphor too. Henrietta wore them as she fought for her freedom in her own way. Perhaps the man that had worn them, had he lived, would have been just as disturbed as Henrietta is. She did what she had to do to survive, just as he must have done. Santa was a coward and the boots made him feel like he had done something important/ fought for something he believed. But in the end he was a just big fat coward faker... don't even get me started. (haha!)

    David C~ Good sir! How can I thank you for publishing the first of Henrietta’s saga “Pillow Talk”? I had no idea the starburst that would happen beginning at Beat to a Pulp. Thank you so much. I believe there is more come. She'll let me know when she feels like it... the b*tch.

    Graeme ~ No worries, I never thought I’d be afraid of chickens. And yet you made me afraid. Very afraid. Thanks for reading bud. Good to see you!

    David Barber~ Thank you!! I’ve written all this after the story you inspired, “Halloween Games”. You have no idea how much gore I have in my story folders at this very moment. I kind of blame you. One author inspires another. Thanks, Bud.

    Richard~ “acid trip in the house of horrors” and yet you went along with the slay ride. Yeehaa! Let’s do it again, huh? ;-) Thank you (always) for your support and kind words.

    Linda~ I was pleased to hold your suspense. You write it so well. You write disturbed minds well. So this is a huge compliment coming from you.

    Laurita~ Ha. Yeah. Nothing like the getting possessed by the spirit. ;-) Thanks for reading, sweetie!

    Chris~ Heee! You made me laugh. Nothing than downright dirty justice served by the nimble fingers of disturbed females.

    Ian~ My friend, aside from entertainment and the extreme emotion, yes, every bit of this piece is metaphor. You always pick up on it, and I wonder how it is you do this. I am so looking forward to more of your work in the New Year too (esp the book!)

    Lily~ The queen of darkness urges Henrietta on! I love it. Glad to see your humor tickled Lily. Thank you for your thoughtful comment!

    AC~ Ha Ha! Naughty! I’m glad this was a fun slay ride through the red snow. ;-)

    Charles~ I’ve started your book and am enjoying it immensely. Green arrow? We’ll see about that. Thank you for reading and the compliment, kind sir.

    Mr. Z ~ That was a secret, dammit! A straight standing spear in the hearth? Aww, always looking out for the missus and children (although I’ve haerd rumors Santa can come up the toilet). Good man. And thank you for your kind words, Z. Happy New Years!

  21. Ho Ho Ho JoJo!

    Your not so merry Christmas tale gave Henrietta "...what she wanted under the Christmas tree. Under the cellar. In the ground" and that not so nice Santa what he had coming!

    Excellent as always and a killer title too!

    Happy New Year Sis!

  22. OMG, that was AWESOME! Absolutely awesome! Cannot tell you enough how this story made my heart race. Wowsers! This one just screams Christmas!!!!

  23. Har Bro~ Henrietta got what she wanted for Xmas, no helper elves involved! And glad you caught the title, I thought you would. ;-) Happy New Years!

    Cathy~ Thank you so much! I love how you said "Screams Christmas" EXACTLY. This story was a silent scream building into a raw passion Mr. Ho Ho Ho never saw coming. Thanks, again! <3

  24. Great to have an old fiend back! Mega!

  25. well this was worth the wait.You did a great job, but I got a little scare. You know I'm fragile. I'm kidding I love wicked. And you do it well.

  26. ah, so dark, so good. i'm sorry i didn't discover this earlier. great story, jodi!

  27. Jodi, Jodi, Jodi ~

    Jimmy Stewart called me and wants his celluloid karma back. Gosh girl, once you put that spiffy wardrobe on and then go exposin' yourself down the dark (and darker) staircase, you and the creepie crawlers (how come you can detail them so well? hmmm?) just go to town, take Santa down, free what holds ya in. But geeez Jodes -- ain't nuttin' that can hold YOU in. (Loved the limes - de'scurvying at will) ... but fave line:

    "His pale, fat body glowed like a snow angel." < Your fame is comin' in the visions you don't create, but rather keep on a'lingering on. Oh, Donna Reed's not too happy with you either ToughGirl. "Annnnnnd they danced by the light of the moon!" ~ Absolutely*Kate, believing that the grave'end justified the not-so-jolly means

  28. Goddess of all goodness~ I'm delighted to hear you've got a bit of a the devil inside. Thank you for the read and love, hon. Happy New Years!

    Marcus~ I so greatly admire your work, your kind words mean alot to me. Thank you my friend!

    K*te ~ well, dear,as always you hit right on the money. Exposing the beast than burying it is better than letting it stew. I'm glad you liked the snow angel line. And you know, I actually considered ""Annnnnnd they danced by the light of the moon!" But my goodness, Henrietta may be alotta things, but she certainly isn't pagan! LOL. Just teasin ya. And YUO know how *absolutely* how much I love that movie. It is all about the metaphors my dear. Thanks for the lovin' hon.

  29.! Henrietta, I worship you! You had the guts to do what I have only dreamed of doing to more than one fat fucker in my sordid past. I especially enjoyed your toying with ideas other than the quick, clean poisoning. Shovel in belly, knife slicing his disgusting appendage.

    I love it all, the story-telling, the vocabulary, the details. I love it, from start to finish! Jodi, please treat us to more Henriettas.

  30. Only you can make murder, bad wording and dangling boobs cool, Ms. Dark. Fantastic story!

  31. Madame Z ~ I keep luaghing and rewriting this. I'll just say, you and Henrietta understand each other perfectly. And she so admires your own saucy ways of seduction.

    Mari ~ This with Zelda's comment combined, just gve me a rael kick. Dangling boobs! The vision that puts in my haed. Haha, I will use that term soon in the most adorable way and credit it to you! (I'm taesing, I know you'd die zombie attack) Thanks sweetie!

  32. Come out come out where ever yuo aer...