Screamscapes: Tales of Terror (29 page)

This agreement specifies that in exchange for giving unfettered ownership of his immortal soul to the great Santa, Chamus shall receive from Santa both purse wropes to make him stand apart from other men, as well as the undying affections of whatever woman is capable of giving the best jowlbob in the world.

The exchange is to be completed at the crossroads near Dockery Plantation at midnight on October 31 of this year, or at any time prior to that date that the great Santa may wish to present himself to Chamus for the exchange.”

At the bottom of the page was a bloody thumbprint next to Chamus Dundass’s name, and a spot for my thumbprint beside it.

“What the fuck am I going to do with a soul?” I asked Bernie, who had been reading along over my shoulder. “Buy myself a nice white mule and a spotted pig?”

“Clearly it’s a mistake, sir,” the troll answered. “Should I mark it
‘return to sender’
and drop it back into the mail?”

I noticed the headline of the article I had been reading earlier: “COCK BLOCKED,” it read. I’m surprised they were allowed to print that.

It gave me an idea.

Mrs. Claus came over to see what the fuss was about, pulling back her floppy cheeks to slide her stained and mildewed wooden dentures onto her toothless gums. She’d had the same teeth for over two hundred years, and even though I’d offered to get her a modern, more natural-looking set a hundred times, she had refused to swap them out, said they had just gotten properly seasoned.

“What are you boys looking at?” she asked and smiled at us, her wooden teeth looking like the side of an ancient tobacco barn that had been used frequently as the backdrop for a firing squad.

As soon as her words reached my nostrils with their reek of nutmeg and rotten-meat-scented cedar, I knew the answer to her question.

Freedom.

“Bernie, go hitch the reindeer to the magic wagon and bring me one of those big velvet gift sacks from the warehouse. We’re going out,” I commanded.

He nodded in agreement, spun about on his heel and ran down the hall towards the stables, the bells on his curly-pointed shoes jangling as he ran.

“But it’s not Christmas yet, dear,” Mrs. Claus protested.

“It is for me, baby. It is for me.” I said. “Now be a good girl and go get something sexy on.”

Her droopy eyes grew as wide with surprise as her dilapidated face would allow. She let out a ball-shriveling cackle of delight and hobbled over to her wardrobe, and started rummaging through what she considered to be her naughtiest lingerie.

I buttoned up the big golden buttons of my red velvet coat with a newfound sense of purpose, cinching up the wide black belt and slipping on my shiny patent leather boots in twenty seconds flat.

I took one last look at myself in the mirror and adjusted the bell at the end of my long red hat. My rosy cheeks were absolutely glowing with excitement.

“Christmas for Santa,” I said out loud to myself as I folded up the article that was about to change my life and tucked it inside my coat. “It’s about fucking time.”

“The sled is ready and the reindeer are ready to fly, sir,” said Bernie, breathless and holding up the large velvet sack I had asked him to bring. “Nothing but sunset and sawdust between us and the sky.”

I nodded approvingly, then cupped my palm over his hairy little ear and whispered the plan.

Shadows rose up like dark men around us as the reindeer galloped forward, and then all the earth was thrown to the sky as we took flight into the darkening night.

It was just the two of us - I liked to call us the
nightrunners
- me in the back seat with my feet kicked up and Bernie up front at the controls. The big velvet sack was in the cargo area in back, tied closed with a giant bow.

We flew down along the western coast of the United States, turned east over Mexico and brought the sled to a lower altitude, just below radar surveillance, crossing the Texas border headed for Mississippi.

We spotted another treetop flyer as we flew over Nacogdoches, a beat-up single-engine Cessna that was no doubt carrying lots of presents for all the very naughty little girls and boys – the word is, they enjoy a white Christmas, too.

I tried to enjoy the summer breeze as we crossed over the Sabine River far below into Louisiana but it was surprisingly cold in July, and relaxing was difficult with the constant barrage of reindeer farts that assaulted our senses every few seconds, undoubtedly the result of feeding the herd cheap dog food instead of their regular, more expensive diet.

I saw the apartment building where Chamus Dundass, the man with the soul for sale, lived. I nudged Bernie and pointed below. He guided the reindeer to a silky smooth and stealthy silent landing on the roof, their graceful feet a waltz of shadows as they tiptoed to a stop beside the chimney.

I grabbed the special purse I had prepared from the seat beside me, and climbed up onto the chimney.

“Wait until I call you to drop the sack,” I told Bernie.

He nodded.

Then quick as a flash I slipped down the chimney, with more gusto burning in my chest than I’d felt in centuries.

Chamus Dundass was a fat frumpy middle-aged man with his pants down around his ankles and a Miley Cyrus video playing on the computer screen behind him. There was a fine dark line between fun-loving and freaky, and it was clear Chamus had crossed it long ago. His apartment was old, cluttered and stunk of sauerkraut and freezer burn.

I climbed out of the fireplace, stood up and brushed the soot off my suit before introducing myself.

“Chamus?” I bellowed, and the man spun around startled and tripping over himself like he was doing the two-bear mambo, his face funny-looking and wide-eyed. He let out a frightened howl that reminded me of my dead dog Bobby.

“What the fuck! Who the hell are you? What the hell are you doing?” he shrieked.

“I’m here to make our trade, Chamus,” I declared in my jolliest voice, and held out the signed contract and the purse for him to see.

He gawked at me, speechless, as he pulled up his pants. Although he seemed to be in a bit of shock, a look of recognition crossed his face as he spotted the contract.

I pointed to my thumbprint just above my name on the paper, clearly stamped in a brown little smatter of plum pudding, Bernie’s notary public seal impressed into the paper beside it.

“You’re…you’re…” he stammered incoherently.

“Why yes I am - the great Santa, in the flesh,” I said and bowed smartly.

“No, I mean…they always told me at church that you were actually the devil and that Baby Jesus brings us presents, but I never dreamed it was true,” he said.

“What are you talking about, fool?” I protested. “I’m not the devil, I’m Santa – and I’m here to collect your soul.”

“So you’re not Satan?” he asked, confused eyes blinking furiously, looking every bit like a jackass caught in a sandstorm.

“What part of this outfit makes you think I’m Satan?” I said. “Do you see horns? Is there a pitchfork in my hand, young man?”

“Oh shit,” the man said, and then he began to laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

“If you ain’t Satan, then I don’t owe you shit, old man,” he mocked. “That contract was for him, not Santa Claus. You never once brought me what I wanted for Christmas, anyway, and I’m pretty sure they don’t give out super powers and the world’s best blowjobs at the North Pole.”

I crossed my arms, frowned and slammed the contract down on the coffee table and roared at him. Most people don’t know that in my youth, before I chose to become a benevolent spirit that bestowed gifts upon the poor folk of Bavaria, I once was a fierce Teutonic guardian of the woods. I used to eat legions of invading Roman Centurions like they were nothing more than a handful of skittles. It had been a while, but I could get rough if I had to.

“I don’t know what you’re going on about, but this contract in my hand says you agree to trade your soul to Santa, and that’s what we’re here to do,” I declared in my most intimidating guttural baritone, the kind that only comes with hundreds of years of pent-up sexual frustration. “I’ve got the goods you agreed to trade for, and I’m leaving here with your soul if it means I have to reach down your throat and tear it out with my bare hands.”

Chamus inspected the contract closely, desperately searching for a loophole. I poked my finger at my printed name. It said S-A-N-T-A, clear as day.

“God damn it,” Chamus muttered. I think he finally realized I wasn’t shitting around.

“Dyslexia is not a learning disability, it’s a curse,” he said glumly. “Do you know how many times shit like this has happened to me before? And now I finally get the chance to trade my soul to Satan for super powers and the woman who can give the best blowjob in the world, and stupid dyslexia fucks that up for me, too.”

He screwed up his face in what was probably intended to be a pitiful look, but it came off as severely creepy instead - especially with the Miley Cyrus video still playing in a loop on the monitor behind him.

I might have felt sorry for him once upon a time, but
fuck that,
I decided. He was clearly an asshole - and I felt a whole lot sorrier for myself, besides.

“It’s time to pay up, Chamus,” I said resolutely. “It says right here in plain English that you agree to trade your soul for
purse wropes
and the woman who can give the best
jowlbob
in the world. Here’s the first part of the trade, delivered.”

I slammed the purse down on the table, and plopped into an old Lazy-Boy chair to take a load off while he inspected it. It was an old knockoff Coach purse that I’d given the missus for Christmas last year. She hadn’t even used it once and it was already starting to come apart at the seams.

Chamus scrunched his ugly mug up in confusion and then took a look inside. It was full of little pieces of rope.

“What the hell is this?” he asked.

“Your purse with ropes,” Santa said, “as you clearly specified in the contract.”

“Fuck you, Santa,” Chamus said, brushing it brusquely off the coffee table and scattering the ropes across the dingy, matted carpet. “You still owe me a woman, Fat Man, or that contract don’t mean shit,” he growled hoarsely.

I smiled, turned towards the chimney and whistled. A couple of seconds later a big velvet sack with a giant bow on top dropped into the fireplace with a plop. Inside it, something wriggled and moaned.

“Your woman,” I said proudly, hoisting myself back out of the recliner. I hauled the sack out of the fireplace and shoved it across the floor towards Chamus with my foot, smearing a grimy skid mark of soot across the carpet.

“Inside this sack is your woman – and not just any woman, either. This woman is equipped to give you what is definitely the very best jowlbob in the world. Her jowls have been prepared especially for your pleasure by gravity himself for the last four hundred years. Simply lubricate and enjoy.”

Chamus hesitated at first, but then got down onto his knees to untie the giant bow. He opened the sack with much trepidation, folding it open to reveal in the dim fluorescent light of the apartment what appeared to be a shaved Bassett hound clutching lingerie.

He looked up at me with bewildered eyes.

“The trade is complete, and now your soul is mine!” I chuckled, unable to resist the urge to click the heels of my shiny patent leather boots together with glee. I could feel
mucho mojo
rising within me.

“But why Santa, why? What could you possibly need with my soul?” the poor man asked, his voice desperate and pleading. As he spoke his soul began streaming out of his mouth, eyes and nostrils like tendrils of green fog. I reached out and grabbed it in my hand, pulled the rest of it from him and stuck it in my pocket.

“Why do I need your soul? Are you serious?” I laughed. “I hear Satan gives out some good shit in exchange for a soul, and I already know what I want,” I said. I whipped out the article about the world’s largest penis to show him.

Chamus said nothing, simply sank to his knees, his face even more sallow and empty than it had been before. He was now truly a man with no soul.

“Have fun with your purse ropes and jowlbobs,” I said as I made my way to the fireplace. “I’ve already explained to the former Mrs. Claus what a jowlbob is, and I have to say she’s very excited to be here with you. She has the pent-up sex drive of ten-thousand horny teenagers, but she’s completely unburdened by their pesky good looks - so you won’t have to worry yourself about anyone trying to steal her away from you.”

I winked at him, glad to finally be free of that salty hag and on my way to a better life.

“You kids have fun now,” I said as I stooped under the mantle with care.

The last horrible thing I saw before I started back up the chimney was a buck-naked Mrs. Claus hobbling to her feet, leaving the sack wadded up on the floor around her swollen ankles. Her large nipples looked like two rotten tomatoes, splattered against a wall.

“Please, don’t leave me here alone with that…that…
thing
,” Chamus begged as he jumped up onto the couch, falling over the back of it as he scrambled to get away from her. The haunted look in his eyes was like a man standing at the edge of dark water, about to fall in.

I scuttled back up the chimney as fast as I could. I wanted to be out of there before Mrs. Claus lubed up her flappy jowls, wrapped them around his cock and began with the bobbing up and down. That old hag never could get enough, and I’m sure ol’ Chamus will enjoy her efforts plenty eventually. I figure it won’t be long before he’s sitting on his stained sofa flipping through the channels while she goes to town.

It’s not like he had much going on anyway.

I emerged onto the rooftop into the fresh night air, a happy man with a soul for sale in my pocket.

Bernie had the sled ready to fly.

It was time to go find us the Devil Red.

I love Joe R. Lansdale. He’s an amazing author that I somehow overlooked for way too long. This story is a tribute to him of sorts, and fans will find it to be stuffed to the brim with references to the titles of his books and stories.