Title: Merry Christmas Freddy Clause
By: Amanda
Feedback: sweety167@yahoo.ca
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just playing.
Summary: Ah, the holiday season. A time for love, peace on earth, good will…not to mention a good slaying. (Like everything else, not to be taken seriously. Fluff)
Notes: Happy Holidays Everyone! *evil cackles*
Completed: December 5, 2003
Little Jimmy Thompson stretched and yawned, although he wasn't really little Jimmy anymore. For from. He'd be thirteen next month. So to him he was on the threshold of manhood. But of course to his mother he was still her little boy, and plagued him with the usual holiday warning: he had to be good, because Santa Clause was watching. But living in Springwood Santa was the least of the children's worries. Not that any of them knew that. The other man of myth was all too horrible to mention, so the parents didn't. Safety in silence, right?
But Jimmy was blissfully unaware of all this as he climbed into bed. The most pressing issues in his mind were deciding on what game system he wanted for Christmas and whether or not he wanted everyone to call him Jim come his birthday. And there was the slightest crush he didn't have on Cathy from his math class.
"Goodnight Jimmy," his mother poked her head into his room, blowing the boy a kiss to match the sentiment.
"'Night ma," he rolled his eyes, making it look like he really hated it, even if secretly he loved the little bits of affection.
"Remember to be good; Santa." She winked and disappeared from the doorway.
Jimmy groaned. He really was too old for that. He hated all the Santa bullshit, not the presents of course, but the mythical crap linked to a fat guy with a sleigh. And what kind of sick freak likes having little kids sit on his lap in the mall? Mall Santas always gave him the serious creeps.
'Sick fucks,' he muttered through a yawn as he settled into the safety of his blankets.
It was quite obviously Christmas time and Jimmy found himself in the mall. Although, now-a-days the decorations, music and displays spread just after October 31st, if not earlier. Barely letting one holiday pass before the next.
The boy was fighting through a crowd; that usually ment the Christmas Rush, the final count down to the day itself. And Jimmy hated these days, so why the hell was he at the mall in the first place?
But before he had the chance to delve into that the throngs of people started carrying him along like a piece of debris. There was just too many to fight against, and it was all part of the plan.
"Hey! Watch it!" he squeaked at them, falling on the deaf ears of the frantic shoppers. Or at least they were ignoring him, "Bastrads!"
The crowd had carried him, kicking and cursing, into a new cluster of people. A more organised grouping.
"Give mommy your hand," his mother had appeared, smiling down at him as if he were still a child and protectively locking her hand around his.
"Ma?!" he questioned, his voice snide and rude as he fought to free his hand from hers. But the pudgy digits held him like a vice.
"Now you stop that!" she snapped at him, waving her finger in his face as a threat, "Behave young man of we'll go home and you won't get to see Santa."
At her words the crowd cleared to reveal a seasonal set-up: Santa's Workshop. One of the cutesy little arrangements where parents drag their kids to get their picture taken with the 'real' Santa. Some freak in a fat suit.
"Take me home," he yanked again on her hand, testing how serious she was about the threat and really hoping to piss her off just enough. There was no way he was going to sit on any guy's knee.
"Jimmy Daniel Thompson! Behave yourself this moment!" she bellowed, much more than the boy ever remembered her doing, "Now get up there." She flung her arm in a way that propelled him forward, tripping up the red carpeted step. "And smile," her voice was sickly sweet now, giving an example of just how he should smile for the upcoming picture.
"Come on now, there's a line," a young woman dressed in a short red dress, trimmed in customary white fun fur, pulled him up. She was obviously there for some extra holiday spending money and had little patience.
"Sorr—" he tried to apologise to her but was quickly ushered to the chair of the big man himself.
"Come on boy, hop up," the Santa said, patting his plush knee and smiling from his almost cherub face.
Jimmy just stood there, staring at him; "I don't think so." The usual teenaged attitude very present.
"You don't know the rules, do you?" the Santa narrowed his eyes at the child, his voice far less chipper, almost hissing. "Now sit," he patted his knee again and smiled with a wicked grin.
The pre-teen swallowed hard at the lump that formed in his throat. Not that he would admit it, but the Santa's at the mall always scared him. But there was something extra strange about this guy. Extra creepy.
"Jimmy, please," he could hear his mother cooing and encouraging him, but he couldn't see her. The space around the platform had gone dark in an instant. The whole thing had a murky dream feel to it, but felt too real to be just a dream.
"Jiiimmmy," another pleading whine.
"That's right Jimmy, do it for mommy," the Santa cackled. The voice sounded dark and gritty. To Jimmy, dirty. "You aren't scared, are yah?"
Against his own will, but for the sole propose of pleasing his mother, the boy sat on the extended knee of the stranger, his arms crossed over his chest in defiance. A stench of smoke assaulted his nose as he took the seat, and made him gag.
"It's been a long year," the voice was almost defensive, "now tell Santa's claw what you want for Christmas little man."
"Santa's claw?!" Jimmy was confused and turned to see just what was going on, "Wha' the?" he sputtered – instead of the classic red velour suit with fuzzy white trim sat a man in a tattered, old red and green sweater and brown slacks. A battered fedora replaced the belled red hat on his head. The most disturbing was that the cubby cherub had melted into a demonic mess of pucks and scares.
His attempted to flee was hindered by the nightmare stalker's arm wrapping itself around the frightened frame. His glistening claw held face to face with the boy.
"Now tell Freddy Clause what you want kid," he hissed, "I've got a lot of little bastards to deal with today. Busy season." He shrugged.
Jimmy was shaking and whimpering. He really wanted his mommy now, age be damned. "Let me go you sick fuck!" he twisted again only to be restricted by another arm.
"This is not the time to be naughty," Fred tisked, waving a blade in the boy's face. "Don't you want a candy cane?" He laughed, that twisted sound of nightmares and the demon's own sick amusement.
The child whimpered again, fighting off tears of fear and feeling far younger than thirteen.
"Oh, buck up piggy," Krueger bounced his knee, jarring the child like he was giving him a pony ride, but forcing him to cling to the arms he was previously pushing away, "and smile for the camera." The clawed hand wrapped its fingers around the pudgy face of the kid, pouting out his lips. The sharp blades slicing into the still smooth face, drawing little trickles of blood. The demon flashed a wicked smile of gnawed teeth to match the child's quivering mouth for the unseen camera to take their picture.
With a sizzle and a pop a blinding light lit up the dark space, revealing the cold, stale boiler room they were really seated before casting it all in blackness again.
"I wanna go home," Jimmy whined. He was now sobbing like a lost and scared child. The way Freddy loved to see them.
"Ah, someone's not being a good little boy," he croaked, "Do you know what happens to bad little boys?" He was asking only for the game, not for the answer.
Jimmy's eyes flashed, searching for an answer that would end all this, but not knowing that they were already at an end. "Please mister…"
"Freddy Krueger kid…I'd ask you to remember but…" the Dream Demon shrugged, amusing himself with his own twisted game.
The boy's eyes widened as if he had just figured out how this was all going to end, "No, please, don't."
"Happy Holidays!" to accent the point Freddy drove the four blades deep into the prepubescent belly of the child sitting on his lap. With quick twitching, both of the fingers and of the boy, poor little Jimmy died. Not so much as a final death cry from the forever twelve year old.
Freddy tossed the broken boy to the side and rose from the chair, now a used toy and nothing more. Wiping the child's gore onto the leg of his already filthy pants the Springwood Slasher strolled over the antique looking camera, pulling a photograph from the back of the machine. The boy's scared little face and his own pleased smile stared back at him from the glossy paper.
"One for the scrapbook," he growled, slowly running his tongue over the shiny image. Memorising the sick thrill from the prey. A holiday message scrawled itself over the photograph…Merry Christmas from Hell.