AN: Or, Jason makes it his mission to ruin the Magic of Santa Claus and Festivus for Gotham's Underworld.

…

Shower thoughts, man. (Free Warm Fuzzies: Jason's probably the type to hand out candy/gloves to any kids he runs into.) Recommended listening: 'Santa Baby' or hilarious carol of choice. Don't have one? 'Santa is a Psycho' is always good, as is the ever-beloved, 'Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer'.

Really, Race has to give it to the guy. Not many people can glue a pom-pom to their, uh, helmet and still manage to be pants-shittingly-scary. But there he is, all who-cares-how-many-feet and however-many-pounds-he-is of pissed, with a glittery white pom-pom stuck smack-dab in the middle of that merciless red helmet.

And Race knows he's so very screwed. Snickering hasn't even crossed his mind.

The Red Hood leans over and props the metal pipe he's holding against a nearby chimney.

"Y'know my favorite part about the holidays?" Should he answer? Speaking might be a bad idea. "Festivus. And yeah, I know, Seinfeld's old and lame, but that always spoke to me. 'Specially the bit about the pole and the airing of grievances."

Huh. He's so confused. What the hell. Is he or is he not gonna die here.

"So I got to thinkin', 'Hood,' I thought to myself, 'Red, ol' buddy, ol' pal, what about a portable Festivus pole? Then everyone can get in on this happy tradition!' So here we are. You, me, a pole, and a hellova lotta grievances to air." Race doesn't like the pole. He thinks that's brain matter on the bottom of it. "I'll go first, 'kay? I think that's fair, since I did all this set-up."

"Please-"

A gloved finger pops up and wags back and forth inches from Race's nose.

"Shhh." Race shhhs. "Manners." Heh…manners…sure. "First things first, my friend, this ain't our first chit-chat. I told you the first time I caught you hangin' around the high school that we don't operate that way down 'ere." He's hefted up by the collar and tossed to the ground by the pole. Crawling away is not an option. Rooftop aside, that busted ankle isn't doing anything aside from HURT. "And where did I see you on this frozen winter's morn?"

He doesn't answer. He regrets it when the, uh, pole gets popped back into the guy's hand and taps the ground near his shattered ankle.

"Bythehighschool."

The Red Hood nods sagely, pom-pom bobbing gently with the movement.

"That's right. It's like you weren't even listening. That's hurtful." He taps his chest and bows his head in what would be sad on normal people and is just ominous on him. "And then, when I went home to see about your address, what popped up on your Facebook but some pushy posts…on a sixteen-year-old girl's wall."

Oh fuck.

"She said she was-"

"I've heard that one before." The voice has gone from unsettlingly jovial to very, very flat. "And maybe she did. But her Facebook has her age, which means you should have adulted the fuck up and backed off."

His mind blanks. All it can do is throw up whispers from the survivors. None of 'em are pretty.

He thinks he should say sorry. That might help, right?

"I'm s-"

This time the pole brushes against his ankle, sending new waves of crunching pain scurrying up his nerves.

"Did you really think I wouldn't find out? Y'know what they say…he sees you when you're sleeping, he knows when you're awake…and here's the really important part, sing it with me now…he knows when you've been bad or good." He's hyperventilating, remembering blurry cell phone footage. The Red Hood shrugs, cracking as he does so. "Looks to me like you're on the Naughty List."

"I'll go, I'll go, I'll never come back to Gotham, I swear-"

"What? And let you be a blight on some other town without Yours Truly around to look after 'em? I couldn't. I've got a conscience, y'know." He can see his face reflected in the helmet. Looks like he's covered in blood and somebody please help him. "I know tradition says coal, but all I've got are bullets. Tough luck."

"No, no, please-"

BLAM!

THE END