StarDestroyer.Net BBS

I can almost guarantee that I will actually continue "publishing" this, as it will be written in my free periods.

Advice and comments would be very much appreciated.



---



Santa Claus woke up in his coffin irritably. It was cold and dark. For a while he didn’t know quite know what was happening, until he heard the familiar high-pitched chattering. Memories flooded back. His blood pressure raised from the already shocking levels of a heavily obese man to something resembling a water gun.

“Damn you elves! I don’t pay you to practice necromancy!” Technically, Santa considered, he didn’t pay them at all.

The pathetic little men stared at their shoes. They had tried so hard. One began to cry. Santa took his belt off his waist and swung it at him. It was rather hard as most of his bones were a great deal more broken than he was used to, but he managed. The belt struck the miserable creature square in the mouth, sending a tooth flying. The elf whimpered loudly, but stopped crying. That was his last tooth. It had been with him for his whole wretched life, and now it was gone. He quickly bent over to try and reclaim it, but several of the other elves were already scrambling to claim the trophy for themselves among the orange glow of the candlelight. One finally managed to bite a finger off a contestant, allowing him to pocket the tooth and scurry off into a corner. Santa seemed happy with the way things were going in a grumpy sort of way.

“Went soft, eh? Too long without a beating, eh? Not my elves!”

He smacked a few more around the back for good measure before returning the belt to his body. His belt was more or less useless as his massive bulk kept his pants on by themselves, but keeping it around his waist kept it close at hand. Several elves had visible buckle-scars from years of dedicated service. Climbing out of the coffin using muscles long decomposed, he stared around the tomb. Not far away from where he lay was a poorly drawn pentagram which was emitting a deeply disturbing glow. He strode over to it and clutched one of several rat skulls that had been placed inside, observing it closely. There were teeth marks all over it. Angrily, he tossed it at one of the elves, knocking it unconscious. The others quickly went to work looting it's possessions excitedly.

“Incompetent fools!” he screamed, stopping them in their tracks.
“You’re supposed to use goat skulls! Did I teach you nothing? I bet you greedy little fuckers ate your full of those rats!"

The elves stared at their shoes again. Some of them burped. The elf that lost it's finger stopped nibbling it.

“Well, things are about to change, I tell you! Fleshmeals were only allowed on my birthday, as I recall! It’s back to protein cubes for you! What have you done with your knives, anyway?”

A sort of answer was soon given as a livid elf dived upon his back from behind, stabbing him furiously in the spine. The elves food knives were too blunt to cause any damage to Santa’s blubber armored flesh however, and Santa quickly grabbed the hissing freedom fighter off his back and held him by the scruff of his neck for all to see.

“This is what happens to filthy traitors!” he bellowed to his terrified bitches. Santa grabbed the screaming elf’s head and body with each hand, and with a sound of snapping toothpicks, twisted it's head off in a single motion. The elves shivered.

Discarding the body onto the floor, he stared into the decapitated head's eyes, and mused, “How long have I been dead, I wonder? And where am I?"
He was confused to hear no response from it, and with what respect he could muster for the elves, he inverted into dissapointment.
"We'll soon find out, anyway!", he shouted to the walls.

He stormed up the tomb stairs with a vengeance, and the elves followed suit. Swinging open the stone doors with unholy strength, he gazed upon his strange new surroundings for no time at all before he was immediately engulfed in water. It would appear his tomb was at the bottom of the sea. Being dead, Santa didn’t especially mind the lack of immediately available oxygen, but his elves certainly did. He watched bemusedly as they gasped hilariously for air that would never come. His first thought was to slowly swim away and cackle at them from a short distance as they drowned flapping their limbs about wildly. But as he proceeded down his thought process from cruelty to greed, he decided there was no way in hell he was going to operate a toyshop all by himself. It occurred to him that being endowed with the arcane energies of all manner of unholy deities, he probably could do so with little to no effort, but then the cruelty factor came back.

De Schijnheiligman versus de Goedheiligman.

OOh, I'm going to keep an eye out on this one!

Zablorg... What the fuck, man? Seriously, what the in fuck is wrong with you?

Keep writing.

Throughout his unnaturally long life, Santa had studied the applications of the occult for the purpose of wickedness, although he never really mastered the art in any real sense. For the most part he used it to travel great distances and break into peoples houses. It came as something of a disappointment to him then, that his first act of proper magical ability was an attempt to save the lives of a species that weren’t worth the stringy meat they were made of. He attempted to re-engineer some of their circulatory systems so that they could breathe water, but as he had little experience with biology all he managed to do was give them further orifices with which to drown. He did the same thing to three more elves because he didn’t like them. After a bit of procrastination, during which the elves managed to flail about and moan long after they were dead, he decided to magically graft propeller thingies to the elves backs. It worked; the elves immediately shot upwards towards the ocean surface. Santa was beginning to feel regrets about it until he saw several of the elves fly straight into the propellers above them, slicing them into a dozen pieces.

Finally though, they reached the surface, and the elves could breathe. Santa noticed two things as his head burst through the water; that there was no land immediately in sight and that the water surrounding them was now saturated heavily with the blood and organs of many deceased elves, and many of the others were now trying to eat the entrails of their companions. But Santa hadn’t bothered to turn the propellers off in case they might drown again, and so the elves were instead zooming past the floating guts trying to snatch them up as they drove by. By and by they did succeed but they mostly dropped them again in excitement. Santa watched with interest as they soon began to fight each other, trying to use the propellers as lethal weapons.

He was considering sticking around and seeing how long they could keep it up before they accidently sliced their limbs off, when one of Santa’s legs was ripped from his body. Curious, he bobbed his head below the water to see why. He expected that his rotten flesh didn’t keep limbs together quite the way they used to, but instead he saw a shark. It had clearly been drawn to them by the elf blood and as trying to eat the elves themselves would have been suicide with their propellers still whirring dangerously, it had gone for Santa instead.

The shark had swallowed the dismembered leg in one gulp, and was now very confused. Alive things didn’t taste so funny as far as it could recall. It gave Santa one look of freakish disgust before starting to swim away. It was soon stopped in its trail by the vicelike grip of Santa’s fingers.

“You disgust me!” the smelly bloated mass of flesh growled to the sleek, majestic fish. The shark turned around and Santa further swelled with pride as he saw the look of disoriented terror in its eyes. The elves had already scattered for fear of the wrath of their master they could all sense coming.

“We’re going to need some compensation, I think, yes. Teach you a lesson.” With a sudden roar of fury Santa swiped his other hand into a grip on the fish’s body, and tore its tail clean off. The shark made a series of pitiful jaw movements.

“See how you move now, eh?”

Santa brought the shark-end of the tail and pressed it against his empty left hip socket. There was a sound resembling the moaning of demons unmentionable as a glow of orange light traced around where the two body parts connected, fusing them together.

The shark’s face slowly contorted into an expression of utter insanity as the realization dawned upon it; it's tail was now filling the function of his prey’s missing leg.

“But that’s not how we started, hmm? Now I’ve got two legs and you’ve got none! That’s not fair!”

The shark could do nothing but blink at this point while Santa hauled it towards him and started performing something of a Heimlich manoeuvre upon it. In less than three heaves of it's chest, the soggy rotting leg of Santa Claus emerged from the creature’s mouth. Santa pulled it out, and examined it.

“For you see, my aquatic fiend, it is balance that runs the world. Once you are older and wiser like me, I think you will come to understand…”

So it was that in less than three minutes the shark had managed to have its beautiful tail in the use of a madman, and in it’s place was given his disgusting rotten leg in return. But Santa was not yet done with their exchange.

“Now then, you will learn use of your new appendage by doing me a favour, I think, yes.”

The shark was in no mood to give favours at this point and simply wanted to bury itself in the ocean sand and die with some degree of dignity. He turned away and began the complicated process of kicking his way forward, to freedom.

“Oh no you don’t!”

Santa had teleported in front of the terrified beast and before it could blink had dispensed a bitchslap of titanic proportion. The shark flew several kilometres away before meeting the gaze of an enraged Santa, who had caught it by the leg before it managed to find the sweet release of death.

“You… are going to get me home” he rumbled menacingly. The faint sound of propellers resonated across the empty sea.

"Us", he corrected himself idly. "You're going to get us home."

Far, far away, and past the distance any decent person would ask a shark to kick its way to, lay the North Pole. In theory, Santa considered, this would be were he would find his colossal workshop. It had been the last place he had left it, after all. He would have been only half right. Because unknown to Santa, his metropolitan domain was now serving as cushion to an even bigger stone castle.

“They’ll never catch me now”, Sinterklaas muttered icily under his breath from inside the cold and disturbingly dry throne room. He was quite pleased with himself. It had taken him a lot of connections to get this far, but finally he could breath a sigh of relief. Not that he ever would do so, of course. It made him feel nice to know that he could if he wanted to, though. In fact the only thing that could possibly make him feel uneasy was the disturbing lack of crying and gnashing of teeth that gave a place that homely feel.

“Stock”, he whispered into the air. A rhythmic and hurried tapping sound filled the castle at once. He counted in calm anticipation. One… two… It would be the poor lad’s loss if he wasn’t here on time. It was (in theory) a shame, but their noble occupations could not afford to be delayed by lazy children. Three… four… five…

He closed his eyes and hummed to himself as shrieks of pain echoed throughout the halls beyond. The clanking efforts of the furnace-operators sped and loudened in a sad attempt to block out the sound. It would be no good, of course. He had designed the castle specifically so that the consequences of failure could be heard loud and clear.

Finally there was a pathetic pawing sound that accompianied the shrieks at the huge and majestically decorated doors that led to Klaas' palace. With several agonizing grunts of effort, the doors swung open and revealed to Sinterklaas the excruciating expression on Benjamin Walker's face, before they closed on their own weight. It took the howling boy several more efforts of sweat, tears and smoke before he finally pushed the doors open long enough to lunge towards throne and shoved the piece of parchment into Sinterklaas' spindly lap before his internal organs suffered any further abuse.

“You really aught to pick up the pace, young Benjamin. I was waiting far too long, I’m afraid. How many times am I going to have to teach you the virtue of haste?"
He glanced at the paper while the youth collapsed smoking and charred at the base of the throne. Sinterklaas inhaled the scent of burnt flesh with restrained ecstasy.

“Tsk, not a single fruit to give out, I didn’t expect this." He wasn't lying. There was no soil fit for agriculture in these lands, and so he had been forced to make ends meet by planting seeds in the flesh of his workers. He had recieved reports of a few unpleasant casualties, but he didn't expect such complete and utter failure. Sinterklaas reasoned that it was the children's fault, as always. Back in the day children could provide all the nutrients required for a healthy supply of berries, and sometimes even whole apple trees.

"We seem to be scarce of nuts, too… No matter, we can always skew the numbers a little. More workers for me, in any case.”
“Speaking of which, sir,” Ben croaked as he felt his lungs crumple into flakes of ash, “when can I go home? You said you would only need me for an hour to teach me a lesson.”
“Quite right, young Benjamin, quite right. I took you at 10 in the evening, as I recall. Tell me, what time is it now?”

He gestured his long grey fingers at the enormous and obscenely ornate clock that was mounted on the wall behind him. Klaas liked the clock. It was very special to him because it was completely silent, and never ever made a sound. Mostly because none of the hands ever moved.

“It… it says it’s 9 o’clock, sir.” Ben was now speaking entirely on the hope that he could prove his master wrong at this point. He owed his late vocal chords that much.

“Indeed. So in reality, Master Walker, you owe two hours. Or fourteen, if you would prefer.”

Ben Walker didn’t much agree with this calculation, and despaired as another fragment of his sould curled up and died, as well as bits of his more vital organs. He distinctly recalled Klaas telling everyone that to transport every stone of the castle to the Pole and to reconstruct it would take several months at the very least.

“...And come 11 o’clock, Benjamin, I shall return you to your home in an instant!”

In truth even if somewhere deep inside his cold and desolate heart Klaas felt some small whim to return his labor force to their homes, he wouldn’t be able to. Because despite his careful efforts, the abduction of upwards of 60,000 little children in the same night did not go un-noticed by the Belgium authorities. Sinterklaas had no intention of being charged with kidnapping, slavery, child-abuse, shock torture, or any of the other petty offences he had performed over the years, and so he had initiated a mass migration towards the empty wastes of the North Pole. The operation experienced a slight hiccup when they discovered the Pole wasn’t as empty as they thought. But it didn’t matter.

That little problem was done and dealt with and would never ever come back.

Certainly not.

I'm not sure I get all the references, but your writing is very entertaining. Keep up the good work!

Teebs wrote:I'm not sure I get all the references, but your writing is very entertaining. Keep up the good work!

There aren't any "references", really. Is my writing too vague? Is Sinterklaas unknown to you?

Zablorg wrote:

Teebs wrote:I'm not sure I get all the references, but your writing is very entertaining. Keep up the good work!

There aren't any "references", really. Is my writing too vague? Is Sinterklaas unknown to you?

I assumed the brutal santa was coming from somewhere and Sinterklaas is indeed unknown to me.

Sinterklaas would be the Dutch origin of our "Santa Claus". 'Claus' is the shortened version of Nicklaus, I think.

BTW, will Grampus be making an appearance? He'd fit this story quite nicely.

Later, I think. I need to get my bearings on what I'm writing so far right now, so I'm going to be spending some time putting some bulk on the posts I've already done.

“Now then, I believe it is time for dinner, yes?”

Klaas sprang down from where he sat and strode down the bare stone tiles towards the enormous doors, which to Ben’s horror opened hastily as he came close to them. Behind the doors stood what could be called some ghastly interpretation of a foyer. Children were rushing past each other delivering messages and requisitions to the areas beyond, driven onwards by the merciless cold and dark. There were hundreds of them, and while they barely fit the size of the room they moved together like dance with an extreme co-ordination that was gained through timeless months of service.

Worried that things had become too easy for them, Sinterklaas opted not to take the stairs and railing that elevated him above his unwashed masses, and took his time blocking their memorized routes as he glided with deliberate sluggishness towards one of the many southern halls. The effect was like dropping a stone in an ant colony’s path. They scrambled around him and bumped into each other, as the tapping sound of their boots lost its sense of rhythm and order. Several were forced to begin endless loops as they tried in vain to navigate their new and confusing environment. It was an interesting exercise, Sinterklaas thought as he continued down the hall. He should try it more often.

The workers made a deliberate attempt to silent their spare body functions as he crossed the threshold from the hall and into the kitchens. If there was any noisy chatter, it would have been silenced.

“What would you like today, Mister Klaas?” muttered the child behind the personal serving counter with rehearsed eloquence. The cooks behind him held their collective breaths.
“The usual, young Jason…” Sinterklaas replied in what was intended to be a casual voice.
“We are… out of dog calf, sir.”

Sinterklaas glared at him, creating a sheet of frozen urine in Jason’s trousers that traced all the way back into his urethra. He considered a suitable punishment for the inevetable dwindling of the food supply.
“You have 20 minutes.” he commanded calmly, as he turned his back to them and paced away. He clicked his fingers quietly. One-thousand, two-hundred… One-thousand, one-hundred and ninety-nine…

If the food supply had shrunk to the point where his workers needed feeding priority over him, he would need someone to get food for him. He had just the man for such a job. Unkown to the children, the workshop that lay beneath them did not simply house rotting elf-flesh. As Sinterklaas wove his way towards his destination, he pondered a suitable incentive to contract. He could not quite be bought with any material goods Sinterklaas cared to possess.

Absently, he stepped inside the wooden elevator that he had found himself standing in front of.
“Down.” He whispered, somewhat shakily. The child standing petrified next to him urged his arms to a start and began operating the pulley. The rope that suspended them lowered the elevator down slowly. The workers pretended not to notice their descent as he slid out of the elevator frame.

The little boy shook with effort as he lowered them down at a steady pace before they finally hit the bottom of the shaft. The castle had at least some light, just enough for the workers to get around. It was pitch black down here. Sinterklaas stepped out of the frame determinedly and felt the squish of flayed elf skin against his boot. It felt quite nice.

He turned back and stabbed the elevator-boy in the throat with his index fingernail before proceeding. It was hardly acknowledged that this place existed, and he would keep it that way, one way or another. He strolled past smashed conveyor belts and artistically smeared traces of blood, largely aimless in his wanderings. If he wanted to talk he would do so.

He stopped in his tracks as the coughing sound the child was still making some distance away from him was cut short, replaced with a quiet ripping sound. He pivoted around in step and quickly paced the way he came, not wanting to miss the chance. The elevator was now occupied by a lump of mince-meat roughly the size of a child, and something a great deal larger and hairier.

“Hello, Krampus.”
The creature ignored him, and carried on sucking the splattered blood out of his white fur. In case the idea wasn’t clear enough, Sinterklaas continued.
“I… have a proposition for you.”

The voice that emerged from Krampus’ mouth felt strangely out of place, as if it were coming from either side of him. It echoed eerily around the elevator shaft.
“I noticed.” He growled, and continued tearing stips of flesh off the child's left leg.

He was just about devouring his evening meal, but didn't look bloated in the slightest. Looking dissatisfied, he turned to face Klaas at last.
“I’ve run out of supplies, Krampus. You can get me some, I’m certain?”
Krampus spat a golf-ball sized wad of thick red saliva at Sinterklaas’ feet.

“I have also ran out of food, Klaas. What has our group venture given me, eh? A dozen baskets worth of elves? Just as well you picked the North Pole to move of all places. We're millions of miles away from anything resembling solid earth, otherwise I would have left you already. I've had to ration the remaining little snots just so that I can stay alive.”

Sinterklaas didn’t much like the way this conversation was going. It was true that he had told Krampus wild tales of tender juicy polar bears as far as the eye could see, but he hadn't actually promised him anything, and therefore it stood to reason that he didn't owe him anything, either. He didn't feel like telling him this.

“Yes… yes, there was some difficulty, yes. The whole thing could have gone a lot better, I will agree. That is why I’m going to give you a heavier scale in this one. What can I do for you, my friend?”

Krampus peered up the elevator shaft. His ears twitched as they picked up the faint footsteps of the children above.
“Access to the castle”, he concluded, sniffing the air deeply. “I’d keep out of sight from everyone, don’t you worry.” he continued. “I just want my feed’s worth. And so do you, as I recall.”

Sinterklaas made a quick sum while Krampus stared intently. At one or two workers a day, he could keep things running for at least a couple of years before things became unmanageable.

“Done.”

He began to regret his decision as no sooner had the freezing words left his lips, Krampus was bounding up the sides of the narrow shaft with lightning speed, cackling ferociously.

In retrospect he probably should have quantified “feed’s worth”. As he counted down to zero, he heard the typical howls of pain coming from above, but whether it was the internally combusting kitchen staff or something else entirely, he could not tell.



-----
Damn I suck at this.