One

one

Malls are Hell’s waiting rooms

Ah, December. This is the time to be jolly and merry.

It makes me sick.

I slurp loudly on my banana smoothie with extra chocolate sprinkles and a double dollop of whipped cream. It doesn’t help my foul mood one bit. The sugar rush is probably fueling the murdering thoughts, while getting me closer to unleashing all my inner demons. And when I say all I mean even the skanky bitch with a screaming disposition.

“Why do you still have the long face?” Michael asks very stupidly.

I hiss at him. Perhaps a tad over the top, but after what I went through, he promised to cheer me up. I went along only to be dragged to this bloody mall—which is the size of Tanzania—to buy presents for the whole Illinois state population.

I can’t believe Raph came as well. The rest of the bros—a.k.a. the sausage fest—think he’s the boss in the relationship, but Michael just made him carry a hundred and one bags while skipping like a joyful, blitzed spirit from one shop to another.

Raph is buying some burgers and fries—I need my comfort food after what happened…again—while Michael and I are sitting at one of the food court tables with Offspring and Two, Ash and Ren. They were close by and decided to join us. I should have known they just wanted to fuck with me.

“Come on, Lori. Gabe let you work on his donor after—” Michael’s useless attempt at making me feel better is cut off by Ren.

“His catastrophic inauguration.”

“ Initiation , you prick,” I snarl at him, stabbing my to-go cup with the straw.

My initiation in the evil-dispatching family business. I technically already killed a couple of maggots a few months back, but I never did the whole A to Z donor routine. Starting with the maggot’s acquisition, their sedation, and transportation to the base, the torturing bit and then finishing with their death.

“Amateur,” Ash scoffs at me. I’m surrounded by dicks! And not the let’s-do-the-dance-with-no-pants kind, but the I’ll-chop-’em-off kind.

“Kids, earmuffs!” I yell toward the Offsprings. Ash lifts his hands toward his ears, pretending to cover them, but instead flipping me a double middle finger at the last minute. Classy as always.

Hunter and Rami don’t want them to be part of the evil-dispatching family business. But with their triplet brother Dare being a very skilled hacker, they end up knowing everything. Bloody tattletale!

“I couldn’t even go all Lori over the maggot’s arse. I didn't use the potato peeler.” I whine a little because, fuck, that would have been cool.

I see Ren’s blond eyebrows lift over his mirrored sunglasses. “How do you even use that?”

“Why are you asking him?” Ash shoves at his brother’s shoulder.

“Well, if he sharpens it enough—” Michael stops only to smile at his husband as Raph places two trays filled with food and drinks on the table. Then he continues, “He could use it on the donor’s testicles; the skin there is quite thin and sensitive.”

“Shut it!” Ash yells, covering his groin with a scrunched-up expression.

Raph glowers at him, his inner psycho shines even brighter when defending his husband. Ash doesn’t look scared by him one bit, the devil-may-care moron. I know what Raph does to people that cross him, I have my TRB (torture record book) to remind me.

Just two days ago he impaled—arsehole to head—a donor with a wooden pole. He was a sommelier who had been rude to Michael in a restaurant. He also liked to follow some of the customers home and rob them. He killed two of them when caught in the act. So an excruciating, vampire-slasher-movie death, he got. Probably because of the disrespect he aimed at Michael more than anything else.

Raph pulls Michael off his chair and then drops him on his lap as he sits. “You’ve been huffing all afternoon,” he tells me in his usual bored tone.

“Look around you, Lori. It’s that magical time of the year.” Michael beams at me, waving his arms toward all the Christmas decorations surrounding us. It feels like Santa himself thew up all the way to the several floors stretching above us. Shiny tinsel, metallic stars, red bows, and plastic wreaths cover every inch of the place.

The overly colorful setting is making me feel like vomiting. The absence of windows and fresh air might be increasing my annoyance—it’s like being in a casino in Vegas without all the debauched fun.

“Magical? That’s bonkers. Krampus time is appalling!” I sniff with irritation. Christmas is the worst time ever. The most horrific events in my life happened around this hatefully cheery holiday.

“Krampus?” Ren asks.

“Santa’s evil brother,” Raph clarifies.

“Exactly. Gran used to tell me all about Santa’s demonic-looking bro and how he punishes naughty kids.”

“Because you were the worst,” Ash states.

“I’m the reason Santa has a naughty list.” I nod with a proud, melancholic smile, fingering the little, ball-shaped urn pendant hanging around my neck. Gabe’s most meaningful present because it holds a pinch of my gran’s ashes in it. “So much that Krampus took a wicked liking toward my cunning self and decided to screw with me every year during this very month,” I finish.

“Why?” Michael asks.

“His fun. My curse,” I reply, making a disgusted face at a couple of women passing by, gleefully humming a bloody Christmas song. Thank the Lord, the mall is about to close, only very few people left.

“You’re an idiot,” Ash snorts out, the crass heathen.

“Why do you think he’d do that?” Ren sounds incredulous.

“I sort of summoned him when I was around ten. Ollie and I found a Ouija board.” I take a long sip from my smoothie. We actually found it in the principal’s office. He had a file cabinet at school filled with confiscated stuff from students. I wanted to get my mother of pearl compact mirror back. And I did. The Ouija board was compensation for the emotional distress I suffered.

“Summoned him,” Ren echoes my words slowly, while checking out a woman’s ass.

“Bullshit,” Ash coughs— not into his fist. He has a new tattoo on his neck and a couple along his arms. His blond hair falls too long on his forehead as he flips it with a quick motion of his head.

I shrug seamlessly. “It’s not hogwash. I was a kid who wanted to meet a real demon and his name was the first one that popped inside my head. Now he comes every December and enjoys fucking my life up, the bellend.”

“Fucking up how?”

“My initiation for one! Kidnapping a maggot should go smoothly with all the tech Rami has equipped us with.”

“I heard the donor’s meeting at the marina was quite…rough.” Ren is trying hard not to laugh. I’m tempted to lift up his glasses, grab his wavy blond hair and punch him right in the face.

“At least he was dead when the shark went at him,” Michael adds.

“I wanted to kill the bloody maggot, not witness him get stabbed in the eye with a speargun,” I grumble.

“The next donor suffered,” Raph drily says.

“Not by my hand. He got electrocuted on his own Christmas tree just before I injected him with the sedative. And the worst thing? He smelled like barbecue. I’ll never eat grilled meat again!” I state before giving my burger a bite. Okay, starting tomorrow. I’ll be absolutely disgusted tomorrow.

“Really? Like barbecue, you wacko?” Ash scoffs.

“Smelled like teriyaki meatballs,” I clarify.

“The faulty Christmas lights on the tree could be Krampus’s style.” Ren makes a ghostly voice when he utters the demon’s name. “But the speargun? It’s all a big, fat coincidence.”

“The red and green speargun’s brand name was on the side of the barrel: Dark Twin!”

“You’re overthinking this,” Raph feels the need to once again give his dull insights.

“Third donor? I almost got shot in the arse before that reindeer statue smashed him to the ground. I’m still in almost mourning of my arse! The one after that? She choked on a piece of candy cane. I mean, who does that? I should’ve shoved it down her throat,” I mutter angrily. “I refuse to be Wile E. Coyote!” My fist falls down on the table.

“The cartoon?” Michael covers his full mouth as he talks.

“Every plan I make keeps blowing up in my face. I’m a hot, curly Wile E. Coyote.”

“So, in Wile style, just try again,” Raph says matter-of-factly.

“It’s all in your head,” Ren states.

“In the past, a bloke wearing a Santa hat barfed on my brand-new, stupendous, blue velvet hand-embroidered slingback heels, ruining them forever. I was almost run over by a car when I tripped on some Xmas street decorations. A tray filled with gingerbread man cookies fell on my head from the third-floor window of a building while I was walking back home. A dog wearing elf ears sank his teeth into my coat, making me fall face-first into a filthy puddle of…apple juice—at least that’s what I still tell myself to this day. I burned both my eyebrows and half a tablecloth with a spicy Christmas candle. A frozen turkey was thrown at my head during a supermarket brawl between two surprisingly energetic grandmas. A wreath slid?—”

“That’s enough. We got the fucking gist. You’re a disaster about to happen,” Ash grumbles, dramatically pushing his chair further away from mine.

“Krampus time is horrific!” I cry.

“Is Krampus the reason why you refused to marry Gabe and Bez this month?” Michael stops feeding fries to his husband to question me one more time.

He just reminded me how pissed off my fiancés were at me when I refused to marry them. They turned into possessive, feral animals. My arse took the brunt of it, and I still feel the sting. I love their brand of obsession for me so fucking much, but I won’t have a fucked-up wedding because of Krampus.

Michael looks curious; I see no judgment in his gaze in opposition to the rest of the twats sitting around the table. To be fair. Raph looks just as disinterested as usual.

“That and the fact that a Let-It-Go, freezing outdoor wedding is not for me, mate.”

“You know that Santa, and consequently Krampus, doesn’t exist.” Raph tilts his head to the side, his eyes empty. How Michael endures that stare is a mystery to me.

“Gran was a Catholic at heart, she believed in Saint Nicholas’s tale. But her father was from a little Alpine village where the Krampus legend resides. I don’t believe in Santa, but I do believe in spirits—evil or holy, that is.”

Ash burps loudly, putting down his cup of coke. The brat is so rude, a genius with a tattoo needle, but terrible with manners and social interactions.

“I thought that sitting on the lap was for kids,” Ren suddenly says.

“Kids?” I scoff. “That’s my number one shagging position.”

“Ugh.” Ash lets me know how discontent he is with an incinerating glare.

“Santa’s lap!” Ren clarifies.

“That’s a kink I never understood. A big guy wearing a pointy, fluffy hat? I dig the beard and the giving presents part, but I draw the line at living in the middle of cold-ass nowhere and competing with the dude’s fixation on children.”

“I hope children are not around to hear this.” Ren shakes his head. The mall is about to close, no ankle biters—kids. We will be kicked out soon.

“I think that the kink is more about dirtying up Santa’s goodness, making someone so powerful and pure move to the dark side.” Michael’s medical brain makes a very valid point. Too valid.

“Are you one of Santa’s groupies?” I ask him.

And cue Raph’s growly reply, “The fuck he is.” He tightens his steel arms around his husband.

“I don’t need Santa. I already sit on a bearded man’s lap,” Michael says calmly, scratching his husband’s short, dark stubble. “You should know by now that my type is tall, dark, and psycho.” He gives Raph a long kiss, too long and dirty for a public place. It makes me miss my men.

“I was talking about the flesh-and-blood Santa’s impostor in the Christmas corner.” Ren points to his left.

My eyes turn to the burly bloke sitting on the red throne forty feet from us. He’s wearing his Santa costume, complete with the big belt, black boots, and furry hat, while drooling over the skimpily dressed broad sitting on his lap.

I love her high yellow pumps, so much that I want to ask her where she bought them. When my gaze moves to her face, I blink a couple of times. It’s Magdalene! Or whatever her name is. The hooker that used to live a couple of floors down in my old apartment building.

Finally, I can get some fun from this trip to jolly hell.

“Um, maybe I should go talk to them,” I utter.

“Who?” Michael has come up for air.

“This Santa’s minion seems to indulge in naughty stuff; maybe he can help to shed some light on the Krampus nightmare,” I explain.

Raph turns his head toward the bloke grinding against Magdalene’s butt. “He looks more like a sinner than a jolly fella.”

“He’s certainly en- joy- ing himself,” Michael jokes.

“Jealous, piglet?” Raph asks him, sliding his hand under his husband’s butt. I usually like to watch Miphael’s rated R shows. Not tonight, though. I leave my chair and head toward him, followed by Ren and Ash.

“Why are you stalking me?”

Ash sniffs as Ren taunts me, “Stalking? That’s your thing.”

“Dare needs to stop using his vocal cords, or he'll lose his talking muscle,” I mutter.

“Touch him, and you die.” Ash sounds serious. Those three are the most different and, at the same time, closest brothers I’ve ever met. Maybe it’s a triplet thing.

“I don’t feel very loving toward you at the moment, either of you wankers.” I huff.

“We can’t miss the show.”

I smirk mischievously at Ren. “Show? What do you take me for? A circus act?”

“I’m not answering, because I’m a nice person,” Ash has the bloody audacity to say.

I snort as loudly as a pig. “You, Offspring ? Nice? Since when?”

“I’m brutal, but honest,” he retorts.

“You’re a numpty. Can’t even dress yourself. Your t-shirt is on backward.” Ash looks down, and I tap his nose while letting out a raspberry. “Oh, to be nineteen and stupidly naive,” I mock him.

Then I roll my eyes at his growly, “Don’t touch me!”

“Magdalene, sorry to interrupt your Sodom and Gomorra moment,” I tell the woman as I stop a couple of feet from the big throne. There’s a long red carpet pointing the way to it and stanchions with velvet ropes along the sides.

“Do I know you?” Her blown pupils and lost expression let me know she’s had her daily dose of weed already. Coke as well seeing how she is scratching her nose and sniffing. “You can join us if you want.”

What the sodding fuck?

That’s the second time I’ve been offered a threesome this year. Do I scream unicorn to people? I am part of a throuple, so perhaps I let out a bloody distress sign in the sky—Batman style.

“Carla.” Santa sounds annoyed as he addresses Magdalene. But his askew glasses and red cheeks dampen the effect. “And I didn’t… This was not part of the agreement we had.”

“And what kind of agreement was that?” Ash takes a step forward.

“Pray, tell,” Ren insists, copying his brother.

Those two argue all the damn time, but when they unite, it turns Shining-scary.

“None of your business.” Santa pushes the hooker off his lap, and she obliges him, walking a few feet away. She looks quite taken by the huge Christmas tree hoisted in the main shopping area between the stores lining the edges on either side.

“Prickly. Shouldn't you be all 'ho-ho-ho' and shit?” I raise my brow at Santa's minion.

“He surely had the ho part down to a T.” Ash glances at Magdalene.

“Is there something you want?” Santa is glowering at us now.

“From you? Hell no. But I need a private chat with your…boss,” I let him know.

“Boss?”

“The Red Snack Attack?” I offer, but he still looks confused. “Jolly McJingles, Merry McMuffin? Mr. Nice Breaking-and-Entering? The Chimney Hunk!”

“Mistletoe Maverick!” Ren adds to my logorrhea of Santa’s name. “Mr. Cookie Jar.”

“The ho-ho-ho fuck no,” Ash says.

“What the hell is that?” His brother scrunches his nose at him.

“That was utterly terrible!” I agree with Ren.

“And your nicknames were good?” Ash asks derisively.

“Yes!” we both reply.

“Are you talking about Santa Claus?” the minion finally speaks.

“Yesss. Magdalene’s product didn't fry all your neurons yet.” I stare at my indigo nails, loving the little silver stars on my middle fingers… They add some magical shite when I flip someone off. The sparkling diamond and rubies on my engagement ring distract me for a moment.

“Are you serious?” Santa’s minion’s question brings me back to him.

“Like a heart attack while watching The Ring ,” I deadpan. “You see, I’m cursed. Tried to contact Krampus many times, but the bloody wanker doesn’t carry a phone. Perhaps his goody-too-shoes bro can help.”

“Are you fucking with me?”

“Does this mean that he’s too low on the pyramid scheme?” I turn to Ren.

“The what?” The minion looks confused and a tad irritated.

“He’s probably at the bottom of the pyramid.” Ren nods my way.

“So low, he doesn't even know about the pyramid,” Ash keeps going. The way they just go with it is splendid.

I glance at Michael and Raph. They are where we left them at the table, snogging like teenagers. “It was worth a try. You can go, old pervert.”

“Old…? I’ve had enough. Chantal,” he calls out. A girl wearing an elf costume slides out of the small green tent near the throne. The costume is ridiculously funny, down to the curly, bell-ringing shoes, but she sports it with no fucks given.

“I’m off,” the she-elf states, her tone hits the highest levels of boredom.

“Like I give a crap. Take care of these weirdos,” the minion says, sliding quickly off the throne before moving toward Magdalene.

“You’re the one lying to kids every day, and we are the weirdos?” I scream at the minion’s back.

“You can go with that or the hooker bit. Whatever you prefer,” Ren utters drily, clicking his tongue a couple of times.

“Let the old fart go. Jeff's the mall owner’s cousin. He practically does whatever the fuck he wants here.”

The she-elf is older than I thought, with black nail polish and two hoops on her lower lip and one under her nose. She’s looking at Ash with appreciation, and as he glares at her, she smirks.

“Drugs, prostitution, and horrible conduct at work. The guy is precious; whoever gave him this Santa job is a genius. Would really like to shake his hand.” Ren’s heavy sarcasm fills the air around us.

“And break all their fingers,” Ash adds.

She-elf doesn’t look horrified. On the contrary, she bats her eyes at Ash like a skilled Jessica Rabbit.

“You’re wasting your time. My brother is as gay as a peacock,” Ren lets her know.

“Also, Ash is as rude as an undeserved bitch calling,” I add. And I’m being nice here. He is inconsiderate, insensitive, deliberatively offensive, disrespectful, obscene most of the time, and always impolite. I love his irritating face to death—his death, which I’ll provide one of these days.

“Too late. I’m fucking hooked, dude,” she shamelessly replies. Ash huffs out all his annoyance while I’m really starting to like this girl.

“Hey, do you know how to contact the King’s evil bro?” I ask her.

She turns her brown eyes to me. “Elvis didn’t have a bro, man. Did you sniff some of Jeff’s snow?”

“He means Santa.” Ash huffs. Is that a small smirk on his lips?

“Remember there’s only one King, dude, and that’s the Hillbilly Cat,” she clarifies, waving her tiny finger at me. She’s even shorter than me, but she’s got balls of steel, facing three blokes without any kind of wariness.

“Amen,” Ash mutters, nodding at her. He hates strangers. He barely stands us. Is this Santa’s doing? Sending some Christmas spirit my way. Improbable, Ash would enjoy Krampus spirit much more..

“The evil bro…you mean Krampus?” A nod is my reply to her. “Why do you want to contact him?”

“He…cursed him,” Ren succinctly replies, his words dripping with mockery.

“I see.” The she-elf doesn’t laugh or tell me to fuck off. She seems to ponder the issue—the little bells on her elf-shoe jingles as she taps her foot on the floor—after a couple of seconds, she utters, “You should…”

“Yessss?” I encourage her.

“I’ll tell you in exchange for Broody’s number.” She smiles at Ash.

Ren laughs while Ash glares at him.

“No,” he growls out.

“No help then,” she singsongs, puckering her lips.

“If what you say will be useful, I’ll tell you where he works,” I try to compromise with her.

“No! What the fuck, man!” Ash turns his murderous glare to me.

“It’s a tattoo shop, Ash. Anybody can walk in.”

“Tattoos? Deal!” She-elf hurriedly says. “Form a groveling plan.”

“A what?” Ren asks.

She rolls her eyes at him, not even remotely attracted by his clean-cut appearance. “Put down a list of things to do to obtain forgiveness. That’s what I’d do anyway. Unless you want to go the witchy-way, cutting rats’ throats and boiling squirrels’ brains.”

That’s not the worst idea. Actually, the more I think about it, the more it makes sense.

“I like you, She-elf.” I smile at her.

“Don’t really know enough about you to say the same,” she retorts boldly. “Broody’s tattoo shop?”

A deal is a deal. I open my mouth, but Ren beats me to it. “Trice&Vice Tattoos.” Ash snarls at him as soon as the words come out.

“Wow. Such a sexy beast.” She puckers her lips at him. “I’ll see you soon, Broody.” She gives him a promising smirk before turning her tinkling shoes around and disappearing inside the tent.

I’m not really into the whole groveling thing. I bloody loathe it. Prefer to be punished, especially if my fiancés use their freakishly long tool on me.

Ugh, this is a never-ending nightmare.

My thoughts change direction as my attention is stolen by the Offsprings and their umpteenth banter.

“Who’s into lizards? Cold-blooded killers!” Ash is hissing at Ren.

“I have a snake! George is a toothless snake.”

“Voldemort had one too.”

Ren sniffs with derision.“You have a demon camping in your bedroom, with retractable claws and long pupils.” Is he talking about Ash’s Sphynx cat?

“I’ve an acquired taste.” Ash shrugs. “While you have none.”

“Fuck you!” Ren gives him a hard shove. “You, too.” He points at me before walking back to Michael and Raph.

What the sodding hell did I do? “Go, you wanker. I’m so glad to see the back of you!” I yell at him.

“This back,” he uses his thumb to gesture at his spine, “or this one?” He grabs his high arse and then flips me off.

Twat! Before I can retaliate, my phone starts ringing.

It’s maggot time.