Chapter 4

4

JOHNNY

Santa Wants To Slay - Mbest1x, Mat Best, Postscript

T he market is fucking alive—laughter, chatter, the shuffle of feet on packed snow. Lights flicker above, casting a golden glow over the crowd, but none of it matters. None of it fucking touches me.

I’m not here for holiday cheer. I’m here for her.

I walk through the market, my breath turning to fog in the chilly air, the clown mask sitting cold and tight against my skin. I can feel eyes on me, but no one says anything. Not yet. They’re too busy pretending that everything is normal, that a man in a clown mask wandering around a Christmas market is just another quirk of the holiday season.

But the eyes—they always find me eventually. I know because I’ve spent a lifetime seeking them out. It’s human nature, really. We’re all drawn to what unsettles us, and fuck if I don’t get a kick out of being the one to make people squirm.

I drift toward the stall where I saw my little snowflake admiring that delicate silver necklace with the tiny crystal ornament. I remember how her eyes lingered on it, the way her fingers hesitated, like she wanted to reach out and take it but thanks to Mark , she didn’t. She deserved it, though. Deserved something just as beautiful as her.

And I’m going to be the one to give it to her.

I spot the stall up ahead, tucked between vendors selling a bunch of those green rings people hang on their doors, and scented candles. The air smells like cinnamon and pine, but there’s a sharpness beneath it, a cold bite that cuts through the warmth.

Personally, I think it fits the moment.

As I approach, the old woman running the stall smiles at me, her tired eyes crinkling at the corners. She’s bundled up in layers, her fingers trembling slightly as she adjusts the jewelry laid out on the table. There’s a kindness in her gaze, an innocence. She’s the kind of person people overlook—small, frail, harmless.

She reminds me of Ms. Bishop, my old college professor. Ms. Bishop was soft-spoken, her hands often trembling as she shuffled through her notes, her eyes darting nervously whenever I was near. I used to revel in watching her squirm, noticing how her knuckles turned white as she clutched the edges of her desk when I stood just a little too close. Power takes many forms, and fear is one of them.

She was older than me, but not as old as this lady. Yet somehow, Ms. Bishop always overlooked my antics, and I knew it was because she wanted me. And I wanted her too. No one had ever looked at me the way she did, with a mix of desire and apprehension. So, I took her.

Ironic, isn’t it? How I fucked my first kill while she gasped for her last breath. But hey, now I’m onto bigger and better things. RIP, Ms. Bishop.

“Hello there,” the woman says, her voice gentle, almost grandmotherly. “Here for a little holiday shopping?”

I nod, my gaze locking onto the necklace. There it is, glinting in the dim light. Thin silver chain. Tiny crystal sphere ornament. So fragile, so perfect.

“That one seems to be catching a few eyes tonight” she says, her wrinkled hands carefully lifting the necklace from its display. “It’s a special piece. Simple, but there’s something magical about it, don’t you think?”

Her words are soft, but they’re already lost on me. My mind is elsewhere, imagining Alaska wearing it, the crystal pendant resting perfectly against the swell of her tits. Fucking delicious.

I take the necklace from her hands, feeling its weight—light, delicate, just like her. “How much?” I ask, my voice low and rough.

The woman hesitates for a moment, her eyes flicking to the clown mask. She swallows, and I can see the unease creeping in. It’s subtle, but it’s there. They always sense it, even if they don’t realize it.

“Twenty dollars,” she says, her voice wavering ever so slightly.

I pull out the crumpled bills and hold them out to her. She takes them with trembling fingers, folding them carefully before tucking them into her apron pocket.

“Whoever you’re buying this for,” she says softly, “she’s a lucky girl.”

I smile beneath the mask, though she can’t see it. Lucky? My snowflake doesn’t even know how lucky she is. Not yet.

As she wraps the necklace in a small piece of tissue paper, I glance at the glitter on her table. Silver, shimmering in the dim light. An idea begins to form in my mind, dark and twisted. I reach for a small container of the glitter, adding it to my purchase.

“You have big plans?” she asks, her voice trying to cut through the rising tension I feel in my chest.

“Oh, you could say that,” I reply, eyes gleaming behind the mask.

She smiles, her old eyes soft with a mix of exhaustion and warmth. She hands me the wrapped necklace and glitter, and I linger a moment longer, imagining how easy it would be to snap her neck right there. How simple it would be to watch the light leave those kind eyes forever.

But not tonight. She’s not part of the plan.

I give her a small nod and turn to leave, gripping the package tight in my hand. But before I can make my way back through the market, a voice cuts through the holiday hum like a blade.

“Hey, freak!”

The word hangs in the air, slicing through my thoughts, pulling me back to the present. I stop in my tracks, the grin beneath my mask widening. Slowly, I turn, scanning the crowd until I spot him—a guy leaning against a nearby stall, smirking in my direction.

He’s a big fucking guy. Broad-shouldered, thick neck, the kind of build that makes you think he spends more time in front of a mirror than anywhere else. His cheeks are red from the cold, his breath fogging the air in front of him as he takes a swig from a flask. The smug look on his face tells me everything I need to know about him.

This fucker thinks he’s untouchable.

“What’s with the mask, clown?” he taunts, laughing to himself. “Trying to scare the kids? I think you got the wrong fucking holiday, bro.”

I tilt my head, watching him closely, feeling the familiar rush of excitement building in my chest. Ha, this poor fuck has no idea what’s coming.

“Are you deaf or something? Fucking idiot. I said nice mask,” he says again, louder this time, trying to draw more attention.

The market around us fades away, the people, the sounds, everything. All I can hear is his voice, grating, obnoxious, begging to be silenced. My hands twitch at my sides, itching to feel the warmth of his blood between my fingers.

I take a step toward him, slowly, deliberately.

“Hey, man, it’s Christmas,” he says, his smirk faltering just a bit as I close the distance. “Don’t take it so personal.”

“Oh, I don’t,” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper. “But you should be more careful about who you mock on Christmas. It’s a time for joy and giving, after all.”

His expression flickers with confusion, but it’s too late. I’m already there.

Before he can react, I grab his wrist and twist, yanking him into a narrow alley beside the stalls. He grunts in pain, his flask clattering to the ground as he tries to pull away.

“Whoa, whoa, hey!” he shouts, panic rising in his voice. “It was just a joke, man! What the hell?!”

I don’t say a word as I shove him against the brick wall, the cold brick biting into his back. His breath comes out in ragged gasps, panic starting to bloom in his eyes. The alley is dark, the sounds of the market are muffled in the distance. Perfect .

He’s squirming now, trying to push me off, but I’ve already got my hands around his throat, squeezing, pressing until his struggles become frantic, desperate. His eyes bulge, his face turning a deep shade of red as he claws at my mask.

“Let... go!” he chokes out, spitting, gasping for air.

I lean in close, my breath hot against his face, my grin widening. “You know what I love about Christmas?” I whisper, my fingers digging into his flesh. “It’s the creativity. All the pretty little decorations, the lights... the glitter. It’s all so fucking marvelous!”

His chest heaves, and I release his throat just long enough for him to suck in a desperate gulp of air, but before he can scream, I pull out the ornament hook I snatched earlier from one of the vendor stalls. It’s sharp, meant to hang delicate glass bulbs, but now it’s going to hang something far more interesting.

Through the eye holes in my mask, I can see the realization dawning in his eyes, and it makes me laugh—a cruel, mocking sound that echoes in the dark around us. “We’re going to play a little game,” I say, pressing the metal hook against his cheek, relishing the way his body tenses beneath it.

“Please—”

“Shhh,” I coo, my voice dripping with false sweetness. “You’ll get your chance to beg. But first, I want to see how well you can please me. After all, it is the season of giving.”

Before he can process what I’m saying, I plunge the hook deep into his cheek, the sharp metal tearing through flesh and muscle with a sickening crunch. His scream is muffled by the blood pouring from his mouth, bubbling up in a frothy crimson mess, but I’m not finished. Shit, I’m just getting started.

“Look at you, crying like a little bitch,” I taunt, leaning back to admire my work. “Don’t you know, Santa only comes if you’re a good boy.” I shove him to his knees, watching as he stumbles, panic etched across his face. “Now, show Santa Johnny how good you can be.”

“Please, don’t—” His voice is a strangled whimper, but I cut him off with a sharp kick to his side. He gasps, the wind knocked out of him, and I smirk down at him.

“Beg for it,” I command, and the way his eyes dart back to mine, fear dancing in them, only fuels my desire. “Tell me how good you’re going to be so I can give you my special gift,” I add as I pull my cock from my pants. It’s already rock hard as I run my chilled hand up and down it’s length, gripping it firmly.

He hesitates, but desperation takes over, and he drops his gaze, his cheeks flushed. “I’ll be good, Santa. I promise. I’ll do better, just don’t kill me...”

“Not good enough.” I grab a fistful of his hair, yanking his head back until he’s forced to look up at me. “I want to hear you beg for Santa’s gift. Tell me how bad you fucking want it.”

“Please, I want it! I’ll do whatever you want!” His voice shakes, and I can see the tears pooling in his eyes. It’s beautiful—so fucking beautiful.

“Look at you,” I hiss, as I push myself into his mouth, feeling his lips stretch around me as I thrust deeper, making sure to hit the back of his throat. He gags and sputters, coating my girth in a layer of blood filled saliva, and I revel in the power I have over him.

“Yeah, that’s it. Take it all, you pathetic little worm. Look how desperate you are, sucking off a freak in the alley just to keep your life.” I pull his hair harder, forcing him to take me deeper, feeling him struggle beneath me, helpless and begging for release.

He moans around me, his eyes wide with terror and humiliation, but I don’t give a damn. I’m lost in the pleasure of it, the sheer ecstasy of watching him fall apart. I thrust faster, harder, enjoying every moment of degradation.

“There you go, that’s a good boy,” I growl, and the sound of my voice seems to push him further into submission. I can feel myself nearing the edge, and with one final thrust, I bust, sending jets of come shooting down his throat.

He gags again, choking on the thick liquid, and it brings a smile to my face. I pull out, watching as he gasps for air, blood still oozing from the hook embedded in his cheek, his body trembling.

“Now,” I say, my voice low and dangerous, “it’s time for you to learn about the true spirit of Christmas.”

I twist the hook, savoring the sound of his flesh ripping, the wet gurgling noise as he tries to scream. Blood sprays across the snow-covered ground, painting it red. Christmas red.

He’s still struggling, his hands weakly trying to pull the hook free, but it’s no use. I yank it out with a savage jerk, tearing his face open even more. The skin hangs in ragged flaps, his eyes wide with terror, his breath coming in shallow, gurgling gasps.

Behind the mask, my lips pull into a smirk. Fuck, I’m loving this. Theres nothing like the adrenaline rush that taking a life gives you. Nothing except watching my little snowflake that is.

Reaching into my coat, I pull out a candy cane, its bright red and white stripes glimmering under the faint moonlight. “Perfect,” I say, letting the sugary treat dangle tantalizingly in front of his eyes, watching as confusion and dread flicker across his face.

With a swift motion, I plunge the candy cane deep into his chest. The sharp tip driving into his flesh like a knife through butter. He lets out a choked cry, his body jerking violently against the wall, but it’s fucking pointless. It doesn’t matter that he’s a big guy. Even I know at this point, I’m in control and nothing he could do, would change that.

“Look at you,” I taunt, twisting the candy cane as it breaks apart inside him, shards of sugary glass mingling with his blood. “Now you’re a real holiday treat. How fucking festive. Don’t you think?”

He tries to speak, but all that comes out is a wet, rattling breath. His body slumps against the wall, the life draining from his eyes. But I’m not done. Not yet.

With each passing second, I feel a rush of satisfaction wash over me, the thrill of my artistry mingling with the scents of blood and sugar. I lean in closer, inhaling the metallic tang of his blood mixed with the sweet peppermint scent of the crushed candy cane. This is my fucking masterpiece, and I want to savor every goddamn moment of it.

“Let’s see how you shine,” I whisper, giving him one quick sprinkle of the glitter I bought, adding that final touch to my holiday horror show.

I grab a string of Christmas lights from a nearby trash bin, wrapping them around his neck and pulling tight. The lights dig into his throat, cutting into his skin, squeezing tighter and tighter until his face turns a shade of purple that rivals the Christmas ornaments hanging from the stalls. His legs kick weakly, trying to find footing, but I yank the cord again, harder this time.

The wet gurgling sound of his last breath fills the alley, his eyes bulging, hands clawing at the string of lights, but it’s all in vain. The blood dripping from his mangled cheek glistens under the holiday lights. I take a step back, watching as his body goes limp, the life finally drained from him.

“Much better,” I whisper, admiring my handiwork. The string of lights is wrapped tight around his throat, the glitter sparkling on his mutilated face like some grotesque fucking holiday decoration. I step back, taking it all in—the blood-soaked snow beneath his body, the faint twinkle of the Christmas lights still plugged into a socket nearby. It’s bloody perfect.

But there’s one last touch.

“Happy Holidays,” I mutter, before slipping away from the scene, leaving the body glittering like a bloodstained Christmas ornament for the rest of the town to find.

T he market is still bustling as I return to the stall, the warmth of the crowd and the clamor of cheerful voices at odds with the chaos I just left behind. I find the old woman again, still at her stall, her tired eyes lighting up when she sees me.

The town is bathed in the warm glow of holiday lights as I walk away. The air smells of roasting chestnuts and spiced cider, but none of it touches me. I’m in my own world now, a world filled with her. Alaska.

My snowflake.

As I stroll past another stall, the echoes of distant laughter reach my ears. Families, couples, and children—blissfully oblivious to the fact that this year, Santa is up to much more than just delivering presents. I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to shatter their joy, to spread cheer in my own twisted way, and reveal just how tainted with blood their beloved jolly Santa’s suit truly is.

But no. Tonight is about her . She deserves my full attention, and I won’t let anything distract me from that. There’s something intoxicating about the idea of giving her a gift that no one else can. Something no one else would understand.

I slip through the trees, the market fading behind me, and make my way back to the cabin.