Stocking Stuffer – a Bad Santa Blog Hop Story
Written for Ruth Long’s Bad Santa Blog Hop, 2013 Edition
Late night, Christmas Eve.
Business was slow at the Stocking Stuffer Lounge, one of those nights without enough smoke in the air nor beer on the floor to cover the scent of industrial-strength cleaning products.
The five customers in the main room divided their attention between the stripper in nothing but a Santa hat and the topless bartender with Lemmy Kilmister’s face tattooed over her right breast.
Deafening, bass-heavy dance music bounced around the place.
The big, bearded man in the Champagne Room let fly with a jolly, somewhat inebriated, laugh. He shifted in the leather recliner to make room for Candy.
Candy, a curvaceous redhead in a red bra and g-string and matching sandals, smiled and moved to a Barry White tune.
The big man cupped her bare ass in his pudgy hands, lifting her onto his lap.
She spun to face him.
“Ooh,” she said, “your hands are cold, Santa, baby. I’m gonna have to warm you up.” She gasped, then grinned. “Is that a lump of coal in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”
“Ain’t no sugarplum, honey.”
She laughed and reached behind her back. The bra hit the floor.
“How ’bout these sugarplums?”
“Darlin’, that’s an image that’ll be dancing in my head for months.”
She brushed his beard with her nipples.
“You really need this, don’t you?”
“Do you see the beard and the red suit? Know what that means? Three hundred sixty-four days a year I see nothing but elves and reindeer ass.”
“What about Mrs. Claus, Santa, baby?”
“Mrs. Claus? News flash! North fucking Pole! Think she ever gets out of that mu-mu or those Uggs? She could’ve grown a dick down there for all I know.”
“Well,” she replied, “I’m gonna take good care of you. But… shouldn’t you be out spreading joy and delivering toys and all that?”
“I got a guy. Hired my brother-in-law, Vince. He’s out there right now, and–”
A cellphone rang– “Baby Got Back”, cut into the Barry White tune.
“Would you, babe? Right hip pocket.”
She grinned as she fished the phone out and handed it to him.
“Vince?” he barked. “You’re not lost. I told you. Let Rudolph do the work. He knows.”
She ran her fingers up his thigh.
“Oh no, you did not just ask, ‘Which one’s Rudolph?’” He covered the phone with his hand, rolling his eyes. “Last time I hire a fucking in-law. What’s that Vince? Look– how you get down the chimney is your problem. Just get it done. And Vince? You fuck this up… I’ll know.”
He chucked the phone over his shoulder.
“You’re really Santa, aren’t you?
“Mailbu Barbie with the Kung Fu Grip. You were nine.”
She gasped, wide-eyed. “How did you…?”
“Okay, baby,” he growled. “Where were we? Saint Nick needs a happy ending!”