Latest Flash

Candy Cane

On the second Daze of Christmas,

Paul Heatley gives to us. . . 

Candy Cane by Paul Heatley

It’s Christmas Eve and after tonight Chris is out of work. He’ll pass the year all right, pick up some hours at his brother’s garage or down at the docks. The Santa Claus gig is a solid month, sometimes two, of steady pay. He’s been doing it a long time now. A fat ass like his, stick it in a red suit and hat, and presto. Used to be they had to stick a fake beard on him, but now he’s older and he’s got a real beard.
He’s still almost in uniform. The jacket is draped over the stool beside him. The hat sits next to his drink on top of the wet bar.
Behind him, the club isn’t exactly lively. Two girls are up on stage while most of the guys in the joint look miserable as all hell, staring into their drinks, probably pondering their absent families.

With their audience distracted, the girls don’t put much heart into their performance. They go through the motions, killing time until they can leave. One of them is, or was, dressed like Mrs. Claus. The other is down to her tinsel-wrapped suspenders, wearing a pair of flashing reindeer antlers. There are a couple of sad-looking trees half-heartedly decorated on either side of the stage, brown and shedding.
“Merry Christmas, Santa Claus.”
Chris looks. 

A girl leans against the bar next to him. She half-smiles with narrowed eyes while sucking on a red and green candy cane. Her bra has baubles hanging where her nipples live. Around her waist, covering her ass and crotch, is a short green-velvet skirt bordered with white.
“What’re you supposed to be?” he says.
“I’m an elf,” she says. “One of your little helpers. Shouldn’t you be getting back to the North Pole soon? There’s gonna be a lot of unhappy boys and girls if you don’t hurry.”
Chris jabs a thumb at Mrs. Claus. “Just waiting on my wife.”
The elf looks, still sucking on her cane. The stripes are fading from it. “She looks like she’s gonna be busy a while longer. How about you and I head in a booth, pass some time ‘til she’s done?”
Chris takes a drink. “Sounds like a hell of an idea, but I’m tapped.”
Her cheeks are drawn in from sucking the candy cane. Her eyes are locked on his. “Let’s make it a freebie.”
“It’s a Christmas miracle, Mister Claus.”
The elf takes him by the hand, leads him into a booth, and pushes him down into a chair. “Let me ask you something,” she says, one hand on his shoulder, the other still wrapped round the hook of her candy cane. Her hips sway. “How long you been doing the Santa gig?”
“Shit,” Chris says. “Long time.” He reaches out, puts his hands over her stockings . She doesn’t seem to mind, so he squeezes.
“Ten years?”
“You like it?”
“It has its perks.”
She turns, lets him raise her skirt to see the G-string and her ass. “When I was a kid growing up in the home, we all used to love Christmas.”
“You an orphan?”
She turns. “Maybe. Dumped on a doorstep. Anyway, Christmas, Santa came to visit us. Let us know he hadn’t forgotten about the kids without parents. You ever do that?”
“Yeah, used to. While back.”
“You recognise me?”
“Can’t say I do, darlin’.
“One year, a Santa came and took a real shine to me. Let me sit on his lap for a long time. Took me on his sleigh, too, after all the other kids had gone back to their rooms.”
Chris straightens. He studies her face.
“I look familiar now?” She pulls the candy cane from her mouth. She’s sucked it to a sharpened point. 

“I –”

She jabs the cane into his left eye. As he starts to scream, she sticks it in the other and leaves it there.

Paul Heatley has been published online and in print for a variety of publications including Thuglit, Crime Syndicate, Spelk, Horror Sleaze Trash, and Shotgun Honey, among others. He is also the author of six novellas, available from Amazon for Kindle. He lives in the north east of England.