PIP/Krampus/It Begins
James sat sullenly at the filthy kitchen table. The small cramped kitchen in the small cramped trailer seemed to close in on him. He had hardly touched the microwave meal that sat in front of him; but the bottle of whiskey in his hand was nearly empty. He stared at the .357 revolver that was almost obscured by the discarded alcohol and food containers that made up the majority of the table's surface. He had, like most days, contemplated having a bullet for dinner. Like most days he settled for picking at a microwave dinner instead . . . maybe he'd have a bullet for Christmas dinner. He thought that he should be sufficiently depressed by that time to find the courage to pull the trigger.
He had been at his dream job . . . high school principal. He knew it was a strange dream job; but it was his dream job. He had always liked helping to guide children to become their best selves. Without a firm guiding hand, they might grow up to be whores, thugs, murderers, and who knows what else. Discipline . . . that was the key. Unfortunately the school board did not see it that way. In the early days of the last century his methods would have been understood. 'Spare the rod and spoil the child,' goes the saying. When had society forgotten that. Everyone complains that each generation gets more selfish and entitled; but no one can seem to connect that to the reduction in discipline that is permitted in the child's life.
Now James' teaching degree was worth less than toilet paper. Not only could he never teach again, but he wasn't allowed within fifty feet of any school, playground, or daycare facility . . . as if he were a child molester! It was ludicrous. It's not that he didn't find the sexy little things appealing . . . He simply respected rules. Rules exist for a purpose. Children are not to be used sexually. That is a rule as old as time. The limitations on punishments were rules too he supposed . . . but they were inane. The other rule was old. James respected old.
So he became a little overzealous punishing a couple of hoods that had assaulted a girl in the bathrooms? So what? The punks would have probably raped her if her hadn't stepped in! He should have been given a medal; not fired. At least the girl's parents felt he was a hero. Their outcry was the only reason he wasn't in jail. Maybe he had gone a little overboard. Maybe he should have used a little restraint. But it's not as if he had killed either of them. He didn't have it in him to do something like that. So he tied them to the radiator? So he stripped off their pants? So he gagged their annoying babbling? So he drew a little blood when he beat them with his belt? So what! Bad children need to be set right!
He looked at the gun, once again thinking about the bullet within. Suddenly he heard a sound on his roof . . . it was ridiculous . . . sleigh bells? There was a stamping sound, then a solid thud. He had to be imagining it. The sound of footsteps added to the clamor as dust fell from the ceiling of the trailer, following the sound of the steps. Maybe he was going mad? He picked up the gun and followed the sounds. They made their way to the living room. They stopped above his wood stove. Suddenly sparks and ash belched from his stove to slowly twirl around in a mini-vortex; then finally consolidate into the form of a man.
The man was dressed, of all things, like Santa Claus. The full red getup. But there was a lot about this picture that didn't fit that description. The man was huge. He stood at least six and a half foot tall. He was also not the least bit fat. He had the white beard and hair; but the scar across his left eye seemed to be out of place on Saint Nicholas. He was an imposing man in all, and even with a gun in his hand, James was afraid.