Sausagey Santa (9 page)

I’ve been staying as far away from my family as possible. Their Christmas miracles might be a pleasure to them, but they scare the hell out of me. Christmas is supposed to bring families closer together, but this year it seems to have torn us apart. I’m not sure what’s going to happen to us. I have a feeling that Santa is going to just force the whole family to move to the North Pole to live with him. Not because he wants us there but because transformers and chainsaw angels don’t have a place in the civilized world. Decapitron probably won’t officially divorce me, but I think she’s planning on marrying Burt Reynolds Elf. Tea is assuming that we will also get married now that we have a baby coming.

It’ll be odd to live the rest of my life up at the North Pole, but it probably won’t be any worse than how things used to be. Life changes and goes on. It might not get any better, but it goes on. Your kids grow up. You grow old. Your children bury you. Then they grow old. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. That’s just the way it is. For everyone.

Everyone, that is, except for Santa there, sitting on the sofa with his corncob pipe and eggy breath, dripping sausage grease from rips on his skin like tears from a dead womb.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Carlton Mellick III is one of the leading authors in the new Bizarro genre uprising. In only a few short years, his surreal counterculture novels have drawn an international cult following despite the fact that they have been shunned by most libraries and corporate bookstores. He sings for the band “Popes That Are Porn Stars” in Portland, OR.

Visit him online at
www.avantpunk.com