Santa's Sack

Chapter One Preview

A preview of Santa’s Sack. Thank you to Edith Bow, Sam Reid, Nick Winney, Bryan Wiler, and Spencer D.W. for taking the time to read this and drop suggestions! You guys are amazing.

Trigger Warning: Blood, gore, violence, foul language. Violence against minors and elves. Suicide, emetophilia, cannibalism. This is a squelcher, so please use caution when reading this story.

Chapter One: Milk and Cookies

Seventeen years on the naughty list was enough to drive any kid mad. Year after year, Max watched all the other boys and girls open their gifts under the loving gaze of their families, while he sat solemn and alone.

Jingle Bells played from the speaker of Max’s phone, signaling midnight. He’d set the alarm earlier in the day, and another two before that. Missing the Fat Man wasn’t an option—not this year. While other folks ended up with coal in their stockings, he’d gotten something much worse.

Max reached into his pocket and pulled out a handwritten note dated December 25^th, 2022.

Dear Max,

I am a firm believer that there is good in every child. There is more to Christmas than presents and good tidings. It is a time of joy and a chance to restore warmth in people’s hearts. A warmth that nourishes them through difficult times. But you, my boy, are undeserving. There will be no visit from me. Not now, not ever. Your family deserves nothing. The day you were born was a mistake. A stain on the world for decades to come.

Kris Kringle.

Tears poured down Max’s face, spilling onto the letter. Everything had unraveled since its arrival. Memories flashed through his mind—a nude mother, lying prone on the carpet in a drunken stupor, followed by a gloomy-eyed father disappearing into the bedroom with his rifle. Max could smell the stench of blood every time he recalled those images, picturing his father’s blown-apart face—the lone eyeball staring back, fixed and unmoving.

A tightening in his pants made him feel shame. He didn’t understand why the sight aroused him; it just did. That moment led him down a path he felt he’d never recover from. Max knew he was damaged goods. Had that red-cheeked bastard spared his parents, maybe his life could have taken a turn for the better.

Max folded the reminder and placed it back into his pocket as he walked into the living room. A woman lying on the floor groaned, pawing at the long cut running down the side of her temple. Blood poured from the wound, staining the beige carpet beneath her head. Two children, bound and gagged, shuffled underneath a tree, tears flowing from their beady eyes.

“Stop fucking crying. I ain’t going to hurt you—not yet. I took it easy on your daddy,” Max chuckled, pointing toward a lump of a man sprawled face-down in the kitchen. “But if you keep whining and pissing your pants, then who knows what’ll happen.”

The children went quiet, panicked breaths escaping their tiny mouths. Max grabbed a nutcracker off the table and twirled it in his hand. It was heavier than he expected, making it all the better for what he intended to do with it. He took a glance out of the living room window and then mounted the sobbing mother. He knew her as Mrs. Goodfellow, head of the HOA and Lazy Meadow’s neighbor of the year. But now she was bait. If the Fat Man was always watching, then Max hoped he saw this.

“Hold still, Mrs. Goodfellow. I don’t want to hurt you—I have to.”

The mouth of the nutcracker slid over the bridge of the woman’s nose as she let out a soft gasp, still dazed from the cheap shot he’d landed earlier. Max raised his hand and slammed it down hard, striking the lever. A wet crunch exploded from the mother’s busted sniffer—a gush of crimson spewing from her nostrils. It pooled in her mouth, forcing her to cough. He angled the nutcracker against the busted cartilage and struck again, turning it completely sideways.

White bone was visible through the laceration, peeking out between pieces of torn skin. He tried to repeat the process, but there wasn’t enough bone left for the nutcracker to bite down on. The meat flopped around like a flaccid cock whenever he clamped the jaws.

“S-stop!” Mrs. Goodfellow pleaded, blood dripping into the back of her throat. “It hu-hurts.”

“It’s supposed to.”

Max held the nutcracker upright, adjusting his grip around the legs. He bludgeoned her face with the ceramic stand attached to the feet, feeling the soft tissue split apart with every strike. Deep ridges of vibrant red opened in her face, like fissures. The smell of blood drove him into a frenzy, awakening something visceral inside of him. He couldn’t stop—no, he wouldn’t stop.

Mrs. Goodfellow was a constant reminder of what Max’s life lacked—normalcy, kindness, and a mother who loved her children more than the bottle. Hurting her made him feel good. His cock swelled, pressing against the inseam of his pants. He worried he would blow his load and lose his edge, but the sound of hooves on the roof sobered him.

“Saved by the Jingle Bells, Mrs. Goodfellow,” Max teased, squeezing her soft breast. “Don’t worry. There’s still plenty of time for fun.”

Mrs. Goodfellow tried to answer, but a mess of soggy grunts was all she could manage as she choked on her own teeth—pieces of enamel floating around her tongue.

A hissing noise came from the chimney. Warm air flowed from the opening above the unburned logs as the thin branches of the Christmas tree fluttered. Santa enjoyed using sleep dust to ensure his work went unnoticed—at least according to the online blogs. Max sprinted to his backpack and slid a cheap respirator over his mouth, along with a pair of pink swim goggles.

A plume of golden vapors wafted through the home in magnificent swirls, putting the frightened kids to sleep in an instant. Mrs. Goodfellow’s eyes also shut, either from the dust or the excessive head trauma—there was no telling.

Max ducked behind the couch, slipping an ice pick from his waistband. A pair of black leather boots emerged, kicking furiously as the rest of the wearer slid down, inch by inch. Then came the torso, and the head—the Fat Man’s body misshapen and slouched like the bones had been plucked out.

The plump bastard groaned as his body stretched and filled out his crumpled suit. Max had always pictured Santa as a hulking figure, but all he saw in front of him was a sad old man who needed to lay off the carbs. Tiny red capillaries decorated his cheek, branching out in all directions beneath his swollen, plum-colored eyelids. Easy pickings for a boy with a plan.

Come on, turn around, Max thought to himself, waiting for the right time to strike.

He needed to shove the pick through the lower part of his spinal cord to paralyze him. The theory had worked on the small cats and rodents, for the most part.

Max watched as the Fat Man waddled toward Mrs. Goodfellow, his knees cracking as he kneeled by her side and grabbed her hand.

“Damn him! I’m too late,” the Fat Man said, slamming his fist into the ground. “I’m so sorry, my dear. I promise to get you and your children out of here. I just need to find that wretched child who—”

Max sprinted forward and plunged the pick into the Fat Man’s spine. Within seconds, the old fellow’s legs turned to rubber. He let out a grunt as he fell to the floor, the sound of his copper bells jangling adding a comedic flair.

“Got you!” Max yelled, unloading a flurry of kicks. “You—fat—fucking—piece—of—shit!”

Santa coughed, blood leaking from the corners of his mouth. His eyes went wide, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. Max enjoyed watching him squirm. He’d fantasized about this moment for a long time—it needed to be perfect. Max tapped his wrist and pointed to a silver watch on the jolly man’s wrist.

“What?”

“Cut the sleep dust, now.”

“But what about the children?”

Max grinned from behind his mask. He licked his teeth and let out a small laugh before leaning in close.

“Fuck those kids.”

“No,” the Fat Man said, his face contorting into a defiant glare. “You can do whatever you want to me—I don’t care. I won’t allow you to traumatize those children.”

“Have it your way.”

Max raised his leg and stomped the jolly bastard’s testicles. He felt a satisfying pop under the heel of his sneaker. The Fat Man cupped his busted ballbag and sobbed, tears flowing down his rose-red cheeks. Max snatched a butcher’s knife from a drawer in the kitchen and skipped over to the slumbering siblings. He took a handful of the brother’s hair and wrenched his head backward, placing the blade next to his jugular.

“Better to ruin their childhood than end it—don’t you think?”

The Fat Man turned the dial on the watch. The hissing emanating from the chimney ceased, along with the dust. After a few minutes, the kids woke, and Max removed his respirator.

“Why’d you do it, Max?”

“I thought you knew everything?” Max said, removing the mask. “Guess that was another lie.”

“An oversimplification. I’m not omnipotent, merely a being who rewards good deeds and has a knack for weighing the mirth of one’s soul—you selfish fucking prick.”

The curse’s leaving Santa’s mouth was surprising. Max had assumed he’d be a square—a doer of good deeds, spreading cheer and joy to the masses. Instead, he was just another fat guy with a foul tongue and a beard.

“You allowed to talk like that, Santa?” Max sneered, uttering the old man’s name with venom.

“Why? You going to put me on your naughty list?”

Max reared back and slapped Santa hard, leaving a welt across his cheek.

“There’s no list. Just you.”

Muffled whimpers came from the living room as the smaller Goodfellows cried for their dying mother. Santa dragged himself toward the sobbing children by his elbows in a clumsy army crawl. A trail of blood streaked the once immaculate floors—a testament to Max’s cruelty.

“Leave them alone, you monster!”

“Or what? You going to ruin my life again? I doubt even you could pull that off twice.”

Santa let out a garbled wheeze and slumped back to the ground, wiping the blood from his lips with the sleeve of his coat. His expression stiffened, accepting his powerlessness.

“What is it you want?”

Max toed the brown satchel attached to his belt and winked. Santa muttered a curse under his breath and unsnapped the leather pouch. The smaller Goodfellow’s sobs grew from a quiet sadness to a deafening squeal.

“Don’t fret, children. Santa has this—”

“Will you two shut the fuck up! Dammit, can’t you see we’re having a moment over here?”

Max bolted toward the pair and struck them twice. Their screaming grew louder, snot bubbling from their flaring nostrils.

“Stahp, l-l-luh,” Mrs. Goodfellow gurgled as she turned, bits of mangled meat plopping to the floor.

“The bitch has got some grit, don’t you think? No wonder they voted you neighbor of the year, Mrs. Goodfellow. Your nuts are bigger than your husband’s.”

“Max, stop this!”

Max pounced on top of Mrs. Goodfellow. A blood-soaked grunt erupted from her mouth as he wrenched her arm backward, pressing his knee into her humerus. The bone snapped—the sharp end ripping through the skin of her bicep. Crimson fluid leaked from ruined muscle, staining the fabric of her tacky Christmas sweater. Max worked the appendage back and forth, widening the wound.

“Look at that. I wonder how much she can take. Dear old dad went out like a sucker.”

Mr. Goodfellow’s corpse let out a fart as the residual gas escaped from his gut. The hole in the back of his head was filled with clots and pulverized brain matter. Max couldn’t help but chuckle.

“It only took three hammer strikes to get to the center of his tootsie pop.”

“Alright, take the sack. Leave these kids alone, and go.”

“No, no, no. It ain’t going to be that easy,” Max mocked as he walked over to the stove and turned on the burner. “I got plans for you and me. And they’re going to see everything—like I had to.”

A silence fell over the room. No one stirred, and not even the bugs hiding in the nooks and crannies of the Goodfellow’s pristine home. Santa stared at the boy, his brows furrowing as he digested Max’s words.

“That’s what this is all about? Your dead daddy?”

“Watch your goddamn mouth!”

Santa burst into uncontrollable laughter, his belly bouncing up and down as he slapped at his flaccid thighs.

“That’s rich. You wasted your entire life waiting for this moment, because your piece of shit daddy blew his lid. How anti-fucking-climatic,” Santa chuckled, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. “Joy is a tough thing to come by in my business. When you’re surrounded by toys and smiling faces, you become—numb. But watching your face pinch into a raisin when you found his body always makes me smile.”

“Fuck you!”

“Sometimes late at night, when Mrs. Claus is feeling frisky, I reminisce. Nothing makes little Saint Nick harder than the memory of poor Maximillion Thorpe and his sniveling face.”

Max felt rage boil in his chest. An unabated anger surged through his veins, filling his head with thoughts of murder and blood. He wanted to tear the fat prick apart until there was nothing left except a husk of liquefied beef. The tea kettle on the stove whistled, steam shooting from its spout.

“Right on time.”

The handle was hot to the touch. Max’s palm sizzled as he gripped the kettle. He ignored the pain and strutted back over to the injured Fat Man, holding super-heated water above his head. The cap over the nozzle flicked open with the press of the thumb. Santa shrieked as hot water splattered on his face. Blisters formed in yellowish mounds, distorting the old man’s face into a stomach-churning image. He looked like a piece of chewed gum stuck to the underside of a school desk. Liquefied skin, tinged with blood, soaked his face. His lips ballooned into angry sausages as they split.

“The sack. Hand it over.”

Santa brandished an agony-riddled smile and undid the loop around the satchel. He tossed it forward—the sack growing to its full size in an instant.

“Take it. May it bring some joy to your pathetic life.”

Max walked over to the sack and opened its lid, gazing into an endless cavern. He’d never seen anything like it—an entire world extending as far as the eye could see. For a moment, he forgot all about the Goodfellows and the injured Santa fiddling with the buttons on his watch.

That was his first mistake of the night, and his last.

Santa twisted the watch a quarter turn and pressed down on the center. His fist shot forward, propelled by a spring-loaded contraption attached to his false arm. Max’s head jerked right—the punch snapping his jaw shut. His vision blurred as he staggered backward and slipped into the opening of the sack.

To be continued…

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Author’s Note: Santa’s Sack will be available as an Ebook. I will be doing a limited run of print for this story, but this honestly came as a random idea, and kind of wrote itself.

Upcoming projects that WILL go to print.

• Mr. Fucko (January 2026)

• Tapeworm (January 2026)

• Shitwizard (March 2026)

• The Memory Gestapo (September 2026)