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The Naughty List - A Christmas story


by Earl Dick  with Paul Dick



            Shit . . . It’s fucking cold, thought Billy Feng. He could feel that motherfucker Jack Frost gnaw its way through his pants and chew on his dick until it was nothing more than a shrivelled  strip of jerky. He banged his feet against the ground to try and get some blood flowing there.


          Being half-Chinese, he was a skinny son of a bitch, with not much fat on him to insulate his bones. To compensate, he wore a massive black furry coat and a homburg on his head.  In his mind, he looked like a gangsta pimp; albeit, a pimp of young boys and girls.


          In reality, he looked like the poster boy of the creepy stranger that mommy and daddy warned their kids not to talk to. His skin had a strange pallor, the shade of milk gone sour. His wide, Muppet-like mouth had thin, almost non-existent lips.  His weirdly-shaped eyes were shiny-black and too deep set, giving the impression that he was wearing a mask of his own face.


          Since he was going bald at 25, he decided to wet-shave his head.  He looked like he spent his nights hiding under children’s beds waiting for their feet to touch the floor so he could drag them under, into darkness.  This wasn’t too far from the truth. When he wasn’t running The Ranch, he his days and nights cruising for potential new merchandise. Some were outright forceful kidnappings.


          His was a specialist’s market that supplied a certain kind of product to a select clientele. He cared nothing for the families that were torn apart by their child’s abduction, cared even less for the children themselves.   In his eyes, they were nothing more than currency to be traded and exchanged. It was strictly business: Supply and demand.


          It was a slow night at The Ranch.  No one wanted to risk being seen out on Christmas Eve. The usual clients were at home, trying hard to be “normal” with their families. Only those select few whose appetites knew no bounds would venture out in the freezing cold to sate them.


          Feng had such a customer now; he had wandered up and down in front of The Ranch for some time.


           Feng had wondered if he was a cop.  But his highly-sensitive radar didn’t pick up anything to set alarm bells ringing. He looked like a genuine buyer who was circling like a vulture, waiting for the right moment which he would descend and feed. He wore a fur coat over a business suit. The coat was similar to Feng’s, but it was a golden brown and way more expensive.  This guy was short and fat, nearly as wide as he was tall.


          His large fedora cast impenetrable black shadows over his face. It made Feng feel slightly uneasy, as it was a hobby of his to read people’s faces.  He could sometimes predict and anticipate the kind of merchandise they were after. Then something else occurred to him.  Maybe this guy was some kind of big noise: a judge, or even a Captain of Industry. Perhaps even a celebrity.


          He could chum up to them and get some customer loyalty, and then with some strategically placed cameras, blackmail their asses. He would be set for life.


          “Good evening, sir! How can I help you?” Feng spouted his opening gambit.


          He made it sound more like a threat, so they knew whose house they were stepping into and who was in charge.


The dude spoke up, refined accent, old-school, educated. “I would like to do a spot of Christmas shopping, not to sure what to buy, looking for some assistance with my sale!”


          “Certainly, sir, if you would like to follow me . . .”


          Feng opened the door to The Ranch with a key card; the client followed him a couple of paces behind. They passed down a long dimly-lit corridor with steel doors on either side; this was called The Warehouse, where all the merchandise was stored.


At the end, Feng opened another door with a swipe of his card, pushing it aside, and motioned in a “after you” gesture to the customer. 


          The Show Room was decked out in purple and pink neon. White glove-leather upholstered couches for maximum comfort. From here, there was the “shop window” where various products would be displayed.

Then the client could take his purchase to one of the rooms for an hour.  Extensions were available on request and at the discretion of the management.


The customer sat down and relaxed, but still wore the hat which obscured his face. It was obvious he didn’t want to reveal his identity.


  Shit, maybe I was wrong, Feng thought, as the customer window-shopped. Maybe he’s a celebrity in disguise!  Feng was getting emotionally aroused by the prospect.


In the back, keeping watch, were his goons, Joey and Marcus. To cover all bases, Feng would make them set up the cameras in every room, This was collateral; hecould even retire on the blackmail takings.


          “You won’t be disappointed, I assure you. We have thirty-five boys and girls in-house, all different types and ages. Something for everyone. . . .”  Feng began his pitch. 


The client shook his head in disappointment.


          “You know, I really hoped you had changed after all these years. I know you didn’t have the best start in life. But . . . this?”


          Who was this fucking guy? Feng thought. How did he know him, and what did he know? Was he crazy, or high?


The client held out a piece of paper that looked like an arrest warrant but bearing the title, “THE NAUGHTY LIST.”


“ ‘William Feng,’ ” he read, “ ‘Joseph Harpsen, and Marcus Sarsen, I am shutting you down. . . . I know you all. I have watched, and waited and hoped you had changed. You have done some very bad things in your lives. You have abducted and abused children for money, you have broken and destroyed families, you have sullied childhoods. And it is for this which you will die. . . YOU NAUGHTY BASTARDS!”


          With that, the client stood up, suddenly growing in height. He tossed off his hat as his hair and beard grew long, wild, and white as snow.  Blossoms of what seemed to be blood appeared from nowhere as if he was stabbed by invisible assailants.  His suit and fur coat turned a deep red, with only the edges becoming bleach-white. His eyes flamed red with rage.          

Marcus and Joey came out from the back, screaming as Santa charged them. Marcus blazed away with his Ithaqua shotgun. Three out of the five shots blew holes in Santa’s chest, with candy canes and cookies spilling out instead of guts. 


Grinning, Santa scooped out some of his “blood” into his mouth.

“Mulberry wine flavored . . . Mmmmm . . . Yummy!”


          His other hand, now big as a catcher’s mitt, sucked Marcus off his feet, headfirst, into the palm.  Marcus screamed once before his bottom jaw and the top of his head met with a sickening crunch.


          Santa dropped Marcus’s corpse, shaking his hand dry till it returned to its original size. His wounds got smaller and smaller until they were totally healed.


After seeing what happened to Marcus, Joey had soiled himself. He rocked back and forth on the spot in a state of shock, saying over and over, “Sorry, Santa! Sorry, Santa! I’ll be good from now on!”


          On his way over, Santa picked up Marcus’s shotgun off the floor.  He pointed it at Joey and pulled the trigger. In Santa’s hands, the shotgun had changed into a candy-striped blunderbuss that shot extremely hard-boiled sweets.


          Its firepower now multiplied ten-fold, the blunderbuss’s blast disintegrated Joey. His torso exploded into thousands of tiny pieces.


While Santa was killing his business partners, Feng had grabbed a ten-year-old boy from the back room. Feng now held his 9mm under the kid’s chin.


          “Listen to me, you fat old fuck! I’m walking out of here. You so as much as scratch your balls I’m gonna blow his fucking brains out.”


          “Let’s leave the innocent out of this, shall we?” Santa reasoned.


          “Don’t tell me what to do, you prick. My life was going great till you showed up.”


          “Okay, Billy.  You win. . . .”


          Feng backed out of The Ranch, down the corridor of The Warehouse, and into the street. Hands still up, Santa followed him.


As Feng approached his limo with the kid as a shield, he couldn’t resist taunting Santa once more. 


          “See, Santa, sometimes the Naughty Ones get away.”


          “All I’ve got to say to that, Billy, is . . . JINGLE BELLS!”


          Feng’s human shield instantly changed into something not so human anymore.  The boy was still the same size but now his ears were unnaturally pointed. 


          “What the fucking shit is this?” Feng said.  Aaargh!”


          Bony spikes erupted from the fake child’s shoulders, impaling Feng’s hands so he couldn’t get free. The back of the boy’s head collapsed to reveal a second mouth— a nightmare of serrated, spinning teeth. Like fish hooks, they snagged Feng’s flesh, pulling and tearing free, only to bury themselves into him again.


          “Meet ‘Jingle Bells,’ Billy,” Santa said. “An Elf that was born very different. I love him just like all the other Elves. Unfortunately, he can’t hold his shape-shifting ability for—Oh, for Kringle’s sake!”


          Feng’s screams began drowning out Santa’s monologue. With a whisking hand gesture, Santa conjured up Christmas wrapping paper that muffled Feng’s wide mouth.


          “Now don’t be rude and interrupt, young man. . . . I have      trained this elf to attack and eat only the Naughty Ones,” Santa said. “Your death won’t be quick, maybe a month or so. . . . He’ll keep you alive and feed off you. There are other things that he’ll do, but if I tell you, it’ll spoil the surprise.”


          As he walked back into The Ranch, Santa waved goodbye.


Feng’s muffled screaming peaked, then fell silent, as Jingle Bells ate his tongue and carried him away.


With Feng’s key card, Santa opened all the doors, setting the children free. Some were newcomers; others had been there for years.

          This Christmas, Santa gave them all a special present. Upon opening each gift, a flash of wondrous light shone through their eyes and into their brains, making them forget their horrific ordeals. The light healed all wounds: spiritual, mental, and physical. 


          “How do you all feel now, my friends?” said Santa.


          “Wonderful!” the children shouted. They rushed to hug him.

Outside, Santa’s rich laughter boomed and warmed every child so they would feel no cold in the snow. They thanked him in their different languages, but the hug of just one child is thanks enough.


          Santa’s team of Elves spirited the children away to be reunited with their parents, each with a Christmas present of their choice. Some would be placed with better families who truly understood a child’s value.  


          Santa summoned The Sleigh to pick him up. “Climb high!” he told his Reindeer.  But for three of them he had very special instructions:


          “Donner and Blitzen, lock your payload.  Prepare to execute Strike Pattern Alpha!”


High. Obliteration. Logistically. Localized. Yield. Smart bombs or H.O.L.L.Y. for short, were locked and loaded into each Reindeer’s bomb bay and awaited target designation.


          “On Rudolph’s mark—Deck these halls with bowels of H.O.L.L.Y.!” boomed Santa.


          With Rudolph’s red nose laser designating the target, Donner and Blitzen’s surgical strike of Hi-Explosive Reindeer shit wiped The Ranch from the face of the earth!


                                      MERRY CHRISTMAS!


Earl Dick is the brother of Yellow Mama alumni Paul “Deadeye Dick,” but lives in Spain with his wife, rather than his native Scotland. Earl writes hardcore horror stories for fun under the name of Erebus Dirge for the horror website,

where he has won several writing competitions. Though he tends towards the grosser side of horror, it is some of the most imaginative fiction you will read. It covers the gamut of the horror genres, different archetypes from Serial Killers to Demonic Possession.

“The Clap Of Cthulhu” (now a horror comic book by Earl and his brother), “Exorcise with Extreme Prejudice” (featuring his kick-ass, hard-boiled Jesuit Priest, Matt Malleus), “The Munchies,” “The Big Wake,” “The Voodoo That You Do,” “The Execution Factor,” “The Wannabe,” “Get Faust,” “Family Day Out,” “Together,” and “A Pound Of Soul” are just samples of his many horror stories. In 2013 he will be submitting a few of the above works to Horror Tree's Pulp Line and Strange Aeons Magazine, along with “Elder's Maw,” co-written with his brother Paul. “The Naughty List” is his Yellow Mama debut, and it features art and additional text by Paul.




Paul “Deadeye” Dick is a Yellow Mama alumni. A one-eyed, self-styled “Jock Of All Trades” Artist/Writer from Fife, Scotland, where he lives with his wife and kids. Despite half his sight gone and suffering from Fibromyalgia, Paul is a regular contributor to Yellow Mama, usually illustrating the main line up as well as the cover homepage. He contributes to several other websites including A Shot Of Ink, Black Petals, and Pulp Metal magazine.


His writing is quirky, grim, and gritty. He writes about tortured antiheroes with dark humor, combining several genres with Noir and Horror elements. His story series characters include: Dick Dice—a psychotic, time-travelling hit man who wields probability- manipulating dice; AkaiTaiyo—an archaeologist, blinded and possessed by a god-like samurai spirit that compels its host to seek out and destroy evil; Ezekiel Grimm—a Wild West bounty hunter cursed to walk the earth undead, crumbling to dust. Though they began life as comic book characters, they feature in prose stories at Yellow Mama and Black Petals.


Paul’s covers graced publications this year including Cindy Rosmus’s Death takes a Snow Day and published stories including an expanded ‘Happy Anniversary” in the zombie horror anthology White Zombie. In 2013, he will submit work to Horror Tree's Pulp Line and Strange Aeons Magazine as well as several others. He will be publishing a novella co-written with Tara Fox Hall called Snake Eyes featuring Dick Dice and Hall’s character Lash from her book series. Paul’s artwork will grace several books including Anne Stickel’s Next Stop Napper's Holler, Ken Crist’s Groaning for Burial, and John Thompson’s Eaters Of The Damned series.


Paul is always available to do paid artwork for book covers and interiors. You can contact him at

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