Some Fuck Stole Christmas
by Dr. Whoot 

It was on all-hallowed Christmas Eve it happened. In the middle of the night, in the coldest of December airs, some fuck came down the chimney of every stinking house and stole Christmas right from under the sleeping noses of the whole goddamn town.

People awoke all a-clatter from their dreams of sugarplums and shit and found every single piece of valuable merchandise had been lifted during the night. Even the sentimental crap, homemade decorations and what, had disappeared without so much as a fingerprint. Detectives in the 9th precinct were shithouse. The best investigator in property crimes was put on the case, Detective Jethro Davies.

Davies scouted the crime scenes, which was every house in the entire damn town, and had owners and family members making a detailed list of all stolen goods. They requested FBI help on the case, but on Dec, 25th it was hard to get Washington moving, no matter how big the crime. Davies scowled as he knelt under the mantle in a house where once hung stockings, garland, Christmas cards, and those little ball things.

“This guy went apeshit all over the whole town,” growled Davies. “Tell me, Mendez—what kind of sick fuck goes through a whole town in one night, carts off roughly 6,000 pounds worth of valuable merchandise, and doesn’t leave a fingerprint?”

Mendez shook his head and held his mouth. “I think I’m going to be sick!” He vomited all over the crime scene. Davies stepped back, then patted him on the back.

“It’s okay, Mendez. If it doesn’t affect you, you ain’t human.”

All available detectives were called in to canvas the crime scenes in the first 72 hours. Everyone acted with haste and forced jolly, dimly considering in their heads the sick fuck could already be hundreds of miles away from here by now.

Davies and secondary detective Ted Geisel went over the evidence together in a late-night session.

“Anything unusual in the report?” asked Davies.

“Pretty much the same everywhere chief,” said the detective. “Every house—tinsel, decorations, trees, all the trees. Every goddamn present you could ask for. This freak will be rolling in it tonight. One house reported their fucking Christmas dinner had been stolen. Roast beef with all the trimmings.”

“Beef? That looks like an ‘s.’”

Then the news came over the police scanner: A suspect on old Grouch Hill was being pursued, wanted for questioning. A ghost-white look shot over Davies’ face.

“They got him. They got the son of a bitch.”

“We’d better hurry,” said Geisel, stepping up and grabbing his jacket from the chair. “That was broadcast over the scanner. Every hillbilly with a shotgun in fifty miles is going to be looking to put two shots in that fuck’s back. Let’s roll.”

Even on the way to the car they realized they were already too late. Pick-ups and El Caminos by the dozen were rolling out of drive-ways, every seat stocked with pissed off townspeople who saw no Christmas that day. They were hooting and hollering, ready to take their yuletide cheer out of someone’s ass. There was no way enough policeman could be assembled to stem the violence in time. That Christmas-stealing fuck, whoever he was, would be experiencing frontier justice tonight.

For more of this great story, buy Dr. Whoot’s
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