III.

Santa had delivered to three houses when he realized something was strange about the town.

The three houses he had delivered in didn’t seem right. The living rooms felt phony, as if they were all sets from a movie or television show. Sure, there were signs of habitation (framed pictures, children’s toys spread across the floor, food in the fridge) but there was an emptiness that could only be felt and not seen. Santa was tempted to look into the rooms so he could see for himself that there were people living there, but he resisted the urge. Doing something like that could only bring trouble.

It was while sneaking around the back of the fourth house that he smelled the peppermint.

Santa sniffed and realized that it wasn’t just peppermint. There was a musky odor in there and a fishy smell that was not entirely unpleasant.

He was about to try to follow the smell when, from behind him, there was the sound of giggling.

“Yoohoo,” a woman’s voice purred. “Oh my, oh my, oh my. Is it true?”

Santa put his hand to his forehead. Awww, shit.

This had happened two years before. Santa had been caught by some nosey good-for-nothing teenage boy over in Dayton, Ohio. It had resulted in his having to commit his first and only kidnapping. He felt slightly guilty for having to drop the fucker into a volcano on the sleigh ride back to the North Pole but it had to be done.

Still, he didn’t want to have to do it again.

He turned around but didn’t see the woman. She was in the shadows. He said, “Shhhhhhhh.. .Be quiet. You’re dreaming.” It was a lame trick that rarely worked but he had to try it.

“No need to be quiet, sweetie, oh, sweetie,” she said. “I know who you are, I do. See?” She stepped out of the snowy shadows.

Santa nearly fell over. The woman that stood before him was the most beautiful he had ever seen. If he had believed in angels, he’d have sworn she was one.

She seemed ageless, though if Santa had to guess, he’d say she was probably forty, maybe forty-five years old. Even so, every one of those years must have been smooth ones. Even the small wrinkles on her face looked as if drawn by a god.

Her breasts were massive, bulging forward, struggling against her dark red business suit. Santa’s eyes moved downward and saw she wore high heels, glittery red like Dorothy’s shoes in The Wizard of Oz. Santa thought that was funny. Sexy, but funny. He imagined those shoes clicking together, summoning the Lollipop Guild but instead of munchkins, they’d be elves whose sole purpose was to give those shoes (and the feet within) a tongue bath.

His eyes went back to her breasts. “Uh,” was all he could manage to say.

“No words?” she said. “You’re looking at my chest. Have anything to get off yours?”

The peppermint scent grew stronger, forcing itself up Santa’s nostrils and into his head until he felt like his brain was aflame with mint fire. He kept staring at the woman, from her wiggling toes trapped in her glittery shoes up to her thick thighs that were barely covered by her tight skirt. What was she doing out in the snow dressed like that? She didn’t even have a coat on. But he wasn’t complaining. If she had worn a coat, he would never have gotten such a good look at her..

“Chest?” he said.

The woman took a step closer. “Yes. Do you have anything to get off your chest? Such as who you really are. You’re not some shopping mall Santa Claus, are you? You’re the real deal, the real McCoy, the whole kit and caboodle. Saint Nicolas himself, not some butter-and-egg man coming through the humble little town of Tusk.”

“I, uh, don’t know what you’re___ ” he said. Before he

could finish, however, Santa realized he was an inch away from the woman, eye-level with her cleavage as it spoke to him like erotic hieroglyphs. Snowflakes were falling between her breasts, moistening them. Santa imagined the woman drooling onto her own cleavage, making it sloppy for him to bury his face in. A snow and saliva ride through her plump, milky valley.

She said, “Oh, silly man, I know all about you. I know your real name isn’t Nicolas but I do know you’re a saint. Well, you used to be, anyway. So sad to hear what happened.”

Still staring at the hypnotic cleavage, Santa Claus tried shaking himself out of whatever witchcraft the woman had him trapped in. How did she know who he really was? How did she know what had happened to him all those years ago? There were perhaps five people, maybe six, who knew about his losing his sainthood back in ’23.

The woman shook her chest. “It was nice of the council to let you keep your job, you know, after everything.” “Who are you?” he said. “Do I know you?”

Santa felt the tip of his nose touch her chest. He smelled peppermint, sweat, and.. .what was that? Talcum powder?

She giggled, flashing her tiny white teeth. “Know me? Oh, silly, of course not. Why would you know little old me? I’m just a boring girl from a boring town.” She leaned in close, nearly smothering Santa between her breasts.

As he spoke, Santa felt his lips tingle against the woman’s skin. “What are you doing to me?”

“Oh, silly. I’m not doing anything to you,” she said, as she grabbed the back of Santa’s head and pushed it down to her crotch.