Upstairs, young Trudy Lightstone clutched her walkie-talkie, whispering prayers to the man in the red suit. She was the only one who still believed. Her belief was a beacon, a tether that kept the old man from simply hopping on his sleigh and leaving this pit of vipers to their fate.
In the shadows of the wine cellar, a man in a soot-stained red suit groaned, leaning against a rack of overpriced Chardonnay. This wasn't the Christmas Santa Claus—the real Santa Claus—had envisioned. He was tired. He was disillusioned. He was nursing a gut wound and wondering when children stopped wishing for wooden trains and started wishing for cold hard cash. Noche sin paz (2022)
The first mercenary died near the chimney. He didn’t hear the heavy boots; he only felt the crushing weight of a sack filled with heavy toys smashing into his jaw. Santa didn't use a silencer; he used a sharpened candy cane and a heavy-duty sledgehammer he’d nicknamed "Skullcrusher" back when he was raiding coastal villages a thousand years ago. In the shadows of the wine cellar, a
He whistled, and the reindeer took flight, disappearing into the grey morning mist. It hadn't been a silent night, and it certainly hadn't been a peaceful one—but for the first time in centuries, Santa felt like he’d finally earned his cookies. He was disillusioned
Above him, "Mr. Scrooge" and his team of professional killers were methodically dismantling the house, looking for a three-hundred-million-dollar payday. They thought they were the baddest things under the moon. They thought they were prepared for everything.
The final confrontation happened in the snow-dusted courtyard. Scrooge stood over the bloodied Santa, a gun leveled at his head. "You're a myth," the villain sneered. "A story told to keep kids in line. You don't belong in a world of Glocks and greed."
"Merry Christmas," Santa spat, wiping grease from his beard.