Writing on Fire
Predator Press
[Mr. I]
Surly, a chiseled 6'6" tall, 280 lbs steroid-jazzed Kris Kringle was in no mood to take any shit.
While Kriss "Krusher" Kringle had a promising career in the WWE --particularly in light of his 'finishing move', The Santa Claw-- when he showed up in a white leotard and mask proudly brandishing his initials, he was summarily --publicly-- fired by Vince McMahon.
To make matters worse, Kringle had six payments left on Santa's Slayer -his new sleigh engineered by NASA and Harley Davidson. The fuckin lawyers in The Divorce were completely sucking him dry.
He got stuck in traffic for two hours leaving the coliseum, only to get a $75 ticket from a dickhead cop for failing to signal during a lane change.
And finally home, as he flew over his frozen fortress, his bad day was punctuated by spotting three polar bears stalking his reindeer stable.
By the time he got to the 650 lbs runt of the starving trio, he was almost too exhausted to snap it's neck with his bare hands.
But he managed.
***
Macabre mission accomplished, he couldn't ignore Babs anymore. "What?" he demanded.
Babs was running through the snow in her trademark thong, her nipples stuck through the bikini like sexy Howitzers. "You've got a letter from SGS!" she says excitedly, waving a folded piece of wet-seeming paper that smelled oddly of crab cakes and Russian submarine hull. "He's finally ready to go 'nice'!"
Kringle, slightly incredulous, heaved the last bear carcass into the zinc smelter. "I really doubt that," he panted through his blood-spattered beard.
"No honey," says the nubile beauty. "He says that LOBO is planning a sneak attack in October."
Kringle watched the bear's carcass flashed colorfully into oblivion, laughing.
"Don't sing it LOBO," he grinned. "Just bring it."
[Mr. I]
Surly, a chiseled 6'6" tall, 280 lbs steroid-jazzed Kris Kringle was in no mood to take any shit.
While Kriss "Krusher" Kringle had a promising career in the WWE --particularly in light of his 'finishing move', The Santa Claw-- when he showed up in a white leotard and mask proudly brandishing his initials, he was summarily --publicly-- fired by Vince McMahon.
To make matters worse, Kringle had six payments left on Santa's Slayer -his new sleigh engineered by NASA and Harley Davidson. The fuckin lawyers in The Divorce were completely sucking him dry.
He got stuck in traffic for two hours leaving the coliseum, only to get a $75 ticket from a dickhead cop for failing to signal during a lane change.
And finally home, as he flew over his frozen fortress, his bad day was punctuated by spotting three polar bears stalking his reindeer stable.
By the time he got to the 650 lbs runt of the starving trio, he was almost too exhausted to snap it's neck with his bare hands.
But he managed.
Macabre mission accomplished, he couldn't ignore Babs anymore. "What?" he demanded.
Babs was running through the snow in her trademark thong, her nipples stuck through the bikini like sexy Howitzers. "You've got a letter from SGS!" she says excitedly, waving a folded piece of wet-seeming paper that smelled oddly of crab cakes and Russian submarine hull. "He's finally ready to go 'nice'!"
Kringle, slightly incredulous, heaved the last bear carcass into the zinc smelter. "I really doubt that," he panted through his blood-spattered beard.
"No honey," says the nubile beauty. "He says that LOBO is planning a sneak attack in October."
Kringle watched the bear's carcass flashed colorfully into oblivion, laughing.
"Don't sing it LOBO," he grinned. "Just bring it."
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