Christmas Exchange

Satan hated Christmas.

No being in the vast underworld he controlled celebrated it, but they all wanted the day off when it came lumbering around like a pine-scented blob of merriment and good will. Ridiculous. The devil leaned back in his plush office chair, steepled his fingers, considered the belligerent god before him and his silly request.

"No," he said, icy blue eyes staring at the bill of Death's baseball cap. "I will not have an employee of the living embodiment of evil take a day off for Christmas."

"Oh, come on," Death said, throwing a flippant gesture toward his boss. "Just have some of your lackeys pull my weight for a day. I've got plans."

Satan furrowed his brow. "Plans?"

Death shrugged. "Merry plans."

The devil placed a hand to his forehead. A candle with a smiley face and the words, Burn me, not employees!, printed into it on his desk suddenly burst into a six inch flame.

Death leaned forward in his chair. "One day," he said, "and then I'm yours. Reaping, corrupting the innocent, leaving you alone, anything."

Satan took in a slow breath, let it out evenly. The candle's flame calmed down to a small bead. "You are mine," the devil said, "but if it gets you out of my office. . ."

Death stood up with a smirk. "See you in a day," he said, and began striding out.

"Wait."

The god stopped at the door, crossed his arms without turning around. "Yes, dear?"

Satan narrowed his eyes. "If I see any. . . presents in my underworld," he said, "I will end you."

Death chuckled under his breath, nodded. "Not a box or a bow, boss," he said, twisting the doorknob. "I promise."

The door closed behind the god as Satan rocked in his chair. He expected the streets to run gold with tinsel, gaudy lights to plague every corner of every rundown building in Nothing, countless pine needles scattered around trees proudly standing by every open window. The devil took in a sharp breath, shook his head. His stress candle had melted away entirely, leaving behind a deep scorch on his mahogany desk. He sighed.

Satan hated Christmas.

*   *   *

"You're not Santa," Elle said.

Death shook a finger at her. "Oh, but I am."

"No," the demoness spat. "No one is Santa. Ever, anywhere, especially in Hell."

They were standing by Death's truck, its patchwork green paint now complimented by red-rimmed tires, a giant wreath on the back in place of a spare tire, and a pair of cloth antlers jutting up from the windows. In the truck's bed was an enormous red bag spilling over with wrapped boxes.

The god shrugged. "Shows what you know about Santa."

Elle walked up to one of the antlers, poked at it with a pale finger. "And you expect me to help you with this."

"Santa did have his helpers."

The demoness nodded. "Yeah, those little. . ." The second the word entered her mind she whipped her sunglasses off and turned to the god. "No."

Death smiled with teeth. "Say it."

Elle spat on the ground. "Fuck you."

With a snap of his fingers a lick of flame enveloped the demoness, and in an instant her clothing had changed entirely. Her boots were now pointed green slippers, her socks a horrific display of red and green knee-high stripes. A pleated green skirt hung below a red tunic that exposed her midriff and cleavage. A small Santa hat perched upon her wildly unkempt hair completed the costume.

The demoness shook with rage.

"I am not a fucking elf!" she seethed, fire literally spraying from her mouth as several street lamps exploded into sparks.

Death stepped around his truck and calmly slipped into the driver's seat. The passenger door creaked open for Elle. "You are for today," he said, and nodded at something behind her. "And so is he."

Elle heard a fart, or a burp, or some other gaseous, disgusting bodily function let itself loose behind her as she turned. A spherical demon then stood before her, smiling widely and waving a nubby arm at the demoness. His elf outfit made him look like a holiday beach ball.

"Elle!" he said, waddling up to her with a series of horrible noises Elle couldn't find the will to classify. "It's Flob! Flob!"

"I know it's Flob," she said through grit teeth. The urge to kick the fat demon through a building was only checked by her incredible desire to not touch him at all. Ever. She turned back to Death. "Did you know it's Flob?" she asked with plastic curiosity.

"Flob knows it's Flob," Flob gurgled.

Death pointed at Flob with a shining smile. "Flob's my right hand elf, Elle," he said. "Without him, Christmas is ruined."

Elle tightened her lips, reached into a pocket of her tunic for a cigarette. She came up with a candy cane, glared at it, and tossed it behind her. Flob caught it in his mouth and swallowed it whole, the noises of which sent ice up Elle's spine.

"Well, my day is ruined," she conceded with a flap of her arms. "He's sitting bitch, though," she added, hooking a thumb back at Flob.

Death laughed, patted the seat next to him. "Nah," he said. "Flob gets awful sick without a window seat."

"Flob puke up a whole cat once," the demon said with a knowing nod.

Elle imagined several elaborate ways she would like to have her existence ended at that very second before getting into Death's truck. Flob followed, making the truck lean alarmingly to the right before he settled in.

The demoness cringed. "He's touching me," she said.

"And it touches my heart that you shut your mouth about it," Death said as his truck roared into life. "Now let's go spread some cheer."

*   *   *

"He puked up a fucking cat."

Elle shoved Flob out of the truck at their first stop: the base of operations behind a league of vigilante demon hunters. A rather obese black cat followed Flob out, and with abhorrent realization Elle noticed a candy cane stuck on its mangy fur.

"How is that cat so fat?" Elle demanded, stepping out of the truck.

Flob shrugged. "When Flob eat, cat eat."

Elle's eyes widened. "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," she said, "and also pretend I'm not giving a fucking present to someone who makes their living by killing demons."

Death opened the back window of his truck, reached into his present pile, and tossed out two to Elle. "Don't hold it against them, Elfie."

"First off," she started with a finger raised, "I'm a demon, so I will hold it against them. Second off, don't call me that."

"Then start doing a better job," Death said. "Flob will lead you through the basics. I'm going to go de-cat my truck."

Elle opened her mouth to protest, silenced herself at the sight of the truck's interior. The cat had not come up cleanly. "Fine," the demoness said, "but be here when we're done."

Death crossed his fingers. "God's honor," he said, and restarted his truck.

Elle turned to Flob, who was now occasionally jiggling around and squeaking. "Are you going to puke again?"

Flob shook his head. "Flob have hiccups."

"Wonderful."

"Cat went down wrong pipe."

Elle closed her eyes, picked the presents up. "I don't think there's anything right inside of you," she said. "Now help me throw these pieces of shit through a window."

"Not window!" Flob exclaimed. "Chimeowney!"

". . . What?"

Flob coughed, or burped, whatever, and pointed to the building's roof. "Chimney!"

Elle looked to the chimney: a small pipe big enough for a gumball to squeeze through. Who the hell had a real chimney anymore? "Yeah, no," she said. "Window it is, stand back."

She pulled one of the presents back, took aim at a second story window, and let it loose when Flob took in an enormous breath of air. The present snapped back in the air and landed with a wet smack directly in the fat demon's mouth.

Elle was dumbstruck.

"No chimney then," he said, spitting the present out of his mouth. "We knock on door."

Elle slanted her lips. Wherever they were, it was fairly late at night. Chances are no one would answer the door, or come busting out at the sound of a broken window. "Fine," she said, and walked up to the door with Flob and the presents in tow.

She knocked twice, hard enough to leave an imprint of her knuckles behind. When no one came after a moment, she tossed the present to the ground and turned to leave. "No one's home," she said. "It's a Christmas miracle, let's go."

"No!" Flob ejaculated. He lumbered over to the door with the other present in hand, his tongue lolling out of his mouth with drool, and began knocking.

And knocking.

For ten minutes.

Finally someone ripped the door open: a brown-haired man wearing a shirt emblazoned with a Batman logo and similarly styled pajama pants. "What do you want?" he forced out as angrily as he could through a yawn.

Flob turned to him, his eyes dark saucers and his smile a happy mess of drool and cat fur. "Flob," he said, tapping his round chest, "and Elle," he added, gesturing to the elfy demon behind him. "We give presents."

The man scratched his head, peered around the building. "Aren't you supposed to, you know, just leave the presents?" He picked up the one Elle had dropped and flipped open its name tag: Robin. "Without waking me up at three in the morning?"

"We either knock," Flob burbled, "or Elle throw them through window."

"Oh," the man said, taking the other gift: Flynn, it read. "Well thanks for, uh, not doing that."

Flob gave a salute, and promptly began rolling away backwards from the demon hunter's doorstep. He enveloped Elle on his way, rolling them down the sidewalk in a ball of curses and belches.

Flynn scratched his head, decided he would never let egg nog get the best of him again, and opened his gift. A chunk of coal with the words, Go to bed, sucker, scratched into it. Robin's gift yielded a similar result, only with the words, Nice ass.

"What the fuck," he muttered. Cold, confused, and with a full bladder, Flynn tossed the coal away and stepped back inside.

*   *   *

Elle was done.

She sat on the curb, chewing a candy cane with her head held in her hands. Her clothing was wet from snow and whatever horrible substances that leaked out from Flob. Next to her was a small pile of Santa hats; the result of her trying to take hers off. She broke her candy cane in two and spit it into the street.

"Death!" she roared, and, surprisingly enough, the unmistakable chugging of the god's truck came from down the street.

He pulled up in front of the demoness, rolled down the window. "Did you complete the mission?" he asked.

Elle narrowed her eyes. "This is a fucking stupid joke," she said, "but yes, we gave him the damned presents."

"Good," he said, letting the passenger door open. "Then we're done."

"What?" Elle took off her sunglasses, looked to the back of the truck. The sack of presents was completely empty. "You had us deliver two presents?" She darted over to the sack, dangled it upside down to make sure there weren't anymore before tossing it into the snow. "What the fuck."

Death shrugged. "Honestly, I'm surprised you were able to deliver them at all." He placed his fingers in between his lips and whistled loudly. "Come on, Flob! Time to go home."

In an instant, the fat demon erupted from the base of a particularly corpulent snowman, giggling maniacally. He shoved Elle into the middle seat, climbed into his own, and immediately puked his cat up again.

Elle stared at the cat, pulled it away from Flob, and began petting it in her lap. All she could do to keep herself from going mad. "Where'd they all go then?" she asked as Death started his truck up.

Death smirked, shifted into gear. "To someone who deserves them."

*   *   *

Satan's house was on fire.

Well, one of his houses. A proper deity had multiple properties, of course, and while this one had been one of his favorites, he took no qualm in destroying it. Death had done enough with it.

"Make sure he's in my office within an hour," the devil said to a stoic assistant, who nodded and disappeared in a lick of flame. A piece of coal rolled out from the blazing abode, stopped at Satan's polished loafers.

You saw this coming, it read. Satan crushed it into dust, regarded the piles of elaborately wrapped presents and decorations in the windows of his house that would soon be ash.

He still hated Christmas.