'Bad Santa'

The man known as Bad Santa looked out at the hungry mob of 'crazies' that he laughingly referred to as his 'Claws' --- and smiled. It was far from a warm smile or a friendly smile ---more like a sneer or a smirk. Cold, hard and cruel.

But, much to his poor mother's chagrin, he had always been that way.

Bad Santa's real name was Jerry Brewbaker, but he hadn't used that for decades. Being a 'career criminal' all his life, Jerry had gone by a number of aliases: James Baker, Johnny Black, Jimmy Banks to name but a few. When he joined Kingston's notorious 'Hell's Own' biker gang he went by the name Johnny Slade. Due to his 'winning personality' that soon turned to 'Bad-Ass Slade'. As he moved up in the 'biker ranks' and his girth, beard and reputation grew, they started calling him 'Bad Santa' --- after some dumb movie by Billy-Bob What's-His-Face. As his beard turned from salt and pepper to full grey the name stuck to him like shit on a shoe. Personally he preferred the one an ex girlfriend had shouted at him when he left her on the side of the road in the New Mexico desert: 'Saint Nick' --- as in 'You aint no fuckin' Saint Nick, you fat-asses, limped-dick mutherfucker!'

Regardless of what they called him, most of the wise-guys, pimps, drug dealers and other assorted assholes on both sides of the 'Big River' knew that Mother Brewbaker's baby boy was not someone you fucked with --- and ever since the world-shattering Pandemic he had gotten a hell of a lot worse!

Before Covid he'd been a gangster, a 'wise guy', a 'made man', using his 'Hell's Own' gang to deal in the 'three golden money-makers' of the Crime World: drugs, guns and young girls. Other venues like gambling, stealing and extortion also made him money, but the 'big three' --- a sudden high, a sudden death and fresh, ripe pussy were Bad Santa's forte.

The year before Covid struck he had everything a man could want; money, power, women; big trucks, fast boats and faster cars; an army of loyal/well paid followers and a fancy penthouse in Kingston overlooking the sparkling waters of Lake Ontario. But the 'crown jewel' of his ill-gotten-gains was a six bedroom 'cottage' on his own private isle in the middle of the Thousand Islands.

A year after Covid however all his money was worthless, his investments gone, his penthouse was a burnt out ruin and his 'loyal army' had dwindled away to a handful of still semi-faithful 'lieutenants'.

But he did have a growing mob of hungry crazies.

And he also still had his 'cottage' in the Isles, which he now used as his permanent home and headquarters. Only his trusted lieutenants and personal guards were allowed on The Island or as most of his followers called it, 'Santa's Workshop'. The majority of his growing hungry mob of followers stayed on the nearby and much larger Howe Island where they basically had taken over the small, semi-deserted village of Haven and the many fully deserted farms and summer cottages now left empty due to the Pandemic.

Now however Saint Nick's immediate problem wasn't money or manpower, but food. --- or more correctly, the lack of it. No matter how many Price Choppers, Coscoes and Super Walmarts he and his 'Claws' ransacked, there just never seemed to be enough to feed the growing hoard of hungry 'demented Elves' that for some unknown reason saw 'Bad Santa' as their saviour, their meal ticket or both.

Saint Nick and several of his 'advisors' had come up with the idea of 'taking the show on the road', most especially out into the farm country where people still grew crops and raised animals.

Electricity, government and civilization may be just a fading memory, but all the Old MacDonalds and Gomer Piles out there that had survived Covid were still growing corn and raising chickens --- and Bad Santa and his 'Claws' wanted it all!

***

"Any word yet, Santa, from that old prick, Gleason?" Rings asked as he walked into the main room of the 'Workshop'. Rings Cozlowski was St. Nick's second-in-command and had been with him since the 'good old days'. He got his nick-name from the number of odd and rather bizarre rings that he wore. He carried a leather pouch on his belt, filled to the rim with these strange creations and was rarely seen sporting the same ones two days in a row. Despite his rather eccentric behaviour --- even for an outlaw biker --- on the surface 'Rings' seemed like a rather easy going guy. Always quick with a smile or a joke, always ready to do St. Nick's bidding. Other than that he was your average run-of-the mill, high functioning psychopath who, though fiercely loyal to St. Nick and his fellow gang members, he felt absolutely nothing for anyone outside that tight knit circle of so-called friends.

St. Nick looked up from the nautical chart he'd been studying. "Not yet, and his shipment of food is over a week late!"

Cozlowski's sardonic smile stretched even further. "You want me to take some of the boys and go and pay a little visit to Gleason?" Ring's asked. "Remind the old fart that he's way past due with his last shipment?"

St. Nick poured himself a drink and one for Rings. The younger, much thinner man accepted the glass with a nod of thanks. "Maybe the 'great white hunter' is out shooting lions and tigers. I've heard there are a number of big cats that escaped from the Ottawa Zoo are breeding like rabbits and are attacking cattle just north of Gananoque. The old bugger is probably out trying to bag one for his trophy room."

"Well," St. Nick growled; "if his boatload of food doesn't get here soon I have his head on his fucking wall!"

Rings smiled coldly. "I could take a dozen men in three fast boats and be there this afternoon. Put the fear of God and Bad Santa into the old bugger and his asshole sons!"

St. Nick smiled and raised his glass. "To the fear of God and Bad Santa!"

Both men drained their glasses and grinned.

"Rough Gleason up a little, Rings, but don't kill the bastard. He's the only one bringing in food from the north shore farmers! But if he is away somewhere or out on one of his 'safaris', I want you to leave him a firm message from me. Beat the shit out of one or both of his sons and make sure they know that I'm expecting my food shipment to be doubled and to arrive here yesterday! And, just to drive the point home, leave a few of his workers hanging outside his house!"

The smile Rings gave St. Nick was positively evil. "It'll be my pleasure, boss! I'll gather up some of lads and leave right away. Be back tomorrow afternoon or the next morning! I'll take Two-Tone and Sampson along to add to the 'scary' factor."

"Good," Santa said, pouring himself another drink. "And take Bridget with you as well. She scared the shit out of old man Gleason the last time they met and I seriously doubt he'll want to go against her a second time."

Rings stopped at the door and chuckled. "I remember that! 'The Terminator' took a knife to his youngest son's crotch and threatened to castrate the little shit! The old man saw his dream of future grandchildren bleeding out on the ground!"

Bridget Termin had spent a number of years in the Canadian Army as a combat soldier --- two of those in Afghanistan as a small arms weapons expert --- hence the name 'The Terminator'.

She'd also spent a couple of years in jail when one of Santa's drug deals had gone bad and someone had to take the fall. She kept her mouth shut though and as payment for her loyalty St. Nick had promoted her to head of his personal security.

Since the Pandemic first began over five years ago 'Bridget The Terminator' had proven herself not only to be loyal, but fearless, ruthless and one hell of a badass! Half of the crew at 'The Workshop' were in awe of her and the other half avoided her like the plague. St. Nick, knowing this, willingly used it to his advantage.

"One more thing," Bad Santa said as Rings turned to go. "If Gleason's older son, Wade, is there, bring me back one of his hands."

Rings' low chuckle came again. "Right or left, Boss?"

"The one he hit you with the last time."

"Shit, boss, he got me when I wasn't looking."

"And you and Two-Tone kicked the shit out of him right in front of his daddy" St. Nick put in. "But it seems the old man's got a poor memory. So remind Gleason by taking the heir to the throne's hand. Maybe then his food shipments will be on fucking time!"

"You got it, boss! One hand coming up!" Rings was clearly a man that truly loved his work.

***