“Sup EB?” I walk up to the Easter Bunny and exchange a bro-hug/handshake. “What are you doing here?”
“It’s my time of year.” He looks around at the bustling mall. “Fucking sucks, but it is what it is.”
“Gimme a chocolate egg!” A snot-nosed brat about eight or nine—he gives off the same vibe as one of the O’Doyles in the 90s classic Billy Madison—walks up and shoves my buddy in his furry chest. “Gimme a fucking egg!”
“Watch your mouth, little man.” EB gives him a narrow-eyed once-over. “You want an egg? Fine.” He lifts a haunch and squeezes out a treat.
The O’Doyle lookalike responds with suspicion and doubt. “It came from your butt. How do I know it isn’t full of poop?”
“Guess you’ll have to find out.”
As the kid walks off, he takes a bite of the egg. His face wrinkles with agony and disgust. “It IS full of poop! MOMMMM!!!” The worthless ankle-biter runs up an escalator.
EB chuckles with dark glee. “HEH heh heh! Got em.”
“What’re you gonna do if his mom comes around?” I ask.
“That’s why you’re here.” He shrugs. “I could try and make my case, but I know you have a way with hot moms.”
“Nice.” I cede with a grin. “Got it all figured out.”
“Yep. Good kids eat a Cadbury treat. Bad ones maow down on reprocessed alfalfa.”
“Savage. Still, I’m not sure if—”
“JUST WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING???”
A second later, the owner of the voice comes tromping into view. Holy shit—it’s fucking Santa Claus!
EB’s features twists with annoyance. “Fuck outta here. It’s my time of year, dipshit.”
Santa thrusts a white-gloved finger at EB’s face. “YOU’RE FEEDING KIDS SHIT-FILLED EGGS! YOU THINK THAT’S ACCEPTABLE???”
“You sit em on your lap, then toy with their minds through Pavlovian means. You think THAT’S acceptable?”
“JUST WHAT ARE YOU…” Santa sputters with rage. “ARE YOU TRYING TO SAY THAT—”
EB raises an eyebrow. “If it looks like a duck and it quacks like a duck …”
“FUCK YOU!” Santa starts throwing haymakers. I try and pull him off my buddy, but it’s no use—he’s deep in the throes of old-man rage.
Fuck it. No options left. So I open my eReader to a Kent Wayne novel, activating its mind-bending reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
Elves pour out from an interdimensional portal, led by none other than Mrs. Claus. They quickly surround Santa and start kicking the shit out of him, calling him a judgmental prick, a disgusting old fuck, as well as a tyrannical employer who gets his rocks off on running a North Pole sweatshop.
A minute into the brutal melee, Mrs. Claus breaks off and starts squeezing my tiddies. “You’ve been working out—no wonder you score high at the Man Whore annuals. Wanna get to some shlorping with that upcurved thicky?”
I throw Mrs. Claus a Cheshire grin. “Abso-fucking-LUTELY!”
As she threads her hand into the crook of my elbow, Santa howls, “No! NOOOOOOOO!!!!”
Kent Wayne wins again! HEH heh heh!
Has Santa gone rogue and started beating the shit out of your Easter Bunny friend? Never fear! Buy my books, summon an army of disgruntled Elves, and have torrid sex with his discontented spouse!
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