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Nico, aka Donner
Being trappedin a reindeer body sucks ass. Do you ken how hard it is to prank someone when you’re a fooking animal?
I’ve tried shitting in Santa’s boots, chewing on the cherub’s hair, tilting the sleigh upside down mid-flight. You know what happens, eh? People just sigh and shake their heads or pat my head like I’m special.
It leaves me scunnered and sad.
There is nothing worse for a frustration demon than the inability to annoy the shit out of people. Ugh. I wish I could chew gum, my nervous habit from back when I had a normal body, before Santa turned our murder of demons into reindeer with that magical cane of his.
I used to hate him for it and plan my revenge on the stupid stoter, but at the end of the day, after a decade of answering to “Donner,” the memories of being a demon have faded a bit. Not the urges. I still really want to scuttle plans and hear those amazing screams of frustration. And I still want to rut…I mean fook…women.
My lids lower and my eyes grow sultry when I watch one lass in particular approach the barn this afternoon. Joy. Santa’s daughter has perfect wide hips, the type I’d love to see spread beneath me as I fook her in my stall…I mean a bed. A bed.
See what a decade as a hoofed animal does? Even my fantasies have been affected. I canna think a dirty thought straight through without having the reindeer shit affect it. I sigh, not bothering to correct the strange turns my thoughts take as I envision a naked Joy sprawled out in the hayloft, me thrusting into her and leaning forward to snag a bit of hay for a snack at the same time.
“Dude, stop giving Joy your ‘fuck me’ eyes.” Gus—aka Dasher—bumps me with his shoulder. Stupid wrath demon is always trying to start shit, even as a damn deer. The angels probably only hear a strange, braying sound, but fook them. It’s their fault we’re in this mess.
“Shut it,” I tell him. “‘Fook me’ eyes are all I got these days.”
“I wonder if she’s brought us more cookies,” Cupid—aka Cal, our leader—asks. “I could really use a chocolate hit right now.” He’s obsessed with her chocolate chip cookies.
“You sure that’s the cookie you’re thinkin’ aboot?” I ask, smiling as Cal’s black reindeer lips thin.
“Keep your mind out of the gutter,” he quips. “Of course I’m not thinking about that.” Cal is a liar, so I don’t believe him at all, but I’m happy to have frustrated him a little by calling him out.
We’re all tied to a long post outside the stable, waiting for some cherubs to come hook us up to the sleigh for a practice run. It’s been snowing all day, and those dumb fooks keep going inside to warm up, leaving our furry asses in the cold. I swear, they inhale cocoa like it’s cocaine. They take hot chocolate breaks more times per day than a Kardashian takes duck-lipped selfies. No wonder they’re fat. Stupid halo humpers.
Would it annoy them if I subscribed them all to some weight loss magazines? I’m not sure that I could get delivery from the human realm, but the urge to try fills me like an itch, traveling all the way from my nose to my toes. But I canna scratch it, because I don’t have fingers. Hooves are the pits.
Now that I ken that, I’ll totally have more pity for the demons back home who’ve been born with cloven hooves. Opposable thumbs are really a masterpiece.
A chubby cherub wanders out of the barn to our post, his rotund tummy peeking out underneath his turtleneck, because nobody told him that those things all got burned on Earth at the end of the eighties for being fooking lame. The Christmas realm is stuck in a bit of a time warp.
My eyes are drawn away from Joy, who is approaching from down the road, her gorgeous blonde locks billowing in the bit of wind. Instead, my gaze lands on that tempting tummy, which is getting closer and closer.
I love nipping cherubs’ little tummy rolls whenever I can reach them. Unfortunately, most of them can see me coming because reindeer horns aregoddamned fooking heavy. There is no quick turn of the head or sleight of anything with thirty-three pounds of hard bone stacked on top of your skull.
Next to me, Calvus sighs dreamily. I turn back to see him staring at Joy with the world’s dopiest expression. I might give her “fook me” eyes, but Santa was right to name him Cupid. The fool’s been a lovesick mess since the day he saw her. And he won’t say why.
I glance back over at her. I mean, sheisquite bonnie. She’s a willowy blonde with legs for days. I love watching her mount my brothers because her skirts get pulled back and I get to glimpse those delicious thighs…
And she has a laugh that’s more delicate than silver bells.
She actually likes reindeer, which none of the cherubs assigned to the stables do. They’re all just waiting to get called up to the big leagues—Santa’s Workshop.
Joy grows closer, and the scent of sugar cookies wafts over, as if the sweetness is embedded in her very skin. It very nearly is. I’ve licked her a few times to check. I canna resist it.
I run my tongue over my lips, swiping some of my fur in the wrong direction—add it to the list of annoyances. You’re keeping a list right? And checking it twice?—but I can barely focus on the feel of hair that’s parted the wrong way.
Because Joy smiles.
And something inside of my chest lights up like a star on top of a Christmas tree.
I find my expression relaxing into the same dopey grin that I just mocked Cal for.
Joy asks us, “How are my sweet boys today?” She uses baby talk, and I dinnae even mind. She turns to the cherub, and her voice takes on a serious tone. “Hey, Blizzard, do you think I could steal these guys away for a second?”
