Mike Dixon

Santa lent over, bending stiffly at the waist. An arm
jerked out, mechanically, and a hand tweaked Humphrey‟s
nose. „Ho! Ho!‟ The fingers felt very lifelike. „We know what
you don‟t want … because we‟ve just tried to give you one.‟
Humphrey took a step backwards and was preparing to
run when Santa‟s voice degenerated into maniacal laughter.
„You don‟t want a little girl!‟
The red-coated figure leapt from the bollard, knocked
Humphrey to the ground and sat on his chest. He struggled
to catch his breath. His spectacles steamed up and he hardly
saw the pair of secateurs thrust in his face.
„Oh, what a big nose you have!‟ Santa moved forward.
„And you do think you can poke it into other people‟s busi-
ness … don‟t you, my friend?‟
He fastened the secateurs onto Humphrey‟s nostrils.
Humphrey did his best to cry out but the weight on his
chest prevented him from making more than a feeble
wheeze.
Santa smiled at him. „Calm yourself, my friend, or you will
spoil the last beautiful moments we shall share together.‟
Humphrey‟s blood ran cold. The secateurs tightened.
„Which little piggy will it be?‟
His left ear was tweaked.
„Shall we start with this little piggy?‟
Santa‟s hand moved to the side and Humphrey saw that
the thumb was missing.
„Or, will it be this little piggy?‟
One hand took hold of his right ear while the other tight-
ened on the secateurs.
Humphrey saw the letters D-E-A-T-H tattooed on the
knuckles and realized he was confronting Footsie.
„Will it be this little piggy?‟
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