Christmas wasn't Christmas until you'd stuffed a Santa face down in a wheelie bin and set his ass on fire. That's what Rick Burton said.
Rick couldn't be out with them tonight; he was currently serving a three year stretch for beating up a moaning old bastard. Tim Selick had some sympathy. His own life had felt like a prison for the past six months.
Not tonight. Tonight he was free. Screw Denise, screw Henry Di-fucking-Novi; tonight he was gonna hang with the lads and get totally off his fucking face.
They hadn't intended for the night to be a special dedication to Rick or anything, but when they saw the drunken Santa staggering around behind Woolies, well...
It was past midnight and the town centre was deserted. Once the shops closed, most people left the main shopping thoroughfares and drifted away to the pubs, clubs and kebab shops on the fringes. Tim and his mates were here because they were too broke to afford anything other than cheap cans of special brew from the offie.
Santa was a mess. Tim couldn't tell if that was his actual beard or a fake. The long white hairs were filthy and matted. Various foodstuffs and other stains were tangled in the mess. He smelt foul—a rancid mixture of strong liqueur and unwashed sweat.
"Ho ho ho. Merry Chrissermas." Santa noticed the lads and saluted them with a bottle hidden away in a brown paper bag. He tottered unsteadily on his feet.
"Fucking disgrace," Tim heard Danny McDowell mutter next to him.
The gang ranged around the Santa like a pack of jackals. Tim felt a little thrill of excitement. He'd missed this buzz.
The drunken Santa watched them warily, fear penetrating his haze of alcohol.
"Now now, lads, you wouldn't want to hurt a harmless old man," he said, giving them a nervous smile.
Tim exchanged glances with Danny and Mikey Elfman.
"Geddim!" Danny shouted.
The gang surged forward as one. Ignoring the protests of the drunken man, they took his bottle off him and lifted him up off the ground. They carried him around the corner and dumped him headfirst into a blue wheelie bin. They stood around and laughed while Santa's legs kicked up out of the top of the bin.
Fucking hilarious, Tim thought, like one of those cartoons where Santa gets stuck in the chimney.
Danny took a sniff of Santa's bottle and jerked away, his eyes watering.
"Fucking hell, that's strong," he said.
He upended the contents over the struggling Santa.
"Should go up a treat," Danny said, flipping open his zippo.
"Do it," Mikey said. "Do it for Rick."
Danny sniggered and put the bright yellow flame to Santa's sodden ass. The alcohol-sodden trousers went up immediately, blue and yellow flames shooting up into the night sky. Drunken Santa's yelled obscenities changed to loud bellows, muffled by the plastic of the bin.
"Someone dial 999. Santa's on fire!" Danny laughed.
"Santa barbeque!" Mikey sniggered.
The gang stood around the bin. Flames reflected in Tim's eyes as he watched Santa kick out. It looked like fire was shooting out of the old bastard's arse. Tim felt a kind of savage glee. He felt powerful, part of something, and that was a thousand times better than feeling like a piece of shit as he doled out fried crap at Burger Whore.
Santa was screaming louder and louder. His muffled bellows had changed to high pitched wails of pain.
Tim blinked. Was the old tramp sobbing inside the burning plastic container?
They heard sirens off in the distance.
"Leg it!" Danny yelled.
"We gonna leave him like that?" Tim asked.
Drunken Santa was still kicking away as his trousers burned.
"He'll be fine," Danny said. "Might take his pubes a while to grow back," he laughed.
The gang dashed off down the alley. Tim glanced back at the still struggling tramp. He planted a solid kick on the side of the bin, toppling it over. Old coot should be able to get out now, he thought, before running off after the others.
Their exhilarating dash through the back streets soon slowed down to aimless meandering. It was late and there wasn't anything to do. One by one, the younger members slunk back home, until only Danny, Mikey and Tim were left.
As they wandered through the empty streets Tim caught the whiff of a strange scent. It was spicy and enticing, like an exotic perfume. He sniffed the air, trying to catch more of it. All of a sudden he had an itch he really wanted to scratch.
He was not alone. Mikey was grabbing his crotch and staring absently around him.
They came to a junction. The scent seemed to be strongest from the right, so that was the direction they took.
It was hard to describe the smell exactly, Tim thought, or their actions. It was kind of like if you were hungry and you got the whiff of burgers on a grill, you'd follow the smell back to the burger van it came from. It was the same, but with sex. That was the best way he could describe it. You caught a whiff of it and it reminded you that you felt horny.
There wasn't a burger van waiting for them at the end but girls, plenty of girls. They came to a deserted thoroughfare with scantily-clad girls clustered around lampposts on either side of the entrance to a quiet side street. The side street was curtained off and hidden behind a pair of heavy red drapes. Lured on by the scent and the promise of sex, they approached the girls.