Santa’s Right-Hand Guy

Ah, Christmas in Bavaria. For most folks here, it’s a time to lounge by the fire and watch snow gather on the mountains. For Santa and me, it’s the busiest day of the year. We tramp from house to house with our sacks, knocking on doors. He pulls gifts from his bag for the good kids; I stuff the naughty ones into mine. 

Their eyes widen the second they see my gnarled horns. By the time I bare my fangs, they’re usually bawling so hard I don’t need to show them my snakelike tongue—but I do anyway because it’s a howl. Then I jam them, begging and pleading, into my sack and trot back out the door. A few steps into the snow, I let them “escape” and run like hell back home. It’s a great system, everyone wins. I get a high-five from Santa, the parents get a good laugh, and the kid never misbehaves again. 

I know what you’re thinking: Where do I get off, terrifying little kids on Christmas? Honestly, it’s never bugged me. Santa and I complement each other, you know? There’s just something really special about being the dark to his light. Sure, no one’s ever going to write Christmas songs about me—what rhymes with “Krampus” anyway?—but I don’t care. I just take pride in a job well done.

The gig’s always been a piece of kirschtorte, so I’m not expecting anything unusual as we roll up to this chalet at the edge of town. Santa steps aside after knocking on the door, which means there’s a kid in there who needs the ol’ Krampus touch. I puff up my fur and give a few practice snarls for the big guy’s approval. 

Normally, it's the parents who’ve teed this all up. They’ll open the door with a wink and say something cute like, We’ve been expecting you, Krampus. Then they sit back and sip spiced glühwein as I scare their kids straight. Easy peasy. This time, though, a chubby boy in a bright red Christmas sweater appears. No parents in sight. That should’ve been my first clue something was off. What kind of kid calls Krampus on himself? I give Santa this look like, You sure we got the right kid here? He just shrugs like, This one’s all you, man.

That’s when something ricochets off my face, hard. This little brown thing bounces into the snow—a chestnut? I turn back to the kid and he’s got a slingshot in one pudgy hand. With the other, he’s yanking another chestnut from his pocket. 

I suck in my breath for a good, gut-wrenching roar, but another nut clacks off my horns, and it dies in my throat. The kid’s grinning like a fool. Even Santa’s struggling to keep a straight face. Now this really steams me. Like his job’s so hard.

The boy pockets the slingshot and holds up his hands like he’s going to say something. Big mistake—this is my chance. I could just bum-rush him, but my reputation’s on the line now, so I want to give everyone a little something to remember. It’s time for the tongue. Ever see a frog catch a fly? Child’s play. I shoot it out like a red lasso and wrap it around him, pinning his fat little arms to his sides. This stops him cold. Santa clams up, too. Who’s laughing now, right?

I figure I’ll dunk the kid like a donut into my sack, then walk off all cool and casual. Release him farther out than usual, let him do some reflecting on the trudge home. As I’m reeling him out the doorway, though, I realize something’s off. He’s not screaming. He’s not even struggling. He’s laughing.

That’s when I notice the heat. It’s subtle at first, but by the time I get the kid to the open bag, my tongue feels like a four-alarm fire. He’s now close enough for me to smell it: peppers, the really hot ones. The kind I grow in my garden just for looks, but I’d never pop one in my mouth. The little scheisskopf’s rubbed his entire sweater in powdered chilis, like he knew all about my tongue trick. I bet the twins next door told him after last Christmas. They’d better be back on the Naughty List for this. 

I let the kid go and throw down my sack. Worst of all, Santa’s been watching this whole show, so my cheeks are burning, too—almost as hot as my tongue. As I’m packing fistfuls of snow along its throbbing length, the kid starts going off about how sick he is of this whole reward/punishment thing. He gets enough of it at church, at school, blah blah, and why can’t Christmas be a break from all that?

So you want a Christmas without Krampus, says Santa. And the boy’s like, Yeah, that’s exactly the kind of Christmas he wants. Plus maybe some presents a kid doesn’t have to earn with good behavior. A big hairy dude with a kidnapping sack is kind of messed up, in his opinion.

I try telling Santa to ignore him, but with my tongue sprawled out like a hose full of habanero dip, I’m not making much sense. The big guy’s just nodding and stroking his beard, and I’m thinking, Am I about to lose my gig as the yin to Santa’s yang? I thought we were a team, buddies even. I'm supposed to be his right-hand guy.

Santa swings the bag from his back. Such a clever young man, he says. No Krampus for you this year—you get my whole sack instead. He opens it wide for the kid.

The boy’s eyes blaze up brighter than a yule log. He reaches inside, then looks up at Santa. There’s nothing in here, he says. 

Fast as fur-trimmed lightning, Santa grabs the kid by the back of his sweater and jams him into the sack. There is now, he says to the screaming, wriggling mass. He ties his bag off, then picks up the empty one I dropped. Check it out, he says, and opens it for me. I hesitate, worried he’s going to do me next, but the bag’s somehow magically filled with gifts. I tell him I don’t get it. 

Santa throws my old bag, now fat with presents, over his shoulder. He gives me a wink. You’re not the only big hairy fellow who can stuff children into a sack, he says. How’s that tongue feeling?

Hold up, I say, why keep me around for something you can already do?

He responds with a big ho-ho-ho. Come now, Krampus, he says, Santa's got an image to uphold. Now, ready to get back to work?

There’s a twinkle in his eye I’m not sure I understand. Does this mean I’m just doing the big guy’s dirty work for him? Still, I’m so thrilled to be keeping my job, I don’t dwell on it. Instead, I shoot him a cheerful thumbs-up. 

Santa tosses me the squirming sack. Good, he says, now let’s pay those twins next door a visit. That bag’s got room for plenty more.