“You think you can stop Santa Claus with a bullet? A mere bullet? Think again, sonny!”

The voice wasn’t quite as deep and strong as it had been a moment ago, but the guy was still standing. And there, not two feet from The Nail’s face, was a bullet hole in the red fabric of his suit. Right over his heart.

Shit! What was going down here? The fucker should be dead, man.

Unless of course he really was Santa Claus.

But that was crazy.

But so was the guy in the red suit! The Nail saw his eyes gleaming between his white beard and the furry brim of his hat. Whoever he was—hell, maybe he really was Santa Claus—he was pissed. Royally pissed.

The Nail started to raise the pistol for another shot, but Santa stomped a foot down on his arm.

“Don’t bother trying again, sonny! You can’t kill Santa Claus!”

The Nail levered himself up and reached across, trying to grab the gun with his free hand, but Santa clocked him again with a brain-jarring right, rocking his head back against the pavement.

Santa had a punch like a fucking mule kick.

The Nail felt the gun ripped from his hand, heard it skitter across the asphalt. After that, things got fuzzy.

And painful.

The Nail remembered getting flipped over onto his belly, grabbed by his collar and his waistband, and hauled off the ground.

“I checked my list,” Santa said. “Checked it twice, in fact. It says you’ve been naughty, sonny. Very naughty!”

Then Santa started using him like a battering ram.

Slam! Headfirst against the bumper of the truck.

“Know what happens when you steal from Santa Claus? This!”

Slam! Headfirst into a bunch of trash cans lining the alley.

“If I decide to let you live, spread the word: Don’t mess with Santa Claus!”

The Nail was spun around and flung face-first against one of the alley’s brick walls.

He let out a puny groan of agony as he slid down the wall, feeling like a splattered egg oozing toward the ground.

But it wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. The Nail felt his consciousness fading over the next ten minutes as Santa used him like some sort of rag to wipe up the alley.

Finally Santa released him. The Nail dropped to the ground, a puddle of agony on the broken pavement. He felt his breath bubbling through his bloody mouth. He was sure his jaw was broken. And his ribs—every breath was a dozen stab wounds. Was it over? He hoped so. He prayed it was over.

Just leave me be, he thought. Just take the toys, take the whole damn truck and go. Hitch your fucking reindeer to the bumper and you and Rudolph take off. Just don’t mess me up anymore. Please.

But just as he finished the thought, he felt hands go under his armpits and lift him.

“No,” he managed to groan past his shattered teeth. “Please… no more.”