First Sunday of Advent, so Santan donned his Santan costume again.
He didn’t need a sack—he already had one himself—but he did carry a cast-iron frying pan to kill one of the four worst bastards on Earth, as he did every year, one for each Sunday of Advent.
“I look good,” he said to his reflection, lifting the pan with his right arm.
The cast-iron pan was heavy, but at thirty-eight, Santan still had the strength to wield it. Over the past year, he had used the pan to prepare exquisite meals. However, its underside bore several notches, courtesy of the skulls and teeth of his unruly victims from previous years.
“Well then, let’s get started!”
Santan’s first victim wasn’t hard to find: Baron Gaynan Lerebrum, the world’s richest man, boasting a personal fortune of three trillion dollars.
Getting into Gaynan’s main building was easy. Santan was widely beloved for his deeds over the years, and he enjoyed a kind of fool’s privilege. Even Gaynan’s bodyguards let him through without question.
Santan found Gaynan in the living room, lying facedown on a massage table. A man in a white coat was pouring an orange liquid into Gaynan’s ass through a tube.
“I’m here,” said Santan, holding his cast-iron frying pan.
“Oh God! No! Why me?”
“Oh, it’s Santan,” said the man in the white coat. He abandoned Gaynan and left the room. The tube, still lodged in Gaynan’s butt, popped out, and the orange liquid bubbled out of his rear, streaming down his buttocks and splattering onto the floor.
“What the hell were you doing?” Santan asked.
“I don’t want to die!”
“You’re not dying yet.”
“B-But—”
“Just trust me.”
“I-I was getting my daily enema with a multivitamin blend—for my health. I want to live forever.”
“Ah. Okay,” said Santan, nodding. “But now you’re dying.”
“No! Why?”
“You have over three trillion dollars, and you still refuse to fund the most expensive movie ever made—a ten-billion-dollar production with full creative freedom for the writer and director. That would’ve been a good deed!”
Santan swung his pan and struck Gaynan’s head with its heavy side, splitting his skull.
What followed was a frenzy of blows, leaving behind a bloody mess of bone fragments.
This year, only three of the bastard pigs remained.