Ba’al slammed through his front door, eyes tracking around the living area of his modest demonic demesne as servants and slaves scattered in the face of their master’s wrath. Standing over nine feet tall and close to a ton in body mass – most of it hard, gnarly skin the colour of a ripe plum covered in spines, razor-sharp bonespikes and strong, defined muscle – Ba’al was impressive. He was an upper level demon, an elder with the whole demonic-power thing happening – fireballs and all that shit – as well as a three demoness harem and eight somewhat disappointing children, both males and females. Right at this moment he was looking for his eldest male child by his ugliest wife.
“Baalzer…Get your horny purple arse out here right now!”
The door to the hallway, a massive slab of carved soulwood that had to weigh at least half a ton, slid slowly open and Baalzer poked his red, artfully-scarred head carefully around the edge of the portal.
“Where the fuck are my goats?”
“Your goats, father?”
“Yes, my God-fucked goats! Where are they?”
The very ground trembled at the outrage in Ba’al’s voice. He fancied himself a geneticist by dint of the fact that he bred goats, a certain type of goat native to Fistula – the lower plane he resided on – and he bred them well. They averaged about six foot at the shoulder with a remarkable set of razor sharp horns perfectly suited for ripping anyone who got in front of them a new arsehole in two seconds flat. He loved his goats dearly, and abandon all hope anyone who messed with them.
And now they were gone!
Ba’al wanted answers, and Baalzer seemed the logical place to start as he was the assistant goat-keeper to Ba’al’s role as supervisor.
“Fuck, Dad, they were fine this morning when I fed them.”
“And pray, just what did you feed them?” Ba’al’s voice was like a silk-covered razor blade, all soft and menacing.
“…er…I fed them the goat mix?”
“And they were fine? When you left them, they were still there?”
“Yes Dad…they were still there.”
The sound of bells from on high shattered Ba’al’s train of thought. Both demons looked towards the ceiling as if it may have suddenly grown bells, but there was nothing there to explain the tinkling that now grew in volume.
Father and son rushed to the front door to see what the fuck was going on. Soon enough they knew.
There, right slap bang on top of Ba’al’s roof – right here in Fistula itself – was a fucking sleigh. In that sleigh was a fat fucking human in a stupid red and white suit with a fucking fur fringe. And finally…hooked up to that fucking sleigh were BA’AL’S FUCKING GOATS!
This goes way beyond the pale!
Ba’al raised his right paw and began making esoteric gestures, drawing upon the very powers of Hell itself to grant him the death of this stranger. That was his mistake.
Santa (for that’s who it was, Ba’al realized) reached down into the footspace and drew forth a long brown and grey cylinder that intrigued Ba’al for a moment. But only until the moment that Santa aimed and fired the RPG-7, the missile slamming Ba’al to the ground in an explosion of fire and debris. He rolled to his goaty feet in an instant, but too late to do anything but watch as Santa cracked his razor-whip and set the goats – Ba’al’s goats – into a flurry of flight. In a second the whole thing was barely a black dot in the red, red sky.
Ba’al vented all his ire and rage in one sentence.
“I fucking HATE fucking Goddamn fucking Christmas!”
As the expletives zinged off after Santa and sleigh, Baalzer scuffed his cloven hoof in the sand and wondered if he would have more time to torture telephone marketers now…