A Krampus Country Christmas: Day 5


 

Day 5: Reconnaissance

(Field Evaluation Report — Krampus, Vice Director of Naughty List Enforcement, Northern Hemisphere Division)

Objective: Conduct preliminary Naughty Ratio Assessment (NRA-25-B) within human settlement Tinsel Bluff.
Sub-Objective: Blend in. Gather data. Maintain professionalism. Avoid fraternization.

I take reconnaissance seriously. A lesser demon might leap straight to the punishment phase. Skip the paperwork, drag a child or two to perdition, call it a night. Not me. I believe in context. Punishment without context is just chaos; punishment with context is leadership.

I set off before dawn, clipboard in hand, tail neatly coiled, my horns buffed to a professional sheen. The snow crunched like a quarterly bonus underfoot. It occurred to me I would need to alter my appearance. Humans are notoriously weird about seeing demons in our true form. Sure, they talk a good game about being curious and all, but, trust me. They lose their shit. I conducted a simple transmogrification spell to become a ruggedly handsome male. My general appearance was inspired by the models in catalogs for male outdoors wear.

First impression: Tinsel Bluff is aggressively, almost offensively, wholesome. Every lamppost wrapped in red ribbon. Every porch boasting at least one inflatable nativity scene  One of those nativities was half deflated, which I appreciated for its moral ambiguity. The air smelled like nutmeg. The cold winter air filled my lungs. My adrenaline for this work took over.

My first stop: The Jolly Bean Coffeehouse.

The barista, a young man with too much holiday spirit, greeted me with, “Merry Christmas! What can I get started for you?”

“I’ll have a double brimstone macchiato,” I said automatically.

He blinked. “Uh… we have eggnog lattes?”

“Same thing,” I assured him.

He wrote Nick Kramp on the cup after asking my name. I admired the efficiency. Humans love a good alias; I’ve been using “Nick” since St. Nicholas stole my brand. Fat ass.

While waiting, I reviewed my initial data:

  • Naughty sightings: minimal.
  • Civic morale: nauseatingly high.
  • Gossip output: robust (thanks to one Mrs. Pringle, whom I’ve already marked for future commendation).

Then it happened.

Music.

Four voices harmonizing outside in the square.

“Because your gift, your gift, is on my list. Because your, gift, is on my list. Because your gift is on my list. And I’m shopping toniiiiiight.”

I stepped out to investigate, brimstone macchiato in hand. There they were: Deck the Halls & Oates.

Matching poinsettia red and holly green vests. Mismatched energy. A cappella choreography so earnest it bent the laws of rhythm. They launched into “You Make My Dreams (Come True on Christmas Eve),” and I swear to all infernal management, it worked. People were smiling.

Smiling in December. Before noon. Disgraceful.

I jotted a note: Observation 5-C. Collective joy outbreak triggered by harmonic pop cover. Potentially subversive. Monitor closely.

But as I turned to leave, something happened. I caught myself tapping a hoof to the beat. Well, my hoof was in a brown leather workman’s boot, but still. Just a little. Purely diagnostic.

I stopped immediately, adjusted my scarf, and muttered, “Focus, Krampus. Metrics, not melodies.”

Still, the sound followed me down Main Street, burrowing into my head like a catchy sin.


Next, I inspected the Tinsel Bluff Elementary School—scene of my subject’s previous exploits. The janitor was still vacuuming foam residue from the gymnasium. Excellent craftsmanship. I made a note to recommend Max Winters for Creative Misconduct of the Year.

A poster in the hallway read: “BELIEVE IN THE MAGIC OF CHRISTMAS!”

I stared at it for a full thirty seconds. Believe? Magic? Unregulated optimism? This town was growing more repugnant by the minute.

Still, I couldn’t shake the memory of the woman at the farmhouse. The way she smiled through exhaustion. It was distracting. I briefly considered filing a Conflicted Feelings Report but decided it would just get me assigned to sensitivity training again. I hate that shit. We’re demons but we’re expected to follow strict behavioral guidelines? Seems contradictory.


By evening, I concluded my assessment at Winters’ Trees & Treats.

The sign out front sagged under fresh snow: SAVE THE FARM! I straightened it. Professional courtesy. And, if I’m being honest with myself, it was triggering my OCD. Attention to detail is very important to me.

Inside, she was closing up—sweeping pine needles, humming under her breath. The tune? “Gift on My List” by Deck the Halls & Oates. This, of course, put that same damned annoying earworm in my head. I stood outside the window for a long moment, singing that stupid song along with this woman and wondered—purely academically—how one measured kindness on a scale of virtue to liability.

The boy appeared beside her, chattering about ornaments. She smiled. He laughed.

My checklist trembled in my hand. The runes flickered again. Naughty turning neutral, neutral turning… good? Impossible.

I cleared my throat, though no one could hear me. “All right, Krampus,” I said. “New goal. Long-term investigation. Follow the data. Observe the subjects. Ensure compliance.”

And maybe see what all this hot-cocoa nonsense is about.



 

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