A Krampus Country Christmas: Day 8

 

Chapter 8: A Town Called Tinsel Bluff

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

Humans talk a lot about “holiday spirit.” I always assumed it was a metaphor — an empty slogan used to guilt people into buying gifts under the guise of goodwill toward men. But after spending one morning in Tinsel Bluff I’ve learned something unsettling.

It’s real.
And it’s loud.

The sun hadn’t even cleared the church steeple before the town square exploded with activity. Literally exploded. The mayor set off a cannon that fired glitter and a paper banner reading WELCOME TO DAY THREE OF THE TINSEL JUBILEE!

I’d been prepared for chaos. I was not prepared for Mayor Candy Garland.

She emerged from the haze of confetti like a peppermint tornado: bright red suit, matching lipstick, and the kind of smile that could sell snow to penguins. “Good morning, citizens of Tinsel Bluff!” she bellowed into a microphone. “Let’s make this our most magical day yet! Remember: joy is mandatory, littering is not!”

The crowd cheered.

I took notes.

Subject: Candy Garland. Species: Homo Relentless.
Observed traits: excessive positivity, possible caffeine dependency, latent authoritarian tendencies.

Her assistants were everywhere. Wrangling reindeer, hanging mistletoe, and arranging a life-sized gingerbread house for the photo booth. The house smelled edible. I made a mental note to return for testing.

Then came the vendors.

Booths lined the street with merchants of hand-knit scarves, cinnamon soap, something called Christmas pickles that I instantly knew I wanted to avoid. A man in a light-up sweater was selling “hand-crafted, artisanal snow.”

Children darted between stalls with candy-cane swords. A pair of elderly twins in matching elf aprons argued about whether nutmeg counted as a controlled substance.

I admired their passion.

At one booth, a group of local teens sold Krampus Cookies decorated with icing horns. They were charming and kitschy even if the details were all wrong. I considered filing a trademark complaint, but the proceeds benefited the school music program, and I’m a demon, not a monster.

Across the street, Deck the Halls & Oates were rehearsing on the gazebo. Their voices warbled through “Santa’s Eyes.” One of them hit a note so off-key that the angels wept in agony.

The crowd applauded anyway. Humans are strangely loyal to mediocrity.

And then there was Greg North.

I recognized him immediately — the expensive coat, the smug grin, the aura of unearned confidence. I’ve met his type a thousand times. He’s the reason most of my department’s paperwork exists.

He stood by a food cart, sipping cocoa like it owed him money, talking loudly to a man in a blazer. I tuned my hearing — a minor perk of infernal physiology.

“Once she defaults on the loan,” Greg was saying, “I’ll buy the property outright. Turn it into North Pole Pines. Luxury cabins, holiday experiences, maybe a snowman-themed spa. It’s going to print money.”

The man nodded, impressed. “That will hopefully give this town the kick in the pants it needs.”

Greg smirked. “And the best part? I’ll finally get Holly out of that dump. She always said she wanted a clean slate.”

I clenched my claws inside my gloves.

Professional detachment is important in my line of work. You can’t get emotionally involved with every moral failure, or you’d never meet quota. But there’s something about greed mixed with smugness that really tests my commitment to nonviolence. It’s truly is its own form of malevolence.

I briefly considered turning his cocoa into lava. Just a little. A teaching moment. I’ve done it before. It’s a great bit. I opted not to. I may be a demon, but I still be the bigger person. Besides, consequences can arrive in a variety of ways.

 

“Hey, Consultant Guy!”

The voice startled me. I turned to see Holly Winters walking toward me through the crowd, cheeks flushed from the cold, balancing a box of cookies. Dressed in a striking ice blue turtleneck sweater that perfectly accentuated her blue eyes. Not that I notice things like that.

But she looked different in daylight. Less tired. More determined. The kind of woman who could keep a small town running on pure stubbornness and frosting.

“Miss Winters,” I said, bowing slightly. “I was just conducting field research.”

“Fun!” Her tone dripped with a sarcasm like honey from a honey dripper. “It’s easy to fall behind on field research this time of year.”

“Your town is… fascinating,” I said. “It appears to be powered entirely by sugar and optimism.”

She laughed. “That’s about right.”

She handed me a cookie from the box. “Here. Consider it part of your research.”

I took it, biting carefully this time. Still astonishing. Still dangerous.

From across the square, Mrs. Pringle waved frantically. “Holly! Have you heard? There’s a stranger going around town asking questions about naughty children!”

Holly shot me a look. “Let me guess—tall, weird, European?”

Mrs. Pringle nodded gravely, completely oblivious to my presence. “Exactly. We think he’s either a mystery shopper or a serial killer.”

“Relax,” Holly said. “He’s a consultant.”

Mrs. Pringle squinted. “Ooooh. Sounds fancy.” She turned to me and lit up. “Well, hello. Have we met?”

Before Holly could answer, Deck the Halls & Oates launched into their next number, drowning out the conversation with an enthusiastic, if technically criminal, rendition of “Maneater (of Fruitcake).”

I smiled faintly. “They have potential.”

Holly grinned. “You’re the first person who’s ever said that.”

“Perhaps I appreciate ambition,” I said. “Even misguided ambition.”

“Misguided ambition perfectly describes my son Max.”

She laughed, shaking her head in spite of herself as snow began to fall soft, steady, and deceptively peaceful.

And as she turned to help a customer, I became aware that my gaze lingered a little long on Holly. Her words finally registered with me.

Misguided ambition perfectly describes my son Max.

An important reminder about why I came to Tinsel Bluff in the first place.

 

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