Chapter 66 — Regarding the Yandere Snow Witch, Fooled into Thinking She Took Peter’s Virginity

He wrestled the unconscious witch up to her feet. Her arms draped over his shoulders stiff like a sleepwalker, her legs dragged limp across the floor. To lug her across the room was like carrying a sleeping bag full of dry ice. Each step Peter took she sunk lower and lower from his grip. Dazed, disoriented, defuttled, her head lifted and eyes struggled to behold Peter. Her numbed lips mumbled, “What are we gonna do on the bed, onii-chan? Pomf!”

Together they dansed macabre to the bed chamber, where the Snow Witch was released and spilled onto the bed. Now that she was helpless, giggling, and purged of her conceited yandere ways— now that she was all dere and no more yan, Peter thought he kind of liked her this way, if only momentarily. Yes, vicious predators have the capacity for cuteness too— once they are declawed and defanged and relieved of all cutlery.

It looks quite bad, carrying an unconscious and undressed girl into a bedroom. And to all the Dworkin warriors, reading this page aghast, moments away from hurling this book into the fire and leaving zero star reviews on GoodReads and Amazon, remember: Peter’s plot was to avoid frostbite induced amputation by preserving his chastity. So while the situation reads like a prelude to a passionate, harlequin crime, a crime enjoyed by female readers in fantasy, but in reality leads to handcuffs, jail time, and government registries— the truth is Peter’s conscious was clear.

“Are we gonna… are we gonna…?” She made a lewd hand gesture. Perhaps you can imagine it— no, lewder than that. No, no— much lewder. Way, way lewder.

Peter kissed her on her subzero forehead and said, “We already did— like five times. Remember?”

“Yeah? We did?”

All about the sleepy Snow Witch he sprinkled evidence of their imaginary love making— a decoy pair of boxer-shorts by the pillow, condom wrappers on the icy night stand, tissues, tissues, tissues, wadded up and hurled into the air like confetti, and then, to seal the deal, he vigorously shook a bottle of mayonnaise as if making a cocktail— a cocktail of sinful, premarital lust. Peter intended to squirt only a little condiment onto the Snow Witch, but none would ejaculate from the bottle. Then, after some shaking, and slapping, and choking, a geyser of mayonnaise erupted up the Snow Witch’s six pack abs— far too much mayonnaise for a single human boy to produce. It was like someone dropped a milkshake on her. A shameful odor of vinegar and egg yolks filled the bed chamber.

[NovelPhoenix NovelPhoenix This was written by Whypstooper Pippinsticks and posted onto NovelPhoenix NovelPhoenix]

Before he could clean up the Snow Witch to make the crime scene more believable, she streaked her finger across the goo and tasted it. Then she laughed and covered her face from embarrassment.

“Gross! Hahaha! Why did I do that?”

With the room resembling the aftermath of a debauched one night stand between boy and enchanted snowgirl, Peter dropped the Epipen on the bed, threw on his coat, and said, “Get some rest and come to the workshop later tonight, before the apocalypse starts.”

“Peter…” She reached out, her hands heavy. “Peter, let’s cuddle.”

“Next time, babe.”

Peter, with the whipped cream in hand, made an impulse decision to take one more hit of whippit brain-clogging euphoria. He snorted, the canister hissed and sharted into his sinuses. Overcome with dizziness, Peter stumbled towards the window and caught himself on a rococo painting on the wall. After gathering the chopped nuts of his consciousness together, he decided that exiting out the window was not only the fastest way out, but also the most fun.

“Peter, wait!” The Snow Witch called out. “Would you still love me if I were a horseshoe crab?”

Peter laughed. Was this the brain damage talking, or just normal girlfriend hypotheticals? Either way, he said, “Yeah, of course.”

The Snow Witch pleasantly hummed a “Hmmm!” and glowed with happiness.

It was a stroke of genius— completely accidental genius, but still genius nonetheless. Peter did not know that the active ingredient in whippits was the very same nitrus oxide that dentists used, which is what makes it so dangerous. What clown at the FDA gave the stamp of approval on filling up whipped cream canisters with lethal anesthetics?

The interesting thing about huffing laughing gas is you lose all sense of time. You don’t remember getting your wisdom teeth pulled, or even leaving the dentist’s office, or the ride back home. Suddenly you’re just on a sofa with wads of bloody gauze in your mouth, and you’re too stupid to even think about looking at a clock and figuring out how long you’ve been out. So Peter didn’t recall stumbling out from the cold and into the cozy warmth of the workshop. Peter’s brain jingled merrily within his skull— jingled like a tangle of sleigh bells. He shuffled dumbly with leaden feet, loopy from the whippits.

“Wow. That’s some good shit!” he said to no one in particular. Then he planted his hands on a table and steadied himself. When he looked up he saw Santa before him— but not the lovely and feminine Santa who allegedly showered his sleeping face with kisses, who practically shoved her lithe legs in his face at the baths, and who gifted him a .50 cal rifle designed to pop the heads off of gods. It was not the Santa he had adored and lived with these past few weeks, with her regal black hair and stern, smoldering glare. It was Santa Santa, the fat, bearded, old man. His heart dropped through the floor. The loss of young, beautiful Santa, and confronted with this wrinkly wizard who smelled of vodka, brought Peter’s nitrus oxide high crashing down to the lowest pits of despair. You are single again, Peter. Alone! Santa’s love is gone forever— and if it still remains, do you really want it?

“What happened to my girlfriend?” Peter’s eyes were shrinkwrapped in tears.

“Peter, this is Ded Moroz,” Santa said.

Peter spun. There behind him was the Santa he knew and loved, the thin female commander who was perfect in every way. She sipped from a mug of molten chocolate, sat in a chair, a blanket draped over her shoulders, her feet soaking in a steaming tub. Peter had walked past her without noticing.

“Oh thank god,” Peter sighed. “I thought he was you— for a second.”

Confused? Wondering who this imposter is? Who was this Gandalf-looking mother hubbard all bundled up in regal blue robes? Blue robes? Santa never wore blue! And Santa’s beard never reached his knees! And since when did Santa carry a staff? No, no, this was all wrong— like a copyright infringing Chinese knockoff of a character, cobbled together from bits and pieces of unrelated but similar characters. Bits of Merlin and Dumbledore and Santa thrown together all willy-nilly into some vague resemblance of the Coca-Cola sipping fatso from commercial breaks. Peter poked at his Rapunzel-like white beard and confirmed that, no, he wasn’t a hallucination.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Santa asked.

“I did whippits! With the Snow Witch! One too many, actually,” Peter mumbled. “But don’t worry. She totally thinks we did it… It… Sex.”

Peter collapsed on the floor and breathed heavily. “The room isn’t really spinning is it?”

“No.”

“I thought so,” Peter said. “Just checking to make sure. I’m gonna lie down.”

“Excuse us, Ded Moroz,” Santa said.

She stepped out of the tub, grasped Peter by the boot and dragged him out of the room. He made an annoyed groan at her insistence to remain conscious and not fall asleep in the middle of the floor. A few firm but fair slaps across the face did the trick. Peter didn’t flinch, but his eyes opened wide with shock as he slowly processed the stinging sensation on his cheek. Wait for it… wait for it.

“Ow!”

There it is.

“I’ve got Ded Moroz, and you’ve got the Snow Witch. What’s next, Peter?”

“We need a plan B,” Peter said. “What if the Holy Spirit is unkillable? How do you defeat something you can’t kill? And that’s when I thought about Chucky.”

“Chucky. Who’s Chucky?”

“Chucky,” Peter said. “From Child’s Play. The killer doll with the red hair.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, who was eavesdropping, hurried his skeleton fanny into the room. Santa averted her eyes from his bony grin and focused on searing her heart with bravery, but she trembled in his ghastly presence.

“I love those movies!” The Ghost of Christmas Future said. “The original trilogy, I mean. Not those ridiculous comedies Bride of Chucky and Son of Chucky or the remake.”

“But the first one is the best,” Peter said.

“Yes! I totally agree!”

“Peter, what are you talking about?” Santa asked.

“You can’t kill Chucky,” Peter said. “He’s immortal. You shoot him and he just walks it off. You melt him to a puddle and he comes back for the sequel. But you can trap him. Lock him up in a box, dump it in the bottom of the ocean, and that’s it. Movie’s over. He can’t get out. If we can’t kill the Holy Spirit, we need to think of a way to trap it.”

“I have an idea,” Santa said.