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Jenny Myst · (12-17-2022)

2004

The sun was due to start rising on Christmas morning over Henderson, Nevada. There was no snow, as expected, but it had been a chillier than usual night in the Southern Nevada desert this year. Nine year old Jennifer Sambuca woke up from her slumber, rubbing her eyes. It was her favorite time of year, CHRISTMAS. She wasn’t really expecting presents, seeing as she was a homeless orphan before Mark and Patricia brought her in, but she always liked how festive and cheery things were. People were actually nice. Everybody smiled.

Her “parents” were relatively well off, and they made sure that the house was well-lit and festive. They even let little Jennifer pick which lights went on the outside of the house–she ALWAYS picked colored ones.

This particular day, however, was a day she dreaded because she knew after the day ended, all the festivities went away and everyone went back to being their same, boring, negative selves. She always woke up early on this day so she can make the most of it. Get as many hours of holiday cheer in as possible.

As she rubbed her eyes and made her way down the stairs, she stopped dead in her tracks. There was a sound from the living room…..a sound as if someone was picking up and putting down boxes, and not being gentle about it. She had passed her “parents” room, making sure to tip top, and heard her “father” snoring from inside. It couldn’t be him.

Her little kid logic clicked in, and her eyes went wide with a sharp intake of breath.

SANTA CLAUS!

She had to be careful, though. She didn’t want to spoil her chances of staying firmly on the nice list. She tip-toed around, peaking into the living room. Her little heart hit the ceiling when she saw a heavy set (though, not as fat as she imagined), man in a red velvet suit, hunched over some boxes under the family Christmas tree. She gasped, quickly putting a hand over her mouth to stifle the noise.

The man was grumbling a bit to himself, and swayed slightly back and forth, catching himself on the tree every now and then as he struggled to keep his balance. The cookies and milk she had left out were eaten and drank, but it raised an eyebrow for her when she noticed the plate on the floor. It must have fallen off the mantle.

Santa wouldn’t be that careless.

Would he?

She slinked back behind the wall, watching as Santa OPENED one of the presents under the tree. Maybe it was a mistake, maybe it was for someone else?

He shook the box, and when girls' clothes fell out he groaned a throaty groan, and kicked another box. It hit the wall with a thud. Something in the box turned on, and started playing music. “AAAARGHH” he said, stomping on the noisy package. Tears welled up in Jenny’s eyes, she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

Santa turned around, and his suit was open. Under it was a hairy chest covered by a stained wife beater. He wasn’t even wearing boots, but rather a dingy looking pair of black running shoes. Off-brand. In his hand was a bottle of whiskey, which explained the stumbling. She tried to stay hidden behind the wall of the foyer, not wanting to let this strange man–this imposter–see her. How had he even gotten in?!

She smiled to herself as the first thought that popped into her head was through the chimney, but her jubilation sank like a rock in the ocean when she realized that one, they didn’t have a chimney, and two, this man was here for less than jolly reasons.

He began to rummage through drawers and things too, flipping over couch cushions and pocketing family valuables. Jenny’s eyes, still filled with tears in realizing that her literal only source of happiness in an otherwise miserable existence, was now hurting the closest things she had ever had to “family.” Her little mind came up with a plan.

JENNY WOULD SAVE CHRISTMAS!!!!

She disappeared into the kitchen, trying to be as quiet as possible. There was a crash from the other room that she swore could have woken up her parents. The man had banged his leg on something.

“Ahh–burp–goddamnit!”

Her hands were shaking now as she slowly stood up on a chair and reached for a knife from the cutlery. When she finally grabbed the biggest one of the set, she shoved it behind her back and got down from the chair.

Making her way back to the room where the man was back to present stealing, she took a deep breath and stepped out into the middle of the living room. Clearing her throat seemed to startle the man, but he smiled when he turned around. His beard was off white, and had mustard stains on it.

“What in the motherfuck—--oh…..well….hey there little girl.”

His eyes narrowed and his mouth crinkled like foil-wrapping into a devious grin.

"Have you been on the nice list this year?"

He began to approach her, his grin turned into a look of bliss as his eyes locked onto the blonde pre-teen in pajamas.

“Come on now, little one, show Santa what you got HIM for Christmas. Ho ho hoooooooooarrghhh!”

His fake Ho’ Ho’s were cut short, turning into a gravely scream as Jenny plunged the knife into his abdomen.

The man swung, and she ducked, pushing it further into his beer gut and twisting. He dropped to his knees, a look of sheer terror in his eyes now as they made contact. Jenny pulled the knife out of the impostor Santa and crawled on top of him, looking down over the man who had ruined her happiness.

He was trying to talk, sputtering a bit between the stab wound and being extremely intoxicated, but she didn’t give him the chance. She brought the kitchen knife down on him, again and again and again Blood splattered all over the room and drenched her face and chest. She let out a yell as she brought it down a final time, leaving it in him as she rolled off and cried.

The next sound she heard was a woman scream. Her parents had heard the commotion and came downstairs, only to find their adopted daughter covered in blood next to a man they did not recognize in a filthy Santa suit.

She came too when she heard “Jingle Bells” coming from the radio of a Nevada State Police patrol car.

“25 stab wounds” one person said. “25, how ironic.”

Turns out the man was a convicted rapist and murderer who had gotten out due to a technicality in state bail reform laws, and had been drunkenly robbing houses Christmas eve.

The neighborhood had gathered around the house now. Many of the kids Jenny knew from school were in the crowd.. The entire house was surrounded by caution tape.

“Are you hurt?” an officer asked her, as she shook her head sheepishly. “If he didn’t hurt you, why did you stab him?”

“JENNY KILLED SANTA CLAUS!" one girl shouted from the crowd.

Jenny looked around, tears still in her eyes and the man's blood still on her face.

“He was trying to take my happiness away.”

The next few weeks of her life were filled with counselors of all sorts. Trauma, mental, emotional, sexual abuse.

Jenny had killed a Savage man on the final holiday of the year. Something so dark and primal when she tried only to do something right.

Never again would she feel happiness, never again would truly feel the Savage Christmas Spirit.

"Many have tried, many have failed. Line them up, knock them down. John Madison Jr., is no exception. How many times has he tried to cheap shot me now and take this belt he doesn't deserve? When is someone gonna tell him that lifting weights doesn’t mean you can fight? Johnny boy, stick to being carried by Angie Vaughn and leave well enough alone. I worked with Angie at War Games, I know what she can do in the ring. She made the cover on Dolly to take the belts off one of the top tag teams of the year. You were just along for the ride. Bad Medicine? She dragged your puss ridden carcass to the finish line and made XWF legend James Raven TAP OUT. Where were you? Lying on the outside, broken damn near in half. Angie did all the heavy lifting, but you get the glory of calling yourself a Tag Team Champion. You’re a tumor, John, a tumor that Angie will get cut off as soon as the earliest opportunity presents itself. You’re dead weight. On your own, you’re nothing. Look how many times you’ve failed already. Hell you were after this belt for weeks, and you couldn’t get your spray tanned hands on it. Even tried to steal it during my triple threat on the Halloween Savage, only for me to flatten your ass and claim what is mine. You had just ‘won’ the tag titles a match before, but it wasn’t good enough, was it? It killed you to know that you’re a useless growth on the development of Angie Vaughn, and you needed to show the world you were worth your weight in piss.

All you showed the world is exactly what you are, a failure. Flexing doesn’t make your roid penis bigger, so there’s no need to keep showing off your weird body. No need to flaunt all that muscle when you are incapable of putting it to use. How are you jacked but still look like a pussy? You look like you open up jars for people when they didn’t ask you to. The only jar being opened on the final Savage ever is a jar of whoop ass, courtesy of yours truly. A show I helped make famous now gets to be remembered with ME holding MY title over my head while you do what you do best--lie flat on your back.

Your daddy can’t hold a candle stick to what I have done to help develop this brand into the top show in the XWF, and we all know how much you adore daddy dearest.

Jesus Christ I thought I had daddy issues. Your relationship with your pops makes my past look like bad foreplay. Maybe that’s what it is? Looking good in the eyes of a man that can’t look at you without dry heaving? You’re so busy trying to live in his shadow, trying to impress someone who wasn’t even smart enough to not get caught. You want to surpass him? You’re already there. You’ve become a bigger douche bag lowlife nobody than he could have ever thought of being! No matter how much you try to change your outward appearance you obviously will always be dead inside. I can smell the mental illness and mint juul pods from one look at you, and after the beating I give you on Savage maybe your father will finally hang himself with those prison bed sheets so he doesn’t have to be disappointed in you any longer.

I am your kryptonite, Johnny. You can’t get under my skin, throw me off my game, live inside my head. Your biggest strength is your mental game, but I am out of my mind. In recent weeks, I have had ‘competitors’ of all shapes and sizes try to pin me, I have had matches with stipulations never heard of before, and I have had everyone here picking against me. Rooting against me. Praying for my downfall. I have bested them all. When Marf Swaysons stole this belt in a petty backstage attack, it woke something up in me. To see a useless sack of shit hold the second best title in professional wrestling at my expense–it lit a fire that I never knew I had. To be the champion that nobody wants me to be is what fuels me, drives me, pushes me to go to lengths that a year ago would have horrified me. What drives you? Do you even have a motivation outside of fondling your fathers balls for a little bit of attention he never gave you as a child? Do you have a driving force that propels you to be the best every single night?

No, you don’t.

Life is peachy keen if you’re John Madison Junior. You get to be a champion and not work for it, you get notoriety and your fifteen minutes in a light that isn’t a tanning bed, and you get to come and go as you please. I have to not only defend this title at the highest level every single show, but fend off these blood sucking mosquitos trying to undercut my accomplishments seemingly every couple of hours. Do you know how hard it makes it to have a normal life when you’re constantly looking over your shoulder? But I’ll tell you what John………

I wouldn't have it any other way.

What doesn't kill me makes me stronger, and at this rate, I bet I could out-bench you. I could out-eat Robbie Bourbon I could out-fact Mark Flynn. What didn’t kill me made me the most dangerous champion on this roster and at Savage Solstice, I am going to show you why the Queen of X-Treme is exactly who the fuck she says she is.”

A laugh echoes through the empty monorail station. The lights had been shut off, employees home for the night. The occasional security guard roamed the premises, but on his salary, his roaming was more sitting in a chair eating Cinnabaon “watching” the cameras, scrolling through fantasy football and Chaturbate cam girls. The laugh continues, bouncing off the walls of the empty facility, taking over the aurora of emptiness that after hours at the monorail dock can look like.

Footsteps.

There was a dragging sound, as if something heavy was being pulled a long distance, with small grunts and curses under the breath, as if the one pulling was having trouble pulling whatever was in the sack.

There was something so surreal about the finality of savageness. About the last time someone gets to do something, go somewhere, use a name, call a place home. There is something so peaceful in death. This was the last time this monorail would be used, and it came about rather sporadically after some deliberation. Some people didn’t like the idea, some did. Some people could never get used to the savageness, some people preferred all out warfare, and some people showed up to either whenever it suited them. After tonight, the savageness would be gone, but people would remember.

Oh yes, they shant not forget.

Pulling the sack was a small figure. A petite little thing. Dressed in all black they heaved and grunted their way down the rail pavilion, not really caring all that much that they were in direct view of the “security” camera. Security is an illusion anyway.

When the small figure made it to the parked monorail, they pulled a crowbar out of the sack. Dropping the sack for a moment, they shoved the crowbar between the slit in the automatic doors and pulled. Their entire body weight went into prying the doors open, but after some effort, they were successful.

Shaking their head slightly, as if annoyed by the slight inconvenience of the doors being more stuck than anticipated, the figure picked the top end of the sack back up. The small figure dragged it through the doors and heaved it onto one of the monorail seats. Standing there for a moment, panting, they notice a small smudge on their hand. Looking back there is a trail of blood from the bottom of the sack that had made a path towards where they currently sat, almost a full football field from the entrance.

They open the sack, and a piece of paper flutters out as they begin to peel the sack back to reveal the contents.

On the paper read an ominous message.

LOCAL MALL SANTA MISSING
REAL NAME: JAMES MADISON
LAST SEEN: LEAVING SHIFT AT SNOWBALL MALL, SANTA’S VILLAGE
REWARD FOR ANY KNOWN WHEREABOUTS, FAMILY EXTREMELY WORRIED
DESCRIPTION: 5’7” 270 lbs. WHITE HAIR, WHITE BEARD. ROSEY CHEEKS.
PLEASE CALL (603) 788-4402 WITH ANY PERTINENT INFORMATION

The sack peels back to reveal a bloody face. Stained white hair and beard. Blunt force trauma appears to be the cause at first view. The blood ran down and into the suit, where it formed crimson blotches on the cardinal velvet.

SANTA CLAUS.

JENNY KILLED SANTA CLAUS, AGAIN!

The sack is all the way pulled down, revealing the childhood icon for millions of people.
Pulling the black mask off, Jenny smiles at the work she has done. If they were going to take her happiness and joy away with Savage, she was going to take their happiness and joy away with the man who brought them it from a young age.

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So many of the best moments in her life had happened on Savage and now….like all those kids in the mall, and this prick’s family….she felt….empty.

Climbing into the control panel of the monorail she switched it on. Pressing the “GO!” button, she felt it begin to move. Opening the window (only the conductor had a working window–which didn’t make sense to her and probably led to several conductor suicides because, lets face it, who wants to be a monorail conductor?) and jumped out just as the monorail left the track.

She stood back and admired her work. Now, anyone who looks at the monorail would see their idol, beaten and bloody, sitting on the monorail–human, just like them–vulnerable, just like them.

She grinned as she looked down at her arm. Fresh cut marks.

JOHN MADISON JR.

Victim.

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