MicroHorror

On Christmas Eve the Destroyer sweats blood through trenches millimeters wide scored by torturers down his back and sides. Goggles and headphones play to him each degenerate deed of his life: uncountable violations and rapes, awful bludgeonings and decapitations. Eviscerations and dismemberments unimaginably elaborate.

On the soundtrack of every scene, amidst the screams and imprecations for mercy, the Destroyer’s laughter booms.

Though his hands are nailed by spikes to snow-laden rock high above the ground, and though his legs have been crushed to pulp, the Destroyer, with a mighty effort, raises his head. He coughs and retches and regurgitates into his tooth-ripped mouth a balled envelope.

Pushing with his tongue he manipulates the paper. He thrusts it outwards in increments until the envelope hangs from his smashed lips in a straightened form. Across its surface saliva and blood run in zigzag courses. Fragments of vomit half-conceal the dense, black ink of an unpracticed scrawl.

The scrawl reads:

“Santa’s Grotto, North Pole”