Timmy and Bradley Gates were seven and eight-years-old
respectively. With the gaps in their front teeth revealed when their mouths
opened, to shrilly emit Christmas carols, the brothers looked typically sweet
little boys. But they weren’t. They were two psychopaths and the people whose
doors they knocked on to sing their carols at who refused to reward the
siblings’ singing regretted it. As the evil boys would urinate through their
letterboxes or pour petrol instead, which they lit laughing.
On Christmas Eve,
the boys were impatiently waiting for Santa Claus in their cosy middle-class
home where they lived with their long-suffering, low-IQ parents. The boys had
wrapped their parents’ presents, which included a box of chocolates for their
mother that they’d emptied of its original contents and substituted with their
turds. Among their father’s presents was a butterfly with its wings torn off,
tastefully nailed to a blood-stained piece of wood.
After their parents
had gone to bed, the boys crept downstairs together. They exchanged a look of
insane complicity before separating by the front door. Timmy took a box of
matches and went into the lounge to take up his position by the fireplace.
Bradley, clutching a club hammer, sneaked outside the house to shin up the
drainpipe and up onto the roof where he stood poised behind the chimney.
Unsuspecting Santa duly arrived on his reindeer-driven sleigh, from which he
plummeted with the grace of a plump pudding and, with a bulging sack over his
shoulder, proceeded to climb down the Gates’ chimney. Quick as a flash, like an
evil elf, Bradley swung the club hammer and brought it down on Santa’s
skull—neatly fracturing it. Meanwhile, at the opposite end of the chimney flue,
Timmy had started a raging fire. Mr and Mrs Gates awoke to the horrific sounds
of a roasting Santa screaming in agony with severe head injuries trapped in
their chimney. Interspersed with Santa’s cries, as he burned alive, were the
gleeful chuckles of their sick brat children.
Merry Christmas,
Everyone!