The 12 Slays of Christmas

Listen, my children

and you shall hear a chilling Christmas tale

while you shiver with fear.

Three young lost souls headed for the hills,

making their way toward booze, boys and thrills.

But along the way

was a lonely old crone

who kept his pots brimming with gristle and bone,

waiting for guests whoever they be,

trapped by the snow,

unable to flee.

Like flies in the web,

they were stuck for the night,

destined for an evening of terrible fright.

Well, this Christmas tale is not often told,

where bodies start dropping both young and old.

So get cozy on the couch wherever you dwell,

and enjoy these small gifts

from the fires of hell.

Shh.

Me too, quit pushing me.

Hello?

Sorry we let ourselves in.

Our car broke down.

Ran outta gas.

Don't start with me Britany.

We didn't break down.

There was plenty of gas.

- What are talking about? - My gosh, will you wait?

Come on.

We were on our way to the Christmas carnival.

We're stranded.

Yeah, we don't have any bars

so we can't call a tow truck.

We were hoping maybe we could use your land line?

Say something.

Gosh.

What?

Sorry.

Where is everybody?

Who cares?

I'm starving.

Will you knock it off?

Didn't your mama ever teach you

that cookies are for sharing?

They certainly are.

Especially Christmas cookies.

Go right ahead my dear, help yourself.

Thank you.

Sorry we just let ourselves in.

I'm well aware of why you are here.

I've already made the call.

Your tow truck is on the way.

Gosh, thank you so much.

I'm Christine.

Mandy.

Britany.

I am Ignatius Harrington,

and welcome to Full Moon Manor.

How till the truck's here?

In good time.

The blizzard has the roads closed.

They'll arrive,

eventually.

Eventually?

Oh no.

I'm okay, really. Thank you.

You're far too thin my dear.

Chilled to the bone.

The three of you best finish your supper,

and warm yourselves

by my fire.

So where is your family?

Sadly, I live alone.

All alone?

I'm afraid so.

Not only am I the master of the manor,

I'm also it's only resident.

I have no friends or family.

But who is all this food for then?

Well, for you my dear.

For all three of you.

It's getting worse.

Much worse,

before it gets better.

What's with all the weapons?

Oh, do you like my collection?

I pride myself on

hunting everything I consume.

Chop chop.

The 12 Slays of Christmas.

What's this?

Ah, marvelous choice,

my curious friend.

Yuletide tales

of terror.

I've always been drawn to literature

that combines festivity

with treachery.

Not surprising.

Hey, you got any booze?

Indeed I do.

And what better way to kill

time than to pour ourselves

a drink and gather around the fire

for some good old-fashioned storytelling?

Sounds great to me.

I'll toast to that.

If you don't have any family,

who are all these for?

Let me guess.

For us.

Oh no, Mr. Harrington, you've done enough.

Ignatius, please, and I insist, help yourselves.

I always keep surprises for unexpected guests.

I'm down.

But just remember you're not getting laid for this.

Cute.

Hideous.

What is it?

Little Jack.

What better Christmas toy

than a playfully wicked Jack In the Box,

that just so happens to bring us to our first twisted tale.

One cold Christmas Eve.

From the shadows, he sprung.

A clown in a box

who murders for fun.

Come down the chimney, on souls he will feed,

butchering and biting,

no matter the plea.

No turtledoves, no five golden rings

will ever make him stop

your sole and murderous

Jack in the Box,

who'll end you

with a chop!

So what time did you say that tow truck was getting here?

Who cares?

Read another.

Seriously?

Open it.

Oh, I've got something that you'll fancy

you ravenous little minx,

one for those with an endless sweet tooth.

I knew you'd fancy that one.

The Ginger dead Man?

Born from the wrath of a mother in pain,

out of the oven a killer once came.

This looks like my kinda joint.

What a piece of ass.

Hey baby, in town long?

Oh you're making my loaf rise.

Who the hell is that?

Let go of my fucking arm.

If you aren't gonna put out,

I guess I'm gonna have to put you out.

Son of a bitch.

Oh my God.

Oh, have I been a bad boy?

Sorry I can't stick around for dessert.

A sweet Christmas cookie,

who murdered with glee.

There was no end in sight to his slaughtering spree.

So when Christmas comes round, hide if you can,

and pray you're not gifted with a Ginger dead Man.

Hit me.

Yeah, I'd better have another.

Of course.

Can I open one?

As many as you like.

Totem, the Wicked Warrior.

Icky. Who's that?

Six shooter.

A gift on Christmas,

no one would guess,

a trunk with a puppet who came from the west.

I wish I could handle Goering as well as I can handle you.

What is this joke?

Six guns he did pack, as he filled them with lead,

blasting his foes and leaving 'em dead.

And after his fill of murder and spurn,

mosey back to the trunk,

until his return.

Read mine.

That's the spirit.

From the shadows he will spring,