It was the middle of the fucking party season and the emphysema was starting to become a problem again. He knew it wasn’t a matter of life and death (he couldn’t die) but it was still pretty annoying to cough up thumb sized gobs of blood every time he tried to do anything remotely athletic. He hated too having to deal with the health sector – medical practioners worldwide had an obsession with the kind of bureaucracy that really pissed him off – but though he could keep surgeons permanently employed on his staff, getting hold of a pair of good sized lungs had been a problem more than once before. Also, as a very heavy smoker, he was never top priority for any going spare.
Father Christmas, then, was stood on a frosty December morning in the car park of a small GP’s clinic in rural England. He leant against a windowframe so that he could peer at the electronic display while he chain-smoked in the cold, kept warm by a thick red suit lined with polar bear fur. When his pseudonym (Danny Twatt – he was young at heart) pinged up, he crushed a smouldering Camel Blue into the asphalt and strolled inside.
The doctor was sat behind his desk and didn’t shake his hand. He stared for a bit. Early thirties. Dark hair. Good eyes. Maybe a Spanish grandparent. If Father Christmas had been on narcotics (which he planned to be very soon after the consultation) he’d have probably hit on him.
“Sir, it’s an honour.”
Father Christmas was staring with a sneer at the “No Smoking” sign behind the GP’s head and ignored the younger man’s sycophantic entreaty.
“You’re good with confidentiality, right? Don’t want the fucking paps outside when we’re finished in here.”
“Of course, of course.” Starstruck. Or maybe shocked by the language. “What is the problem?”
“Don’t want any bullshit, Doctor. I want a set of lungs. I’ve been-“ he paused and exhibited his symptom into a ragged handkerchief, leaving a slight dribble of blood in his white stubble. –“I’ve been doing that a lot. Needs to stop.”
“Are you a smoker?”
“How many a day?”
“As many as I feel like. Feel like one now, for example.”
“How many cigarettes do you smoke on an average day?”
“Ten to twenty packs… maybe more if I’m out.”
The doctor looked surprised.
“I travel a lot, buy ‘em in duty free. I know, doctor, why my lungs are damaged, but as you are probably aware from my medical records, I cannot die. So I am going to keep on smoking.”
“I’m afraid I should advise you to cut down.”
Father Christmas did not like this. He flew into a rage. He stood up.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?”
“Excuse me, sir, please sit down.”
“Please, sir, sit down. I understand it can be unpleasant to talk about these things-“
“-It’s not unpleasant, it’s fucking simple. I need a set of lungs and I want them soon.”
After this he descended into a fit of coughing, bent over and spraying strings of blood onto the linoleum floor. The mess he made seemed to calm down his anger.
He sat down, breathing heavily. “Sorry about that, doctor. As you were.”
The doctor paused for a second, floundering. “You’re fourhundredandeightyseven?”
“And you can’t die?”
“No. Blessing and a curse.” Pause. “Can I smoke in here?”
“No.” Pause. “I’ll have to refer you to a specialist.”
“OK, can I pay to get that appointment quickly?”
“You can go private, of course, that’s up to you-“
“I don’t want to “go private”, doctor, I want to bribe someone to give me a new set of lungs. I don’t want any more details in some databank somewhere, I want lungs. I’ve got doctors at home. I just need the lungs.” Pause. “I’m very rich, you know.”
“Why have you come to this practice?”
“Spend quite a bit of time in town. I’m shagging the MP’s wife. And daughter. And once the son, but he’s a bit of a-”
The doctor interrupted, either bored or genuinely annoyed. “I am not going to assist you in illegal organ trading.”
“Fine.” And then came the brainwave. Then came the epiphany. Then came the remembrance of complete diplomatic immunity: he’d kill the doctor and take his lungs. Simple. Job done.
Father Christmas stood up to leave and shook the doctor’s hand. As he did so he reached with his left up to the back of the other man’s head, grabbed a fistful of hair and in one movement slammed his face into the corner of the desk. For safety he repeated this three times until the doctor’s face had been completely caved in. Father Christmas pulled a large red sack from one of the cavernous pockets of his overcoat and pulled it over the corpse.
After a pause for a prolonged spasm of retching coughs, he tied the head of the sack and threw it through the wide, single glazed, window. He climbed through afterwards and dragged the cargo across the carpark and stuffed it in the back seat of his sleigh. There was a bloody streak across the asphalt, and though he was aware that the sack would probably leak all over his upholstery, he was unfazed as he knew the leather had seen much worse during the slave trade.
He climbed into the driver’s seat and cracked his whip. As the reindeer knew the way he sank into the chair and lit a cigarette, pulled out a can of Stella and put some porn on his dash-mounted iPad.
It had been a while since he’d killed (comparatively) and it had given him a very real, very physical buzz. He’d got what he’d come for. And he had new lungs and a week of morphine to look forward to.
As Father Christmas pulled out his cock and saw that even his herpes was behaving itself, he grinned. Happy fucking Christmas.