Part 2 is on a comment to my part 1 if you want to read it

Part 2 is on a comment to my part 1 if you want to read it.

Part 2, sorry for the wait, but I had to get it just right.

Buckshot tore through hearth and home, expensive furniture was rent to splinters and rags of aged leather in instants. Doors and windows blew asunder and the intruder couldn't find his mark as he bellowed, "Santa!" And his wife and child cowered in the false sanctuary of the armchair.

Santa was a powerhouse build with all the agility of an acrobat, he was a granite slab in motion like a meteor when he dove through a doorway at the end of the living room and then back in through the brick wall to the left of the gunman like a bulldozer on legs. Chunks of red brick and plaster erupted in an explosion of shrapnel in front of the snarling bearded monster that was Santa Claus, sending missiles of rubble rocketing through his living room. One of the bigger chunks of masonry clattered against the shotgun knocking it from the gunman's hands. As the shotgun fell in slow motion the white werewolf landed upon his prey. With the ferocity of two wild beasts they fought oblivious to the sound of one little boy who had found the courage to stand up to his father's aggressor and come to his aid.

The fight waged like a storm over the dining area furniture by the window of the frugal room. The boy lifted the loaded shotgun, struggling to hold it level at the hip and gain a bead on the intruder. His hands shook with fear and adrenaline, no one had ever broken into his house before and he had never saw his father, a jolly kind man so violent. He didn't know what scared him more. He muttered a, "Stop." Before his twitching fingers pulled the trigger.

With a thunderous boom, the shotgun spat forth a rain of leaden pellets and leapt from the boys grasp, frightening him into a retreat to the safety of his mother's bosom where he wept blindly. The house was silent, no more violence, no more destruction. The boys mother began to wail as she realized the only person standing after the gunshot was not her husband, not Santa, but the intruder. He stood with a panicked bewilderment on his face as he stained down at the lifeless body of his father's killer and all he felt was disappointment and shame. "Gooo! Get out!" Mrs Clause, the widow, screamed with bile and malice in her words. "But know that you will not live long." Her once beautiful pristine goddess-like features had turned dark, threatening, evil even as the anger gripped her. Her son sat in her arms with the same evil rage covering his once childish feature and the intruder swore he could see thick black hairs sprout from the boys skin that reminded him of the legends of the Christmas devil, the taker of bad children, Krampus. With terror gripping his soul and memories of his German grandfather's horror stories of Krampus flooding his mind he took off into the night.

"My boy, we will get your father back. In time we will get him back and you both shall destroy the evil of this world. Shhh hush your cries my child." The winter witch stroked her bleating spawn's fur between his growing horns as the pain of his changing body took its toll on him. "All we need is the necronomicon from your aunt and, dead or alive, we will have your father back.

That's for part 2, if anyone wants it.

I sat on the crowded train, glad I managed to swindle my way into a comfy window seat by a sleeping buisness man. The condensation dripped from my fresh can of coke. The Christmas advertising saw to it that the drips ran over Santa's jolly face upon the aluminium. "Hello, fat man." I whispered flatly to myself, just loud enough for a nearby child to hear and giggle a little. I was tempted to look over to see their expression of amusement, but I was otherwise transfixed on the blur of dazzling Christmas lights speeding past the window in the night.

My mind wanders back to that night my father was taken from me. He lay in the snow angel of blood by the crumpled recycling bin, refuse covered two gardens. The lights of a police car had woken me. Red, like his blood. Blue, like I knew, there would be no happiness this year. Red, my anger built to boiling point. Blue, the man's face will be dead and blue when I find him. The officer said that there were no tire tracks due to the ice, so there was no way of finding who killed my dad. But I had my trail cam set up that night, and I know who done it.

Ten years on, and I had his address, the train ticket, and my shotgun. I don't care about the rumours that he's the best man ever, so kind and generous, I know his true colours. Murderous bastard! Not long now, and I will have my revenge.

I stepped onto his porch made of solid slate. The large solid oak door stood like a Fort before a besieging army infant of me. I knew its weaknesses, having studied the locks and picked my way inside in ten minutes. I was in. Everything screamed luxury, the floors, the lights, even the coats on the coat rack. My dad was surrounded by dirt, and he was surrounded by pearls and diamonds. The thought and adrenaline made me feel sick. The noise of laughter came from the living room, and I followed it with my shotgun ready. The sounds of a rolling fire crept around the open door before me, and I nudged it open with the barrel of the gun.

There he was, kneeling by the fire in front of a victorian armchair that hugged around his gorgeous wife and something I hadn't planned on. Upon her knee sat a young boy, he was learning to tie his shoes from his father.

I knocked a vase, and they looked at me in tandem, shock smeared their once joyous faces. I couldn't back down now. I raised my shotgun and cooked it with a loud, CHICK CHICK, I looked him dead in the eye and asked, "Do you remember killing my father? Do you? Huh, Santa Claus?"

And like his reindeer, the bullets flew.