Krampus: The Yule Lord by Brom Page B

be pushing into his sixties by now. Even so, he still looked like he could hold his own against any comer. His real name was Sampson Ulysses Boggs. His parents had given him a big name in the hopes he’d grow into it, but since the General stood a head shorter than most men, Jesse felt he was trying to compensate in other ways. He’d taken the reputation that the Boggs clan had built running ’shine back in Prohibition, and used it to strong-arm and intimidate his way into every profitable illegal activity in and around Boone County.
    “Go on then, son,” the General said. “Say what you got to say.”
    “Well,” Jesse said. “I’ve got a proposal you might be interested in.”
    “Have you?”
    “I do.” Jesse tugged the garbage bag open so they could all see the boxes of game consoles.
    “I don’t play video games,” the General said.
    “I got a truck full of ’em and can get more.”
    “Can you now?”
    “Yes, sir. And I was thinking you and me should partner up. I got a handle on a steady supply and could sure use a bit of help distributing them.” Jesse realized he was talking too fast and made himself slow down. “Be willing to go fifty-fifty the whole way.”
    The General grinned at that, but Jesse didn’t like the look of that grin.
    “And just how’d you come by these?” the General asked.
    “Well,” Jesse hesitated. “Well, sir . . . not really at liberty to say.”
    “You’re not?”
    “No, sir. We could just say that Santa brought ’em to me.” Jesse made a weak laugh, but no one else even cracked a smile.
    The old man stared at him. Nobody moved or spoke. Jesse didn’t like the mood, didn’t like the way this was playing out, something wasn’t right, and all at once he wanted to leave.
    The General nodded. Jesse knew the nod meant trouble, but before he could act Chet caught hold of his arm. Jesse tried to twist free, but they were all on him.
    They dragged him over to the row of shop tools, forced his right hand onto a drill press, held it over the plate, right where the bit pushed through once it got spinning. Chet snatched up a roll of duct tape and began wrapping the tape around Jesse’s hand and arm, round and round, strapping his hand to the press. Jesse struggled to yank his hand free, but it was bound tight. The men pushed him to his knees and held him fast.
    The General walked up. “Got a call from Dillard. Any idea what that might’ve been about?”
    Jesse’s blood went cold.
    “He said you were talking crazy, like maybe you’d turn snitch. Start squealing if you didn’t like the way we was treating you.”
    Jesse shook his head. “No. That’s not what—”
    The General kicked him in the gut. “Shut up.”
    Jesse coughed and choked, struggling for breath.
    Chet tore off another strip of tape and wrapped it across Jesse’s lips. The taste of glue filled Jesse’s mouth and his nostrils flared as he fought to get enough air into his lungs.
    “Talk like that makes me nervous,” the General continued. “I believe you and me, we got a few things to work out. Let’s start with what you got to lose. I hear you’re pretty sweet on that guitar of yours. Ain’t that what you said, Chet?”
    “Yup,” Chet replied. “Why, I’m willing to bet he’d rather fiddled with that guitar than a hot slice of poontang pie. Told me his dream was to make it big down in Memphis.”
    “Well, that’s gonna be hard to do with big holes in your hand.” The General nodded and Chet hit the switch on the drill; a high-pitched whine filled the bay. A half-smirk pushed at Chet’s cheek as he slowly lowered the drill, lowered it until the spinning bit just nipped Jesse’s skin.
    Jesse grit his teeth, struggled not to yell.
    Chet let the drill sink near a quarter inch into Jesse’s flesh.
    “Fuck!” Jesse cried through the tape.
    Chet laughed, pulled the drill bit back up, leaving a dot of blood on the top of Jesse’s hand.
    “Didn’t tell you to stop,” the General