12 Slays of Christmas, The (2022)

[bunniefuu]

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 k*ll

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 k*ller 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 f*cking 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 m*rder*d 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 sh**t.

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 g*ns he did pack,

as he filled them with lead,

blasting his foes and leaving 'em dead.

And after his fill of m*rder and spurn,

mosey back to the trunk,

until his return.

Read mine.

That's the spirit.

From the shadows he will spring,

the wicked one called Totem,

and the evil that he brings.

Ugly little thing, aren't you?

Where'd you come from?

Come on.

Great.

Help me!

Hang on.

Beware the tiny package

who'll make you meet your fate.

He'll send your soul to Hades,

and leave you at Hell's gate.

Oh, I get it.

12 Slays.

Seriously, girl?

Rude.

Hey, you should ask before you rip.

Poppycock.

I haven't had this much fun in years.

They're all yours.

Who's this?

Tunneler.

The holidays are filled

with goodies that thrill.

But be aware of the gift

with the head like a drill.

What you doing? Don't stop.

My God.

What is it?

The door's open.

I think someone's in the room with Frank.

Untie me Chris, come on, untie me.

What was that?

What?

Chris, what are you doing?

Shh, quiet Frank.

Dreaming of sugar

plums smothered in blood,

he'll drill in your until you are dead.

Slay number six.

Torch.

How'd you know?

Anyone else noticing a correlation here?

What are you up to, Iggy?

Just Christmas cheer.

It came upon a midnight clear,

on a night so cold and dire.

A tiny toy with a frightful gaze

and a hand for setting fires.

You may thank you've got

the powers of hell on your side,

but you dunno who you're dealing with.

He heated things up, all toasty and warm.

It seemed that all was lost,

till the cold winter

blast put out the fire,

And he passed in an early frost.

Who has room for pie?

We're on a roll here.

Why stop now?

We've got plenty of presents to open.

Ah, baby Oopsy.

When asking dear old Santa

for toys and games and such,

never wish for the demon doll,

with that shellac touch.

Peekaboo.

And now, for that nose

job you always wanted.

How about a tiny cut?

Oopsy.

Oopsy?

Mama?

Huh, baby.

Time for Oopsy to go bye-bye.

Die you old bitch, die!

They called her Baby Oopsy,

and when she comes to town,

not even dear old Santa

can turn your fate around.

So if she needs a time

out, another lesson learned,

the only way to punish her

is to make sure baby burns.

Display number eight, the Leech Woman.

Leech Woman, Andre Toulon's

most clever creation, splendid.

Tucked inside your stocking,

on the chimney hung with care,

a beauty awaits that'll

give you such a scare.

An elegant puppet with an icy flat gaze,

and slimy lethal gifts

that'll end all of your days.

So, hide behind the tree,

and far out of her reach.

There's no fate worse than death

by a bloodsucking leech.

I think I've heard enough.

Yeah, shouldn't let

tow truck be here by now?

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.

Your tow truck is still 15 minutes away.

Aren't you curious how our story ends?

Oh hell yeah.

Amy.

Evil Bong.

Slay number nine.

You'd better watch out.

You'd better not cry.

You'll have trouble this

Christmas if she gets you high.

Come here, we have

a little surprise for you.

Are you down for fun?

Baby, the fun's just getting started.

That's what I'm talking about.

Nemo.

Just when you think it's

safe to get back in the water.

I got a big enough boat for those fish.

Get out your pole baby.

It's kind of weird and kinky.

Bells will ring, children will sing,

and it's only in your head.

She'll send you to sexy hell,

until you're stoned and dead.

Speaking of, you got any real weed?

I'm afraid not.

No.

Just three Slays left.

We'll finish the book just in time.

Just in time for what?

Your bon voyage.

The tow truck.

The Blade is coming this Christmas.

Let the screams begin.

The puppet with no strings,

who stabs the kitty's shins.

Stop now, it's too late.

Please, you don't have to test.

I sent for you.

Don't make me, please.

I beg you.

All that I've done.

Please.

Enough.

No, no!

So strap up your boots.

Grab a p*stol that sh**t.

Before he starts to chop.

It'll be your very last Christmas.

But down your chimney,

the blade drops.

When the weather at night is frightful,

and the clock chimes half past four,

beware the vampire Drac,

rapping at your door.

This is how it all ends little brother.

The castle.

The bloodstone.

And your pitiful little mortal girl.

No!

No!

This will be such a sweet,

to desecrate her,

before your self-righteous eyes.

No!

No!

No!

No!

No!

Trey tops listen,

and children listen,

while screaming in a trance.

When Radu strikes, it's lethal.

No mortal stands a chance.

With Radu, capture

on a foggy Christmas Eve.

Nevermore,

and pray that he does leave.

And their children was Christmas Slay

number 11.

We can wait.

I wanna hear one last Slay.

No Brit, we need to wrap this up.

Just one last tale.

I was just about to slice some leftovers,

and share

one last slay!

We'll be out in a minute.

We're almost done.

What?

That's odd.

There is no 12th Slay.

As dear old Ignatius

was torn limb from limb,

the demons att*cked,

the future might win.

The grand was slaughtered

as he screamed in rage,

his tormented face

on the very

last page.

Happy holidays my tasty morsels,

from your fiends at Full Moon Features.