Santa's Slay [Sleepy Hollow #Fanficfriday #Holiday]

Santa Claus is Coming to Town

When Abbie and Ichabod arrived at the strip mall where Jenny had instructed them to come, they were not sure what to expect.

But if there was any indication that something fishy was going on, the roiling dark clouds hanging over Santa's Village were, in fact, a dead give away.

The red streaks of lightning and screaming people were, too.

"Blast these infernal Christmas ballads," shouted Ichabod as he stabbed at the console on the radio. "I think my ears might hemorrhage if I have to hear more caterwauling from Michael Buble or Justin Bieber."

"What a Grinch you are."

"Is that the Green Eggs and Ham fellow?"

Abbie scrunched her nose up in amusement, whipping the car around and creating her own parking spot.

"Close, but, no--"

"Wait, don't tell me."

Ichabod raised his finger hastily, thick brow furrowed in concentration.

"He was the--"

"Christmas hating curmudgeon," she cut in, in too much of a rush to wait for him. Offended, Ichabod pressed his lips together and gave her the side eye, radiating maximum levels of sass. A habit he had picked up from her.

The two climbed out of the car, weaving through the crowd of alarmed patrons.

Their eyes darted back and forth, taking in a rather chaotic scene.

Booths were trampled and torn apart, light displays and trees had been ripped down. A food truck had been struck by lightning. A fire was burning bright in a dumpster. Someone had scratched the faces off of all the figures at a Nativity scene, giving them mustaches.

The various pentagrams graffitied in blood didn't escape their attention either.

"Leftenant." Ichabod nodded pointedly at a disheveled vendor and a dorky kid dressed up as an elf who was smoking a cigarette nervously. The pair were standing in the ruins of a North Pole photo-op, freckled with blood.

"Madame," Ichabod said approaching the vendor."I understand that the predicament you and your friend are in is quite...dire, however, my partner and I would be incredibly grateful if you could fill us in on the events that transpired here."

The woman and the man-child elf stared at Ichabod, eyeing his and Abbie's sweaters skeptically. They had been in such a rush to get there that they had no time to change into more suitable attire.

"Go away," the elf said, dropping his cigarette and crushing it under a green slippered foot.

"Where's the police? We called almost a half an hour ago."

Abbie flashed her badge and Ichabod nodded approvingly, a smug twinkle in his eye.

"Lieutenant Abigail Mills, Westchester County PD. "

"And the walking Britannica Encyclopedia?" asked the elf.

"Listen here you greasy nymph--"

Licking her lips to conceal a grin, Abbie put a hand up to silence her friend.

"He's a consultant with the department. He's with me and we need to know what happened here."

"Have you witnessed anything out of the ordinary? Unexplainable, perhaps."

"If you're referring to the cloud of doom and the psycho Santas running around, then, yeah, I'd say we've about seen every type of crazy you can imagine."

"The guy I work with, Rick, he took a bathroom break before it all went down," the elf spoke up. "When he came back he was acting strange. Everyone knows he's a touch alcoholic, sometimes babbling nonsense to himself. But I got real suspicious when he started quoting scripture to every kid that ran up to sit on his lap. It was like he was sucking the joy right out of them. I told him to cool it, man, but he just gave me this look, ya know."

The vendor nodded vigorously along with his story. They wore equally troubled expressions.

"Strike two was definitely when he told a mother of three that he was going to drag her back to the fires of hell with him. That's when some hot chick with this deranged look in her eye tackled him to the ground. Chased him off into the woods."

He pointed in the direction of a cluster of pine trees.

At exactly that moment, said deranged chick came jogging over to
them, her curly mane of hair all over her head. It also didn't help that her features made her look angry all the time.

At the sight of the machete in her hand, the elf jumped back, still conflicted over her hotness.

Even Ichabod and Abbie were slightly alarmed. But as someone who was a former artifact acquisitionist--which was just a fancy phrase for obtaining weird but dangerous junk illegally-- and had a history with bounty hunters, weapons with magic juju were strictly her thing.

She barked for the two witnesses to get lost. They did, scurrying away.

Ichabod cleared his throat.

"Miss Jenny, you look..."

"Insane? Yeah, well, you don't spend a successful stint at Tarrytown Psychiatric without a little crazy rubbing off on you."

Her sweater, which said 'Bi-polar Express' in glittery letters, was partially covered in blood and punctuated that point.

"I was simply going to say a bit out of sorts and with the situation at hand you have every right to be."

"Speaking of which," said Abbie, pointing at the machete. "Do we have to worry about a headless Santa running around here? Because we've dealt with enough headless jerks to last us a year."

And by year, she meant an eternity.

"We must also address the biggest concern. Are we right in hearing that there are multiple Santa's afoot?"

"You are correct tall, dark and British. I counted at least seven head cases. Follow me. You're gonna want to see this."

They walked along after her, Abbie with her gun drawn and Ichabod, well, being alert in a way that Ichabods often are as he used his towering height to scope out the area.

There was little sound to be heard save for the crunching of their shoes in the snow, the jingle of Ichabod's sweater bells and a very screwed up and slowed down version of a Christmas classic playing on the loud speaker. Heaven knows what happened to the guy overseeing the music.

You better watch out, you better not cry, you better not pout I'm telling you why...

The ominous music dragged and skipped along as Jenny ushered them over to a stable where they kept horses dressed up like a poor man's reindeer.

They gave each other stern nods, preparing themselves.

He sees you when you're sleeping, he knows when you're awake...Santa Claus is coming...

Jenny slid a plank out from between the double door handles and shoved them open.

The unmistakable smell of manure and hay overwhelmed them. But what was of more interest to them was the gentleman sitting on the ground in the grimy Santa suit with his hands and mouth duct taped.

Ichabod marched forward, flourishing his long coat behind him as he crouched before the Santa.

The man had his eyes closed, chin resting on his chest as he slumped over.

"Where are your other merry compatriots? Speak, demon filth," Ichabod demanded, ripping the tape from his mouth.

The man, whose eyes were pitch black, slowly lifted his head, laughing heartily. It sounded like more than one entity was speaking through him.

"Ichabod Crane, this is your reckoning."