Dark December [A Holiday Filled Horror Anthology]

Terror in Tinsel Town by @Krazydiamond

Terror In Tinsel Town by krazydiamond 

He was too out of shape to run for his life. This was the unfortunate revelation Willy Whitman had as he fled for his life, clutching the merchandise to his chest as he huffed and puffed down the sidewalk. The chill December air didn't help, harsh and bitter in his pinched lungs, each gasping breath felt like a chestful of itty bitty razor blades. He couldn't keep up this pace, not with the fuzz on him nipping at his heels like a terrier and he was the rat. He needed to stash the goods somewhere until he could shake the heat and double back from them. Willy started looking, realizing he'd taken an odd turn somewhere when he saw the candy cane stripes and tinsel dripping from every available surface. So confused by the shiny shreds, he plowed into a waist high obstacle that sent him flipping over to land face first in the slush. Only a last minute instinctual cringe up caused him to shift the canister and prevent it from exploding beneath him. A true disaster in the making, considering what he carried. What the hell wiped him out? Willy struggled to his feet, glaring down at a little person in an unfortunate elf costume. A stubby middle finger was extended in his direction.

"Watch it, asshole," snarled the elf.

"Yeah Merry Christmas to you too buddy," Willy retorted, opening his mouth to say more when barking cut him short. Shit, he forgot they had dogs. He scurried off, ignoring the grousing dwarf in the snow. Stash the goods, stash the goods, it played like a mantra in his head. He dodged around another couple surly looking elves, clusters of snot nosed children, an actual reindeer who appeared to have an intestinal problem if the smell was any indication...

There! A small building in the middle of everything, surrounded by quiet, appearing empty when he burst through the doors. Willy wasted no time darting through the rows of picnic tables, ducking through swinging double doors into what appeared to be a kitchen. Perfect! All those spices clogging the air might give him a brief moment of respite from those mutts. He dove into the kitchen supply closet, crouching between bags of flour and sugar. He could hear the dogs barking outside. Should he risk staying? The stitch inside was unbearable. What if he stashed the stuff and came back for it later.

Refusing to let himself over think, Willy shoved the canister onto the spice rack, surprised how similar the canisters were. Not like he would lose a canister of what his contact called 'Psycho Dust', a drug so potent it made pcp look like a sugar high. Trace amounts of it were supposed to set off a trip so strong it was the stuff of urban legends, and the side effects were so violent and unpredictable no drug dealer in their right mind would push it on the streets. That said something when even the crack dealers refused to move it. But Willy had an interested buyer, a possibly foreign military buyer but he didn't care if the money was good.

The canister stashed and the stitch in his side abating, Willy slipped out of the food closet and crept out of the kitchens. The dogs were nowhere near him, which gave him the window he needed to slip away unnoticed into the crowd.