The Crimson Hound killed Santa Claus two years ago, and since then, the residents of Glumengrad had continued to celebrate Christmas as if nothing happened. Most of them didn’t believe in Santa Claus anyway, so no one really missed him when he was gone for good. But such a fat, jolly vacuum cannot remain empty long. Someone would try to step into the black, buckled boots of the now deceased St. Nick, and the Crimson Hound made it his business to keep tabs on the main players in town.

Now, it seemed one had made his move: the Gingerbread Man.

The Crimson Hound watched from his perch atop a conveniently-placed gargoyle as the Gingerbread Man directed his henchmen to load up the postal truck with stolen presents. The Crimson Hound wondered what it would be like to receive a present, but no one had ever given the Crimson Hound a gift before. He thought it might be nice to receive new, custom grips for his pistols or a form-fitted Kevlar breastplate, or even a bag of blood he didn’t have to drain from some evildoer. His eyes narrowed behind crimson lenses when he thought about all the disappointed citizens of Glumengrad who would wake up on Christmas morning to nothing under the tree, because of the greed of the Gingerbread Man.

That would not do. The Crimson Hound leaped down from his gargoyle perch, landing atop a stack of extra-large, brightly wrapped gifts. He had no way of knowing what was in the boxes before he jumped, or whether they would support the weight of a muscular man in an armored suit who was dropping from three stories above. They didn’t, but they did break his fall. Loudly.

“Ah, shit,” said the Crimson Hound, emerging from beneath a stack of crushed presents and torn wrapping paper.

“It’s the Crimson Hound!” screamed the Gingerbread Man , in a high, piping voice reminiscent of a cartoon mouse. The Crimson Hound winced. That voice was tough to take. He looked upon the Gingerbread Man’s henchmen with newfound sympathy, until he noticed some of them looked familiar.

“Some of you look familiar,” said the Crimson Hound.

“We used to work for Santa,” one of them said. “We’re the ones left that you didn’t eat, you bloodsucking freak.”

You might think the Crimson Hound would not be hurt by the words of a common thug. But the Crimson Hound has feelings, too. He frowned. “I didn’t actually eat anyone. Just tore open their necks and drank their blood.”

“Never mind that!” said the Gingerbread Man, causing the Crimson Hound to wince anew. “I’m ready for you! Now you will taste the true power of my Candy Cane Lance!”

“Looks like someone’s been tasting it already,” said the Crimson Hound.

“You have to lick it to make it sharp!” said the Gingerbread Man. He gave it a demonstrative lick. “See?”

The Crimson Hound shook his head at how ridiculous his life seemed to become when his creator neglected to produce new Chronicles of the Crimson Hound content on his YouTube channel. “So that’s it’s power? It’s sharp? Ooooooooo. I’m gonna shove that candy cane up your ass, dude.”

“The joke’s on you, Crimson Hound!” giggled the Gingerbread Man. “I’m a sentient cookie! I don’t have an anus!”

“Not yet,” said the Crimson Hound. He smiled.

The Gingerbread Man’s mouth formed a prefect, icing O of surprised horror. “Get him!”

The Crimson Hound leaped upon the henchmen, moving through them like a red wave of death. He struck out left and right. Bones crunched. Teeth shattered. Blood sprayed. In a moment he was the only one left standing.

Game note: This was the single fastest round of Super Mission Force I’ve ever played. The Crimson Hound won initiative and charged the henchmen group, inflicting 4 wounds, dropping 4 henchmen. The remaining henchman responded, but the Crimson Hound’s Reflection power allowed him to do 2 more damage to his attacker, effectively wiping out the entire group in 1 round. Damn.

The Crimson Hound looked around at the crumpled bodies of the Gingerbread Man’s henchmen. “Well, that was surprisingly quick.”

The Gingerbread Man dropped his Candy Cane Lance and turned to flee. “Run, run as fast as you can! You can’t catch me, I’m the Gingerbread Ma–URK!”

The Crimson Hound proved that he could, in fact, catch the Gingerbread Man; and he did, gripping the Gingerbread Man by his throat, or at least where his throat would be if he had a neck. “You were saying?” The Hound bared his fangs. “Time to see what all the fuss is about, Cookie-Puss.”

“WAIT!” choked the Gingerbread Man.

“Nope” said the Hound, opening his mouth.

“WAIT!” begged the Gingerbread Man.

The Hound stopped. “Dude, I already said no.”

“But if you eat me, you’ll never know about the Master Plan!”

The Crimson Hound sighed. He really wanted to eat the Gingerbread Man, because he was hungry and because the Gingerbread Man smelled delicious; but mostly because the Gingerbread Man was really fucking annoying. “OK, I’ll bite,” the Hound said, smiling at his own pun. “What Master Plan?”

“The one to resurrect Santa Claus!”