“Bertha … I’m home.”
Krampus hung his chains and bells on the hook by the front door, eased off his tattered, scarlet-colored cloak – unceremoniously tossing it on the small chair by the closet – and clopped over to his plush brown recliner in the den. He plunked down with enough force to make the floor shake.
“Man,” he whined. “My hooves are killing me and my tail’s been itching all day. I’m getting a bit long in the fang for this crap.”
Bertha walked into the room with a cup of coffee in one hand and a Yoo-hoo in the other.
“Figured you had a long day and night, so I didn’t know which one you wanted,” she said. “I’m good with either one, so you pick.”
Krampus smiled and reached for the Yoo-hoo.
“Thanks, Pookie,” he said, giving her a wink. “Nothing hits the spot like watery chocolate.”
Another Krampusnacht was in the books, which means yet another year he had to play the adversarial role in his and St. Nicholas’ “good cop/bad cop” routine.
“Man, times have changed,” he said. “I remember back in the day chasing those little ruffians through the streets with my sticks and watching them run and scream, trying to get away. Then I’d give them coal … which came in pretty handy during cold winter nights – people tend to forget that. Nowadays I just download Mariah Carey’s All I Want For Christmas to their phones and my work is mostly done. Plus, half of them don’t even know I’m Krampus – they see my tongue and think I’m Gene Simmons.
“It gets frustrating, but that’s the job, and that’s what they expect.”
The ”job” had started centuries earlier, when – each December 5 – St. Nick would treat all the “good kids” to nuts and fruits while Krampus denied bad boys and girls tasty treats and, instead, threatened them with branches.
Yet like most stories which had been told over and over throughout the ages, truth and myth had become intertwined.
In reality, Krampus and St. Nicholas were actually friends and helped each other out during the holidays. Long before St. Nick had gone global with his business and hired an all-elf workforce, Krampus assisted in building and delivering toys.
In turn, St. Nick would occasionally make appearances as Krampus when his buddy needed a day off for dental procedures.
One thing that never changed? St. Nick was always the hero and Krampus, the villain.
“Hey Bertha, do you remember back when people claimed I’d grab kids, put ‘em in a sack, and then carry ‘em off so I could eat ‘em?” he said. “Those were some sick puppies, man. I mean, I’d never eat a kid, but even if I wanted to, I have no idea how you’d cook one.”
Bertha nodded.
“You bet I remember,” she said. “What was it … the 1880s, 1890s? You got called into HR because that man in Liechtenstein said he saw you roasting a kid on a spit.”
Krampus bleated.
“What a dumbass,” he said, shaking his head. “Dude was drunk, saw me sitting by a fire cooking apples, and then jumped to one helluva conclusion. What kinda world do we live in where a half-demon, half-goat can’t just go camping in peace? I’ll never understand humanoids.”
Bertha moved closer and gave him a kiss on his left horn.
“You have a tough job, K,” she said. “It’s like being a heel wrestler. Every time you step into the ring against a babyface, people are gonna start booing. Believe me, I know.”
Now a professional wrestler working independent circuits throughout the Alps, Bertha – aka Frau Perchta (her given name) and Candy Crone (her grappling moniker) – started a consulting business shortly after she began dating Krampus. Frau Perchta’s profession involved making sure homes were kept in order and up to code during the holiday season, and all was well until one of her clients filed a police report after claiming she stole a loom and threatened to stab her.
It was all a lie, but before Bertha could get ahead of the story, she was branded a “Terrifying Christmas Witch” and forced to monitor low budget hotels from late December through early January.
“One day you’re issuing citations in the suburbs,” she would say, “and the next you’re accused of disemboweling homeowners and replacing their guts with pebbles and straw.”
Still, Krampus and Bertha had forged a happy life together, despite all the misconceptions about who they were and what they did.
He had to work less than a month out of each year, allowing him to spend plenty of time filing his teeth, trimming his hooves and eating tin cans, which was his passion.
Bertha’s wrestling duties were more extensive, but she enjoyed the work and reveled in the notoriety. Her glowing eyes and long, beaked nose intimidated opponents and referees alike, and her diving double axe handle maneuver always electrified the crowd, especially during pay-per-view events.
Still, during the festive season, both Krampus and Frau Perchta had appearances to keep up. And since it was December 6, the ol’ Bovidae Devil had one more task ahead of him.
“It’s the Feast of St. Nicholas, so I’m gonna catch a few winks and then head over to Nick’s place,” Krampus said. “I told him I’d make some deviled eggs and help him set up the badminton net. You should join me.”
Bertha patted Krampus on his knee and headed back toward the kitchen.
“Nah, I can’t,” she said. “I’ve got a match against Darlene the Destroyer tonight – it’s the main event, and I need to get to the arena early so we can rehearse. But if you think about it, bring me back a piece of cake.”
Krampus finished off the rest of his Yoo-hoo, leaned back, and belched.
“Will do, hon,” he said. “If I see anybody trying to get that last piece I’ll just threaten ‘em with All I Want For Christmas.
“I gotta be honest, though … I kinda like that song.”
‘Menstrual Krampus?