Father Whipper from Father Whipper by The Silken Serpent

Rudolph chuckled from his corner, shaking his head. "You’re gonna fly higher than the North Pole tonight, boss."
Father Whipper leaned back, a dark grin spreading across his face. "Ain’t no place high enough to touch me."
Outside, the night was alive with the sounds of the city. Sirens wailed in the distance, a constant reminder of the chaos that reigned. Father Whipper rose, shoving the girl off his lap. He grabbed his sack, a worn, heavy thing filled with wads of cash and the tools of his trade. It was time to spread his brand of holiday cheer.
He stepped out into the cold, the icy wind biting at his face. The sleigh was waiting, its dark form a stark contrast against the dirty snow. With a whistle, he summoned his crew, and they piled in, the engine roaring to life. They tore through the streets, a blur of motion and madness.
"Tonight, we own this city," Father Whipper shouted over the roar of the engine. "We show these fools what Christmas is really about."
They hit the first corner, cash flying, the desperate hands of the homeless reaching out. Father Whipper laughed, the sound harsh and empty. They cruised through the red-light district, the working girls and boys glancing up with a mix of fear and hope. To them, Father Whipper was both savior and demon.
At each stop, the sleigh emptied and filled again, the sack of cash growing lighter, the sins heavier. The night was a blur of vice, the city a playground of darkness. Father Whipper reveled in it, the power, the control, the pure, unadulterated chaos.
As dawn approached, the sleigh finally came to a stop. The city was quiet now, the first light of Christmas morning breaking over the horizon. Father Whipper stood alone, his crew scattered, his heart pounding with the remnants of the night’s high. He looked out over the city, a king surveying his kingdom of shadows.
"Merry Christmas," he whispered to no one in particular, his voice lost in the wind. He was the Santa Claus of crime, the bringer of darkness, and for one night, the city had been his.
In the cold, silent morning, Father Whipper turned and walked away, disappearing into the shadows from whence he came, leaving behind only whispers of his legend. The streets would remember this Christmas, the night when the true players played, and the city belonged to Father Whipper.

• Father Christmas
• Rock
• christmas songs
• holiday music
• Seattle