He sees you when you’re sleeping. He knows when HELL AWAITS.
Wow, is it Christmas Eve already? It seems like only yesterday, we were taking down our lights and burning last year's tree in honor of Lucifer. How time flies. Well, we better get out the milk and cookies, then. And a cold beer. And maybe that Thai stick of Chem Dawg I picked up from Sewer’s friend the other day.
Why? Because, my child, Tom Araya comes tonight. And if you’re not good little girls and boys, he’s going to fuck your life up.
That’s right, Virginia, Tom Araya is real, and he fucking rules. The lead singer of Slayer took over from Santa when Jolly Ol' Saint Nick got the clap so bad his entire FUPA fell off. He lives in castle in the North Pole, where he works all year round building instruments and amplifiers for the good metalhead children of the world. A legion of imps does his bidding, keeping track of whether or not you’ve been a little shit this year, and Tom records it all in his Nasty and Nice lists.
Then, on Christmas Eve, Tom Araya dons his blood-red suit, climbs into his obsidian sled, and commands his eight wendigos to carry him on a slay ride around the world. When he comes to your house, he crawls down your chimney, and if you've been good, he leaves you all the new gear, Slayer merch, and rare artifacts from the trial of Andrei Chikatilo that you could ever ask for!
If you’ve been bad? Well, that’s when Tom Araya creeps into your room and shoves a pair of Slayer socks in your mouth to muffle your cries. Then he chews off your fingers, and brands ‘RIP Jeff Hanneman’ on your neck, and cuts open your abdomen and pours hot chocolate inside, and saws your face off with a rusty butter knife while humming War Ensemble. Then he leaves a controversial post on your Instagram, drops a deuce in your stocking, and bails.
Aw, I’m sorry, does that bum you out? Yeah, it ain’t pretty. So do yourself a favor: tonight, be good, and make sure you leave out the milk and cookies. Because we all want a merry Christmas, and that’s not going to happen if the Christmas Spirit In Black shimmies down your chimney to find nothing but an empty plate and some punk-ass kids waiting for him.
Gasp! Did I just hear something on the roof?
