#la la la la la la la la la la laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

[executiveibex]

well, it's been another year around the (non-combusted) sun for us all! and i have to say, nhfgva jnyxre rg ny. unir tvsgrq zr n zbfg rkpryyrag oveguqnl cerfrag jvgu guvf CNYVFNQR svanyr. fgvyy fgerffshy gb yvfgra gb, ohg fngvfslvat orlbaq orYVRS gb svavfu naq unir rirelbar fgvyy or nyvir!

a grimly funny realization: depending on how many episodes this next sortie is. and, uh, what happens in those episodes.

… palisade might blow up on my birthday.

[sketchyboix3]

TRA-LA-LAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA Captain Underpants is here to save the day!

[scaryscarecrows]

Merry Christmas, Ya Filthy Animals

Or, Jason Todd doing what he does best: being a dork and putting down creeps.

“Deck the halls with gasoline, fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la…”

Splosh! Splosh!

Jason will never replace his helmet. Let the internet nitpick him about ‘it’s not a fuckin’ hood, you dumbass!’ HE KNOWS. IT’S MORE PRACTICAL THAN A REAL HOOD. And besides, he has a hoodie. Is that not enough? Fine! Let them all die when he leaves for a more grateful city! See who’s there to save you now, you jerks.

Anyways. His helmet is the only reason he’s not gagging on gasoline-smell. He hates that smell, reminds him of the time Joker doused his cape in it-while it was still on him, mind you-and lit a match.

Fun times.

No matter. He flings the mostly-empty can to the side and inspects the room. It’s small, dark, and dingy. Exactly the sort of stereotypical pedo basement you’d imagine. There’s literally nothing in here but a light bulb and a mattress with��stains…on it. Oh, and a bucket, but that’s technically been upended, contents and all, over the room’s owner, who’s been trussed up like a Christmas goose and lain ever-so-gently onto the mattress, bucket wedged on his head.

It’s a beautiful picture. Brings a tear to the eye.

The room’s residents (fourteen year-old mother and her seven month-old son) have been ushered outside and to the safety of a neighbor’s house. The neighbor is probably calling the police, but they’ll be a bit. Jason’s got time to finish his holiday display.

The pom-pom on his helmet feels like it’s getting loose. He’ll probably need to replace it after this. That’s fine. He’s got a bag of them in his jacket, just in case one gets too blood-spattered. Santa’s a blood-free individual, y’know. Don’t wanna frighten the children.

(Although the fact that he kicked the door in yelling, ‘ho-fucking-ho’ has probably accomplished that tonight already. Oops.)

“Light a match and watch it gleam, fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la…”

Matches, matches…ah! Matches. He pulls the bucket off Naughty List’s head, grimaces at the, uh, slop on his face, and opens the matchbox.

“NO!”

Strike!

“Watch the creep go up in ashes, fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la…”

Uh…there, he thinks. The corner. It’ll go up quick, but it’s far enough from Naughty List that he can panic for a little first.

“Damn, I’m glad I played with matches! Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”

FWOOSH!

He’s not dumb enough to stay in here. He, uh, he might’ve, y’know. Left a bullet or two in strategic places.

Shame there’s no chimney, but oh, well. He skips up the stairs, pauses, and turns back around.

“Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

The fucker ruins it by screaming. Some people just don’t have any holiday spirit at all.

THE END