Christmas is business.
Toy companies, movie theaters, lingerie boutiques, confectioneries… shit — even the hospitals clean up. Your grotesque Uncle Alan couldn’t turn down that last piece of pie. The “Ho-Ho Heart Attack,” they call it.
At the top of this trillion-dollar capitalist empire is Claus, and he traded his furs for bespoke Armani about the same time his rosy-nosed visage started popping up in Coke ads. Now, he sits on the throne of a bona-fide Arctic kingdom, complete with serfs and concubines. Only one problem —
The infamous Yuletide tot-torturer. He wasn’t keen on the holly jolly direction of the new Christmas, and there was an uprising. When enough blood was shed and Krampus’ defeat was apparent, he fled to Antarctica with the few elves who shared his cause.
Together, over a century, they built a new home. A frozen wild west, where they began to produce a euphoric whiskey called “Mistletoe.” Sought after by the world’s elite, it afforded Krampus and his followers a chance to rebuild and seek revenge.
Thanksgiving night. Six of the world’s most powerful CEOs are brutally murdered, with the Mistletoe logo scrawled in blood at every crime scene. Each was a longtime business partner of Claus’.
And this is where Eldon Carrillo comes in. To most people, he’s nothing but a brooding loner who lives on a secluded estate, deep in the Nordic countryside. To those who’ve heard the stories, he’s a ruthless, ghost-like assassin. To Claus, he’s someone who can deliver the best Christmas gift ever — Krampus’ head on a fucking platter.