Thursday, December 30, 2010
Santa Clause Ain't Coming To Town (1000 Word short story)
Image from Hearingvoices.com
“Santa, where are you going with that shotgun?” Rudolph, with his nose so bright, asks.
“To handle some business,” Old Saint Nick says, lowering his sunglasses, and hopping onto his hover sled.
The motor goes VROOM, VROOM, VROOM, and Santa kicks it into overdrive. No need for the reindeer for this mission. This time, it’s personal.
The last time that bootleg, dollar store Santa imitator said he was the real Saint Nick, he revealed what was in his stocking to the kids. When Santa found out, he held him by the ankle over Niagra Falls and warned him that if he ever pulled a stunt like that again, then he would blow him to smithereens. And Santa wasn’t one to not keep his promises.
But Hoo boy, has that creep done it this time. It was Tinton the elf who spotted him while at a Build-A-Bear in New Jersey. He was in the process of making a doll for his nephew when he saw him, Travis the Pervert, as he’s known at the Riverside mall, up to his old antics again.
Wearing the beard, the red jacket and no pants at all, he ran through the mall screaming, “Santa loves you all, and to all a good night!” at the top of his lungs. It took three rent-a-cops on segways an entire hour to apprehend him. Sure, he was sent to jail, but how many children went home that day crying and telling their mommy’s that they didn’t want Santa Clause to come to their house. They’d rather celebrate Chanukah or Kwanzaa this year; anything but Christmas.
Santa slams on the peddle and soars into the night sky, the stars getting in his face. He brushes them out of his way and types in the address to the Jefferson County Jail on his GPS. That’s where the phony’s being held. When the exact location comes up on his screen, he steers in that direction and shoots past state after state, each one looking like a dull brown square from this high up. He soars until he sees the gray roof of the jail, and its walls are decked out with green and red Christmas lights. Even criminals need to get into the Christmas spirit, he supposes.
He parks his sled in the snow, clicks on the cloaking device, and pulls out his shotgun, cocking it and twirling it by the trigger before he shoves it down his backside, ready for action.
He kicks open the door and walks to the front desk, not even removing his sunglasses.
(Image taken from metro.co.uk)
“Is there a Travis the Pervert in this jail?” He asks the woman at the front desk, who’s reading an issue of People Magazine with his face on it.
“Who’s looking for h—” she begins before she sees him. She nearly jumps out of her seat, throwing her magazine across the room.
“You’re…!” She says, putting her hands to her mouth.
“That’s right,” Santa says, and he lowers his sunglasses and winks at her. And in that wink, there’s a twinkle in his eye.
“Oh, my God, I love you!” She screams, and Santa puts his hands together and bows his head humbly.
“Thank you. But as to the…”
“Oh, yes, he’s here,” she says, nearly shaking with rage now, “Oh, Santa, he was trying to tarnish your image. Please make him pay.”
“Oh, I will” Santa says, cracking his neck, “Believe me, I will. What cell number is he in?”
“Fourteen,” she says, already reaching for the key on her desk, “Please make him suffer, Santa. For the kids.”
And Santa nods to this, turning without saying another word.
He enters the door to the cells and walks down the cold hallway, his breath clearly visible. Maniacs begin screaming at him at first, but when they see who it is, they all get very quiet and tiptoe to the back of their cells, knowing not to mess with a pissed off St. Nick. He starts to whistle, “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas,” but switches the lyrics of “White,” to “Red,” in his mind. When he gets to cell number 14, Travis lets out a scream, hiding in the corner and shivering like a cold child.
“Please, Santa, don’t do it! I had a reason! A Reason!” He shouts, and Santa lowers the shotgun from the man’s chest to his kneecaps.
“Speak now, or forever hold your peace, scumbag,” Santa says with one eye shut and the other aiming.
“It’s because of the Easter bunny!” Travis shouts, rushing to his cell bars and grabbing them, his face only inches away from Santa, who doesn’t flinch.
“What’s that you say? The Easter bunny? What about him? He’s one of my nearest and dearest friends.”
“He’s trying to sabotage you, Santa. It’s all over his YouTube channel.”
“No, it’s true, Santa. Everybody knows that you never have time to check your Facebook account this time of year, so I knew I couldn’t just message you. But I had to get you down here some way. He wants to make Easter bigger than Christmas.”
“Bull,” Santa says, spitting on the ground, “Easter sucks. Nobody cares about Easter. Why should I believe you?”
“Because, during my strip search, I managed to sneak this in,” and he reaches into his butt, pulling out a dirty cell phone, “They barely even check you at the county jails.”
Santa cringes and he backs away, but he watches on, seeing what the man has to show him.
He watches on in horror as he sees the Easter Bunny doing the MC Hammer dance on the screen and offering free eReaders to anybody who shuns Christmas this year and turns over to Easter.
Before the video ends, Santa is already rushing back down the hall, ready to pay the Easter Bunny a visit.
With Santa gone, Travis goes on Facebook and updates his status to say: “Just saved Christmas. You’re welcome, world.”