Santa Claws: Chapter 1

The story continues.  I have included another copy of the cover for your convenience:

Chapter 1

Coming to Town

“Johnny, if I have to remind you to take your pill one more time, I’m just going to give that honeyed ham over there to the nearest man, woman, or beast who happens to show his, her, or its face around here.”

“Impeccable grammar, Mrs. Legcheese,” Frankenstein’s monster noted.  “You are a madonna, a beacon among commonplace women.”

Mr. Legcheese, wearing a green and red apron emblazoned with the words “Kiss the Santa,” was in his face in a second.  “Listen here, Frankie! You stop hitting on my wife.  Did you stand outside her window with a boombox at sixteen years of age, a young buck with nothing more than a few measly pennies and a pet turtle named Landry? No!”

The monster raised an eyebrow.  “Good sir, what, pray tell, is a boom-box?”

When the man would not answer him, Frankenstein’s monster looked helplessly at Jonathan.  The boy shrugged.  “Hey,” he replied, “don’t ask me.  I wasn’t born in the 1940s.”

Awana temporarily paused her task of admiring the Christmas tree and pulled a dictionary the size of Utah from her back pocket.  “‘Boombox: a large portable radio and often tape deck or CD player with two attached speakers.’  Well, that doesn’t help much.”

Witch sat on the couch, appearing contemplative.  “Boom-box, eh? Can you cook it? Could you use it, for example, as a replacement for an ingredient such as walrus liver?”

Jonathan peered hard at her.  “You know, you won’t know until you try.” He turned his attention to his mother.  “And what are you on about? I already took my pill!”

“No, sweetie, you couldn’t have.  You’re being a big fat weirdo right now, and that’s what happens when you don’t take your pill.”

“How am I being a big fat weirdo?”

“Where’s Ms. Unicorn?”

He patted his pockets, and his heart sank when he did not caress her majestic form.  Indeed, when he looked around the family room, he discovered that she was nowhere to be found.  “Uh, I—I don’t know where she is.”

 Awana gasped and threw a hand to her chest.  “What would Pumpkin say? Think about the children, Johnny boy!”

“Pumpkin wouldn’t care less.” He planted one angry fist into an absurdly large dish of figgy pudding.  “The traitor.”

“Well, there goes the rum cake,” Witch remarked sourly.

“That’s not rum cake,” said Mrs. Legcheese.

The old sorceress wrinkled her nose.  “Then why in the blazes am I here?”

Awana approached Jonathan as sweetly and innocently as possible, clutching one hand around the other.  Unfortunately, due to the sheer ugliness of Awana’s “ugly Christmas sweater”—which was supposedly intended to depict Santa and his reindeer, but rather appeared to be an almost exact rendition of Picasso’s Guernica—Jonathan did everything within his power to avoid looking at her.  This was particularly difficult this evening, as she had spent approximately twenty-seven hours shaping the lengthy strands of her hair into spikes so flawless, they would likely fill the Empire State Building with the deepest envy.  Upon her entrance into the Legcheese home earlier, Jonathan had grown a little…excited at the sight.  He did not think he could handle a second dose of such excitement, especially since his curfew of 7:30 PM was just around the corner.

“Johnny boy,” the girl said in a light tone, “Pumpkin isn’t a traitor.  He and Ghost decided to spend the evening with Mr. Cornelius up in the mansion, remember? Ghost said he was going to whip up a ‘delightful smorgasbord’ for everyone, and then Pumpkin explained to Ghost that ghosts lack the ability to interact with the physical world.  Then Ghost got really offended, called Pumpkin a racist several times, and made a painstaking journey (judging by his grunts) up the mountain to the mansion.  Pumpkin apologized and followed him.  Any of this ringing a bell?”

It did ring a bell, but he was trying to suppress the memory.  “Well…I wanted Pumpkin to stay the night!” He crossed his arms and started to pout before he realized that he was fifteen, and not five.

Awana took a step closer to him, and he thought he smelled egg nog on her breath.  Or maybe it was the smell of potato salad; he could not tell.  After all, he had not taken his pill, and losing the ability to smell was apparently one side effect.  “Johnny,” she whispered, touching his face with one hand, “how about we go talk over in the hallway, away from the others?”

“Fine,” he mumbled, moving away from the family room, “but we’re not playing hopscotch again.  You know I’m terrible at it.”

Mr. Legcheese glared at the two kids until they disappeared from the room.  Then he cursed, stripped his oven mitts from his hands, and cast them onto the floor.  “I swear, I labor day and night over these gingerbread muffins, and this is the thanks I get? Now who’s going to eat these?”

Witch had already stuffed three muffins into her mouth at once, and was currently trying to determine how she could sneak out of the house with the two trays atop the coffee table.  She snapped out of her trance at the sound of the man’s voice, and gave him a long look.  “I’m sorry, dearie, what was that?”

Once they were in the hallway, Jonathan turned around and faced Awana.  The decorations in the family room behind her exceeded his expectations by far; his parents had definitely outdone themselves this year.  Ornaments the size of globes hung from various parts of the ceiling, cradled by glittering red and green ribbons that stretched like tapestries from wall to wall; fake snow adorned the stone rostrum that bore the glowing fireplace; figurines of angels, magi, and the nativity bedecked the top of an entertainment center containing the TV; the Christmas tree, so colossal that its tip was currently smashed by the ceiling, boasted a wealth of ornaments that had nothing to do with Christmas—specifically pumpkins, bats, cats, unicorns, turkeys, and one very large eagle; desserts from every corner of the world were spread across the coffee table, including a bowl of unappetizing berries that Frankenstein’s monster had acquired during his “days of solitude.”  Jonathan’s father had opted to beautify the room with Christmas lights, but his lack of experience resulted in a tangled vomit of cords and colors.  The lights were draped on couches, on the legs of tables, on the ceiling fan, on Frankenstein’s monster, and right in front of the hallway entrance.  Awana’s feet caught in this last stretch of lights, and she hit the floor like a stone dropped from an airplane.  When she rose, her nose was a bloody pulp.

“You want some ice for that, or something?” Jonathan asked, wincing.  “Or maybe a few stitches?”

“Oh.  My.  Gosh.” Her eyes lit up like…well, the entire family room.  “Johnny, you are so sweet! But I’ll be fine.” With one brisk movement, she wiped away the blood from her face with the back of her newspaper-colored sweater.

“Thanks for coming to the party, Awana,” he said, toeing the ground.  “You look really pretty tonight.”

She nearly fainted, but this was more than likely due to blood loss after her earlier impact.  “You sure do know how to make a girl swoon, sugarplum,” she responded, swaying dizzily.

“So what would you like to talk about?”

“I don’t know; you tell me, you silly goose” Her hands were now on her hips.  “You’re the one who was being a bit fat weirdo just a few minutes ago.”

“If you must know, it’s that time of the month for me.”

She cocked her head.  “What? Guys go through that, too?”

“Yeah.  The time of the month when you suddenly learn something new, and you wish you had never learned it.”

“Oh!” She snickered.  “That time of the month.  Yeah, aren’t those just bloody horrible?”

“You’re telling me.” He glanced left and right to make sure no one was within earshot, and then he drew closer to her.  “A couple days ago, Pumpkin and I were bowling.  I was winning—I mean, just absolutely creaming the squash—and I told him that I was looking forward to seeing what Santa would bring me this year.  And he laughed at me.  Laughed at me, Awana.”

“Good golly! Whatever for?”

Tears rose to his eyes, and his lip trembled.  “He—he told me that Santa isn’t real.  That he’s just a myth.  That people made him up, just like the Easter bunny.”

“Johnny boy, one holiday at a time!” Awana threw a hand to her forehead, clearly unable to process the information.

“You’re right.” He let out a sigh.  “You’re right, of course.  I’m sorry.  I’m just so upset….I mean, if Santa doesn’t bring us our presents, then who does? It’s not like we have anyone else around who knows us really well, and can slip presents under the tree while we’re sleeping.”

“Right.  And not to mention all of the songs that have been written about Santa, and his reindeer, and elves, and egg nog, and Pumpkin pie, and caroling, and Christmas trees, and—Oh, I just love Christmas!”

“More than Thanksgiving?”

She glared at him.  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, now.”

“Of course.  But there’s no way it can be true, right? I mean, I could have sworn I saw mommy kissing Santa Claus underneath the mistletoe last night.  She didn’t even see me creep down the stairs to have a peek, and—”

“You don’t have stairs, Johnny.  I’ve been stalking you for fifteen years.  I know this.”

He pursed his lips.  “Oh yeah.  Must’ve been thinking about someone else.”

“But you must be right,” she informed him.  “I mean, if people start going around claiming that Santa isn’t real, then this nation is going to fall apart.  It’s the beginning of the end.”

“Absolutely.  So this is what I’m thinking: tonight, we’re not going to go to bed.  We’re going to make sure everything in the family room is ready for Santa’s arrival.  We’ll make sure to hang up our socks—”

“—and exactly at twelve o’clock, he’ll be coming down the chimney down!” Awana did a pathetic little jump to emphasize her words.

“What in Ghost’s name was that?”

“What? I thought we were singing the song.”

“Stay focused, Awana,” he muttered, peering over her shoulder.  “We’re staying awake tonight, and when Santa Claus comes into the room, we’ll be waiting for him.  And then we get presents.”

She frowned.  “But Johnny, I want my present now.”

“Are you drunk? We have to wait until midnight.”

“Not that present.” She gestured above her, and it was only now that he realized there was mistletoe hanging where the hallway ceiling began.  Her razor-sharp fingers clamped around the right side of his waist as she closed her eyes and drew near to him.

“No!” He smacked her hand away from his waist as one swats a fly, or perhaps as someone in the pest control business might swat a spider.  She jumped back, her eyes awash with surprise and horror.  “Awana, we can’t.  We’re on a mission.  Our entire lives might be dismantled if a fat man carrying a bag of gifts doesn’t come down that fireplace tonight.  If we get distracted—”

She frowned and avoided his eyes.  “Since when did you get to be all about the mission? Is there no room for fun? For leisure?”

“I haven’t had time for fun or leisure.  Do you know how much time I spent on those deviled eggs sitting over there in the kitchen? How long I slaved over them? Or—or all the fake snow sitting around the bottom of the Christmas tree? Awana, do you KNOW just how long it took me to make the perfect Christmas mixtape?”

She scrunched her lips.  “Is that ‘Monster Mash’ I hear playing right now?”

“That’s beside the point.” He sighed.  “Fun and leisure will only lead to idleness…and this of all nights is not one on which we should be idle.”

“Well I don’t think Ms. Unicorn would approve of this attitude of yours,” the girl pointed out, “but I’ll drop this…for now.”

There was silence in the Legcheese household a few hours later, but the gleaming lights strewn across the family room seemed to converse and dance with one another as midnight approached.  Jonathan sat on one of the couches facing a TV that was hardly smaller than the average movie theater screen, while Awana sat near the coffee table and picked at various snacks and desserts.  It’s been a quiet month, he considered with some satisfaction.  There had hardly been mention of Professor Apo, M.D., Melhrir the Eagle, or the potions the professor had designed.  But that still deserves some special attention.  Their game plan from the beginning was to create six potions: one to erase the memory of Halloween, one to resurrect dead bodies, one to turn goodness to blight, one to erase the memory of Thanksgiving, one to erase the memory of Christmas, and one to create a portal between earth and Armenor.  He knew that M.D. had lost her final potion of resurrection in her scuffle with him a month ago, and that Super Pumpkin had destroyed the cauldron that allowed travel between earth and Armenor.  The holiday potions were no more.  But why do I get the sense that we missed something?

The volume of the TV was low, and the news feature detailing something about a recent series of attacks only served as white noise for Jonathan and Awana.  They were both deep in thought when Mr. Legcheese walked into the room, stopped, and placed his hands on his hips.

“Well, Frankie is all tucked in,” he announced to no one in particular, “if you can call it that.  Dude’s at least seven-three.  We don’t own a single blanket that can cover him.  When he got in bed and stretched his legs, he kicked the footboard clean off and is now snoring peacefully in a bed that looks like a ramp to the heavens.”

“Good,” said Awana.  “He needs his sleep.  What about Witch?”

The man shrugged.  “Said something about a séance and shrieked at me to leave the room.  In my own house, Humphfree! Respect is not just the title of a catchy song, you know.”

“How in the world have you managed to cram so many people in here? You only have three rooms!”

“Well, I think my wife has no choice but to partake in the séance, since Witch is sleeping in there.  Frankie is in the spare room.  I placed an inflatable mattress on the floor next to his bed for you.  Covered it with feathers and everything, since Jonathan told me you’re into that kind of thing.”

“Correct.”

Mr. Legcheese rubbed his eyes and yawned.  “Anyway, you little scamps, it’s time for bed! Wouldn’t want Santa to pass up the house because of your stiff-necked rebellion.  No presents for peeping Toms!”

“That’s a stupid rule, anyway,” Jonathan murmured.

“Johnny, you’re a stupid rule.” He approached the couch with an expression that meant business, and Jonathan left his seat with a roll of his eyes; Awana followed suit.  “Don’t worry.  I promise there will be some unexpected surprises for you when you wake up!" said the man.

The two little scamps shuffled off toward their respective sleeping areas, but Jonathan cast a glance in Awana's direction and squawked twice like a crow.  She barked twice in return and disappeared down the hallway.  Jonathan walked into his bedroom and shut the door behind him.

Mr. Legcheese scratched his head. "What the devil did Johnny add to those deviled eggs?"

At precisely 11:55 PM. Jonathan reentered the hallway.  Awana was waiting near its entry point, and he was pleased to see that someone had removed the mistletoe.  He tiptoed to her side, and after a few whispers they scurried over to the Christmas tree and crouched behind it.  The fresh scent of pine needles brought him back to the days when he camped with his parents as a wee lad.  They would drive to Steele Canyon Campground, or Kirby Cove, or Willow Creek, and each time his father would insist on building a small house instead of using the standard tent that normal, sane families used.  The house always ended up looking brilliant, but since he usually finished it by the time their vacation was over, they found themselves lying on blankets beneath the stars each night.  Those were the good old days, thought Johnny.  Those were the days before things got complicated.  Before I turned 15 and became a man, and came to realize that this world is a dangerous place.  Before I grew out my unibrow.

"Johnny," Awana whispered, "what about the homes that don't have fireplaces?"

"What?"

"Not every house has the luxury of a fireplace.  Mine, for instance."

"Since when?"

"Since forever."

He furrowed his brow and thumbed an ornament shaped like his dear friend Stanley Pharmacist.  The ornament was three inches tall and to scale.  He was even holding a half-inch glass tank that carried an orange speck shaped like a tiny goldfish.  "Santa would not be inhibited by such an obstacle.  If he can shape his paunch to fit inside the common chimney, surely he can move through our plumbing."

"Our plumbing, Johnny?"

"Our plumbing.  Or maybe he comes from beneath the earth and enters through the crawlspace."

Awana seemed unconvinced.  "So you're talking about a heavyset man who smells like sewage or digs like a gopher beneath our streets? That's not my Santa Claus, Johnny boy.  Maybe he is an expert lockpick who opens front doors and sneaks into homes."

"Your Santa Claus is a lockpicking bandit?"

"Bandits steal things.  Santa Claus gives.  He is like a holy anti-bandit."

"You speak nonsense," said Johnny, shaking his head.  "Now stop seducing me! We need to watch and wait."

Watching and waiting is never easy for two 15-year-olds with the attention span of two seconds, but somehow they managed.  The lights pulsated liked polychromatic stars across the room, occasionally lulling them toward sleep until one nudged or flicked the other back to alertness.  After about half an hour they grew hungry, so Awana crawled to the kitchen and procured a plate of sugar cookies shaped like bats.  They munched on their snacks in the silence of the night.  It was rather startling, then, when a squad of police cars zoomed across the suburban street with sirens blazing.  Generally, police and ambulance were commanded to refrain from sounding their sirens after sunset; this must have been quite the emergency to call for such measures.  Jonathan and Awana exchanged an anxious glance but said nothing as they continued to stare toward the family room and fireplace.

Not a creature was stirring in that house; not even a mouse.  Jonathan scanned the stockings hanging before the fireplace: there was his own, a dazzling pink sock with glitter reminiscent of Ms. Unicorn (bless her heart); there was Awana’s, blood-red and mottled with punk studs; Frankenstein’s monster’s sock was as large as a toddler and so dark that it was quite depressing to look at; Witch’s stocking was actually not a stocking at all, but rather a hawk nest in which a stuffed toy hawk was perched (she had requested a live animal, but Mr. Legcheese had expressed concern that the bird would confuse Awana for its mate).  If Santa sees us, will he still fill our stockings? Jonathan wondered.  Will we still get presents? The idea of not receiving anything on Christmas was terrifying to him, and he began to doubt his mission.  He poked Awana in the ribs to get her attention.

“Not now, Johnny boy,” she answered sleepily.  “I thought I heard something.”

“Is this really a good idea?” he asked.  “I mean, maybe the point of Santa coming at night and blessing us with presents is about us trusting him to do it.  Maybe my dad is right.  What if Santa passes up the house because of our rebellion?”

“Oh, my head,” muttered Awana, turning to him.  “I love you with the fiery intensity of thirty jack-o'-lanterns, but pick a lane! Are we doing this or not?”

“Firstly, I don’t appreciate you telling me to pick a lane.  We don’t even drive yet. Secondly—”

“What in Dante‘s nine circles of hell is that?!” shouted a voice behind them.

The sudden loud sound caused them both to jump in place, even as they remained crouched.  They saw Jonathan’s father standing in the kitchen, holding half a dozen wrapped gifts.  His face was pale and his body trembled.  A few seconds later, the presents left his hands and scattered across the floor.  Both children were almost too afraid to turn their heads to the object of his horror, but against their better instincts they looked back toward the fireplace.  Standing there was a man whose garb matched the bright red and frosty white that was sung about in songs and celebrated in old stories; from his chin a billowing white beard extended half way between his chest and gold belt buckle; his black boots were large enough to handle snowy terrain with ease; a massive red bag was slung over his shoulder.  If this alone had been his appearance, the tenants of that home would have felt great exuberance over the fact that every child’s hero was real and present.  But this was not the case.  This Santa Claus was not as described in the tales; nor was he a sewage-traveling fiend, a subterranean tunneler, or a lockpicking anti-bandit.  This Santa Claus appeared to be bred for murder.  In fact, he flexed his Wolverine-like claws as if he was preparing to use them.  Most terrifying of all was the fact that his pupils were laser-red, and he did not blink.

Jonathan had fought in a room filled with zombies, battled an evil professor, latched onto a turkey flying over Vacaville, climbed a mountain in a foreign land, tussled with entranced birds, and brought vengeance upon a potion-toting old woman—but he had never encountered horror of this magnitude.  Santa’s menacing eyes nearly caused him to faint; however, he had a feeling that he would need to remain alert.

“S-Santa?” said Awana, her voice trembling.  “Why—why do you look like that?”

“Because your boyfriend has been a naughty boy,” the man replied in a deep, sickly voice, “and for that he must die.”

“Die?” shouted Mr. Legcheese.  “Are you bloody kidding me? You’re going to make me clean this wreck of a house by myself? I know he is a defiant ninny half the time, but you’re going to kill him? Give the boy a lump of coal!”

“I’m not here for you, old man,” came the ghastly response, “but I’ll hurt you, if I have to.  I have hurt many others this eve.”

Mr. Legcheese squared up.  “OH, COME AT ME, BRO! I’LL SHANK A SANTA! YOU DON’T KNOW ME! I DON’T EVEN CARE!”

Santa did not miss a beat.  With a frighteningly quick motion, he reached into his bag and chucked a machete toward the man.  Mr. Legcheese screeched and curled into a ball, but that did not change the weapon’s trajectory.  It looked like it was the end for him—but then Jonathan sprang over at the last half-second and thrust Ms. Unicorn out in front of him.  The blade twanged off her powerful but magnificent body, the tip of it snapped, and the remnant lodged into a cupboard in the kitchen.  Awana leapt up from behind the Christmas tree, grabbed two fistful of pine leaves, and proceeded to shout, “Give me a ‘J!’ until she had spelled Johnny’s name.  He stood there facing his enemy in a battle stance, the deadly unicorn clenched in his fist, and his quavering and weeping father in a fetal position behind him.  Santa did not seem amused.

“You leave my father alone!” Jonathan roared.  “You leave this house right now and climb back down whatever hell-hole brought you here!”

“I really liked that machete,” muttered the man in a calculating voice.  “I will prolong your death because of that.”

“Stop talking, then, and just bring it!”

Awana put her makeshift pom-poms down.  “Wait a second! Johnny, don’t you want to find out what happened to Santa? This isn’t the one we know and love! Look, he has been corrupted.  He’s hurt people! Come on, let’s get to the bottom of this.”

“With all due respect, Awana, if you rearrange a few letters in ‘Santa,’ it spells ‘Satan.’  I’m going to kill this fool!”

Santa sighed.  “This is why you were on the naughty list.”

Jonathan charged at him, and the obese man tossed a sword his way.  He ducked underneath it, leapt onto the coffee table, and bounced high into the air.  With a mighty shout he cast Ms. Unicorn directly toward Santa’s forehead.  It was a move similar to that which he had used with Apo.  It was the same accuracy that had knocked M.D.’s potion off Melonir.  Unfortunately, he did not know his opponent, so he was shocked when Santa lifted a hand and caught the toy without great difficulty.  And now that it was in his hands, Jonathan finally recognized it as just that: a toy, unfit for the dangerous ventures of which he was a part.  Santa held his childhood in his devastating claws.

“A beautiful thing,” the man remarked, turning the sparkling creature over.  She reflected the Christmas lights glowing across the room.  “I gave this to you on your fourth Christmas, because that year you were a very good boy.  You didn’t kill.  You weren’t vengeful.  You were all innocence.  I was happy to give this lovely item to such a worthy child.”

Awana’s face was drawn with apprehension.  “You give that back to him now, please, Santa.”

“Yes, give her here,” Jonathan urged him, reaching out.  “If you give her back and leave now, we’ll pretend none of this ever happened.”

Santa revealed his serrated teeth.  “Naughty children do not deserve beautiful things.  All the evil you have done negates every bit of good that has ever come from your life.  And so—” He stole Ms. Unicorn from sight and clenched his fist.  Several cracking sounds were heard, and then he released glistening fragments onto the ground. 

Awana let out a quick and heart-stricken “NO!” and Mr. Legcheese, who had climbed to his feet, watched in utter disbelief.  At that moment Frankenstein’s monster, Witch, and Jonathan’s mother dashed into the room.  They stopped in their tracks once they reached the kitchen as their minds processed what they were seeing.  There was nothing but silence as Jonathan took slow steps toward the fragments on the ground.  He fell to his knees and lifted the piece that had been Ms. Unicorn’s horn before his eyes.  For a moment he studied it, and then he looked over the other pieces lying at Santa’s feet.  He cried, as a boy who has lost a longtime pet might cry.  He cried freely, and all could see that there was no longer any fight in him.  Santa, who was nearest to him, was able to see this most clearly; and so, with one swift sweep of his bag, he scooped up Jonathan and glared at everyone in the room.  Then, without a word, he turned from them and disappeared up the chimney.

Santa Claws: Introduction and Prologue

Introduction

Greetings, readers! Welcome to the fourth story in "Kory's Holiday Pentalogy."  I want to make sure you're able to get to the text as soon as possible, so I will make this brief.

Just as "Happy Halloween!" and "The Day the Thanksgiving Turkey Ran Away" were revamped versions of holiday stories that I wrote when I was eight or nine, "Santa Claws" is a reboot of a story I wrote as a child.  The "Santa Claws" story from the 90s had an evil Santa for the sole purpose of shock value, and I had no backstory for his corruption.  That's not surprising, considering I was a kid who thought he was being edgy and creative by changing "Claus" to "Claws."

My purpose this time around was not to make Santa corrupt without reason; his malice ties in to the Pentalogy as a whole.  I asked myself, "What would happen if this fictitious giver of gifts, who--in all the songs and stories--determines whether a child will get a present or coal, suddenly lost his penchant for mercy? What if his desire to deliver joy was replaced with a desire to deliver judgment? And what if I could bring in the Halloween Friends to lighten the heavy themes and show that mercy triumphs over judgment (James 2:13)?"

The idea of this malicious character actually killing children did not sit well with me, so if you were fearful of reading a story about that, you can lay those fears to rest! Santa Claws is violent, but I purposely toned down the horror.  Thus, this is primarily a comedy with some horror elements...all leading to a happy ending (I am a fan of Tolkien's "eucatastrophe," after all).  However, I would not consider it a tale for children.  Let's just consider it PG-13.

Also note that I am not making any money off this story; it is for my friends, family, and "random readers." I am not claiming that I own any of these characters, and indeed, some characters are well-known and beloved to many.  This is purely for fun and to bring the Pentalogy one step closer to its conclusion.

You can view the cover image, created by the ineffably talented Derek Nochefranca, below.  Click on it to get a better look.

Happy reading, and Merry Christmas!

Prologue

Thanksgiving Night

The screen came to life, illuminating both the room and the man’s eyes.  He smiled from ear to ear and pulled his seat closer to the desk.  Crawling across the bottom of the screen, the loading bar seemed to promise that the decrepit construct would function as it should.  He tugged the red sleeves of his sweater to his elbows and touched the keys of his keyboard in anticipation.  Perhaps he would be able to fulfill his daily duty.  After all, he was not blessed with an extensive life just to suck in the frigid air; he had work to do.  However, his hopes were shattered once the computer released a defiant chirp, shut itself down, and turned the screen an abysmal black.

“What the—Are you kidding me?” His voice echoed in the bare room, and he half-noticed that he sounded like a tired, old man.  “Come on, Bessie, don’t give up on me now!”

Bessie did not seem to hear him, or else she did not care; the computer remained in place, refusing to reboot.  With a groan, he rose from his chair and launched his foot into the tower.  Then he kicked it again, and again.  The final strike succeeded in knocking the computer over and sending a shooting pain into the big toe of his right foot.  He was dancing, cursing, and massaging his toe when she burst into the room.

“Nick, what’s wrong?” she asked, watching him with concerned eyes.  “And why is Bessie on her side? You know how easily agitated she is.”

Nick’s eyes flamed.  “How does anyone expect me to get my work done when this is the only functioning computer within several hundred miles? I have less than a month to finish this up, and this poor excuse for a machine is deciding to be rebellious.  You know how I feel about rebellion.” He kicked the tower again, this time with his good foot.  “I won’t have it, Annie! Not now.”

She pursed her lips and fixed her gaze on the useless object.  “You know, once upon a time, you didn’t have to use a computer for work.  Can’t you go back to the old way of doing things? Wasn’t that good enough?”

“It sufficed,” he admitted.  It was good enough for its time, he meant, but he was not in the mood to argue.  Annie was a loving and devoted wife, but she had a tendency to annihilate him in even the most insignificant dispute; he often wondered if she had been apprenticed by some long-forgotten magister in critical thinking and debate in the years before they had met.  “It’s just that so much of my work is on there, and I can’t quite remember where I left off.”

With a tiny smile, she walked past him and rubbed his shoulders.  “It’ll be fine, my dear.  How about we sit down to some hot stew, and I’ll help you figure it out?  Here.” She opened a drawer at his desk and procured a lengthy, yellowing sheet of paper.  Then she took up a quill from a pencil holder and placed both items in his hands.  “Just like old times, Nick.  You’ll be done in no time; just watch.”

He was not convinced, but the idea of sitting down to a steaming bowl of stew forced his feet out of the room and toward the kitchen.  It was always warmer in the kitchen, probably because something was always cooking.  As he plopped down into a stool nearest the hallway, he took a deep breath and soaked in the room’s heat.  But it was not enough to drive away the coldness completely.  It never was.  He recalled the days when he had worn nothing in the house but a thick shirt and trousers, and that had been enough to leave him content.  Now he packed on layer after layer of jackets and sweats, garbed his feet with the thickest woolen socks on the planet, and even donned a ridiculous beanie that resembled a panda’s head—but the shivering never ended.  Even his wife’s sweet words and hearty meals—which seemed to increase with the years—could only remove his awareness of the cold for so long.

A cast iron pot large enough to deep-fry a turkey and its family was stationed on the stovetop, grey tendrils of smoke rising from it and sending an enticing aroma across the room.  Annie dipped a wooden spoon into the pot’s innards and stirred as Nick set down his paper and placed the tip of the quill at the top.  What was the last thing I wrote? he wondered, tunneling into his memories.  He wished he could blame his forgetfulness on old age, but technically, he had not aged for years.  If only I had a standby computer technician, or if I had found the time to learn about the intricacies of computers myself! But leaf and quill will have to do, for now.

“Here’s your stew,” said his wife as she slid a bowl across the table. “Piping hot, just how you like it.”

The bubbling concoction was red, and was mottled with potatoes.  It tasted far better than it appeared.  “Thank you, Annie.”

“Don’t mention it.” She poured a bowl for herself, set it before her, and took a seat opposite of him.  She tapped lightly on the table, waiting for the food to cool.  “Now let’s figure out where you left off.  What do you remember writing down last?”

He attempted to rub his chin, but his fingers ran into his great beard and went no farther.  “I—well, I recall writing about a boy named …Lebby? Leebo? No, no! It was Leary, that’s right! Ryan Leary.  He’s from Derby, England.”

“Great! And you remember him because….”

“He’s been one heck of a kid; I’ll tell you that much!” After so many years of this, it was surprising that anyone managed to stick out at all.  “And not in a good way, mind you.  Just in the last three months, he hid behind a bush and then scared an old lady into half a coma, glued a cat’s tail to a dog’s tail (which turned out to be quite traumatic for the cat), and convinced his four-year-old brother that he has syphilis.”

His wife looked appalled.  “How old is this monster?”

“Nine.” He shrugged and let out a sigh.  “They’re getting more corrupt with each generation, love.  It’s gotten to the point where I’m hardly surprised.”

“So it appears.” Without thinking, she scooped up some of her stew and drew it to her mouth.  When the steam alone scalded her lips, she reconsidered and plunked the utensil back into her bowl.  “But come on.  There has to be one good person out there.  Do you remember anyone else?”

He frowned.  “Ledbetter.  Toby Ledbetter.  He’s thirteen years old, and he invented a new drug.  Apparently, it convinces each user that he or she is a dolphin.  I know, it sounds harmless, but this so-called ‘fish fry’ has caused general chaos across the US over the past half-year.  Some terrorist slipped it into the President’s drink before he delivered a recent address, and the poor guy gets up and books it to the nearest body of water.  Not only did this result in a belly flop so loud that they heard it in Brazil, but he also ruined a very nice pair of dress shoes…which I gave him back in ’88.  I knew I should have kept those for myself.”

His wife was palming her forehead.  “And you consider this Mr. Ledbetter ‘good’?”

“Well, neutral, which is really something in this day and age.  Actually, his drug has indirectly caused a boom in the dolphin population.  I’m not sure how that happened, and I’m not sure I want to know.”

“OK, then.  And that’s where you left off?”

“Well, no.  There’s also this boy—Jonathan Legcheese.  Just this October, he reversed the effects of a potion crafted by an evil professor.  And as of one hour ago, he stopped a bird the size of Russia from entering our world, and ensured holiday joy for thousands—perhaps even millions—of people.”

The information seemed to please her.  “The boy sounds like a hero.  One of the good ones, then?”

“No.  He’s not without some major flaws.  In accomplishing such magnificent feats, he killed two people—a man and his mother.  He also has a propensity for throwing perfectly innocent toys—especially unicorns, for some reason—at people and random objects.  Not only that, but he’s so ugly it should be illegal.”

His wife scoffed.  “No one can be that physically repulsive.”

When he procured a picture of the semi-pubescent boy from a small notebook, her irises tripled in size.  “But you know, there are always exceptions to rules.”

“You should see his quasi-girlfriend,” followed the man, shuddering.  “I’m convinced that, should they ever have children, the government will seize them and run various experiments just to make sure that they are, indeed, from our planet.”

“And how did his quasi-girlfriend do this year? Was she naughty or nice?”

His brows furrowed.  “You know, it’s the very essence of irony, but young Awana Humphfree has been rather pure this year.”

“Awana Humphfree? Are you serious?”

“Yes.” He shook his head sympathetically.  “I hope the guy who decided to name her gets what’s coming to him.”

The look in her eyes told him that she agreed.  “So, this young…Legcheese.  It sounds like he’s striving to do what’s right, but keeps murdering to accomplish his purposes.  Are you going to reward or punish him?”

“The reason I brought him up in the first place is to show you that there is one who did well this year—and that’s Awana.” He offered a sour expression.  “But as for Jonathan Legcheese, that boy is getting nothing but the biggest lump of coal from me.”

“Coal? Really? And so the good he has done counts for nothing?”

“Those who do well receive good things, and those who do evil will get what’s coming to them.  That’s the way it’s always been.”

“Not to my memory.” She scrutinized him, her gaze strong as steel.  “I remember when there was room for mercy.”

“I have no time for mercy; I have a job to do.” He spooned up a weighty potato and heaved it into his mouth.

“There are some who would say that the two are not mutually exclusive, dear.”

“I don’t have time for this, either.” He was grateful for the food, but her nagging was intolerable.  How in the world would he be able to finish his work without the cooperation of both Bessie and his wife? He would have to make do.  “You know, I think I need some time alone.  I really need to focus on this.”

“That’s all you do, Nick!” She threw her arms in the air; her exasperation was sudden but intense.  “You have a community full of elves who look up to you.  The other day, little Dale came up to me and said that he hopes to grow a beard like you when he grows up.  Of course, he is 54, but still….”

“You tell Dale to shut his elf mouth! No one can grow a beard like this.  It’s elegant, like a reindeer freshly emerged from the womb.”

“You might want to use a different metaphor next time.”

“My metaphor is fine! My work methods are fine! Dale is fine! Now will you just let me work?”

She groaned under her breath and glared at him.  “My point is this: you’re surrounded by adoring followers, and yet you cut yourself off from community.  Can that really be healthy?”

“Your stew keeps me healthy enough,” he muttered, grabbing the bowl before him and rising from his seat.  “Not to mention, I always have dear old Rudolph to talk to.  You know, when he actually lets me get a word in.  Now I’m going to step outside where it’s nice and quiet.  And for the love of Pete, please don’t come after me.”

Before she could reply, he snatched up his paperwork and stepped out into the niveous landscape.  The snow surrounding the large estate felt as hard as dirt beneath his feet, trodden regularly by elves, reindeer and himself.  The arctic wind chilled him to the bone, but it was not anything new; its familiarity was comforting.  Without expecting to see anything, he scanned the horizon and observed only the small rising and falling hills, resembling an endless expanse of whipped cream.  Crystals of ice danced in the wind beneath the cloudless, blueberry night sky.  Somewhere out there was a white and red pole sticking from the ground, and was, in fact, the reason the region possessed its current name.  Or at least that’s what Dale the elf had told him.  He was beginning to think Dale was a lying oaf.

It did not seem possible for him to finish his work on time this year, but he had thought that many times in the past.  Something was different about this time, however.  He was so overwhelmed by both his workload and the heaviness in his mind that he could not recall why he even needed to do his job.  What had prompted him to deliver gifts to the children of the world in the first place? What was the point of providing boons to little ruffians who were becoming increasingly immoral? I used to know the answer to these questions, he realized.  But for some reason, the answers presently eluded him.  That they receive coal rather than something worse is a mercy, even if the wife doesn’t see it.

He came to one of his favorite benches, a snowless half-log resting beneath the long eaves of the house.  Around the corner was the stable, housing his eight reindeer.  He did not bother to check if Rudolph was among them; the young sod was likely busy gallivanting across the icy dunes, annoying an abominable snowman, or singing that godawful song about himself again.  It was for the best; now he could focus on his work.  Awana Humphfree…Jonathan Legcheese….Done.  Now who’s next? He scrutinized the list on his lap and spent several minutes finding where he had left off on his computer.  When he arrived at the name “Anita Manzanita,” he smacked his forehead and sighed.  Who in the snowflake comes up with these names? Well, I definitely haven’t seen that name until now, so we’ll start there.

It so happened that Ms. Manzanita had been a very bad child, and then the next was even worse.  By the time he filled the page with names and gifts, he found that each child had managed to outdo the one before him or her in evil deeds.  Every kid on the page was to receive the same reward: coal.  No pair of skates for Johnny, nor sled for little Suzy.  No storybook for Nellie, not even one that she has read.  No, they will get no joyous gift from me this year.  All that they will receive is coal.  Coal! Coal for the children of the world! He threw down his paperwork in a rage and knocked over the bowl of stew that he had placed beside him.  The steaming substance hissed upon touching the snow, and then its contents spread in every direction like blood.  The reindeer were now antsy, huffing and snorting as they stomped throughout the stable.  This isn’t working, he thought.  I need to go back in that room again.  I need to recharge.

Rudolph stood on a nearby hill, watching as the scene took place.  Santa Claus did not bother to pick up his materials, but huffed and stomped just as loudly as the eight reindeer (he thought that Vixen and Donder in particular were overdoing it) as he made his way back to the door.  The fat man had always been so jolly…that is, until recently.  What could have changed? When you’re that heavy, you must be eating well, he mused.  His wife loves him more than Dale loves peppermint ice cream, and even more than Blitzen loves pooping on absolutely everything.  So what’s the problem, Santa? Why so glum? Reindeer were not known for their stealth, but Rudolph decided that he would follow the plump maniac and do some reconnaissance.  He tiptoed—or at least he thought it was tiptoeing; any viewer would have simply called it walking—down the frosty dune and along the plain.  Santa turned around one time to check if he was being tracked, so Rudolph hid behind a conveniently placed snowman that bore an uncanny resemblance to Marilyn Monroe.  When old St. Nick did not spy anything out of the ordinary, he continued on and disappeared into the building.

“Keep doing your thing, Monroe,” whispered Rudolph.  “And by the way, your hair is undeniably smexy this evening.”

She did not reply, to his chagrin.  Typical.  But I have no time for this! Deciding that his target was now out of earshot, the reindeer booked it toward the house as if his antlers were on fire.  Without hesitating, he crashed against the door and into the kitchen.  All looked normal at first, but then he glanced to his right and found Mrs. Claus sitting on her bum, her back to one of the cabinets.  She was gritting her teeth in pain, and he noticed a tear rolling down one of her cheeks.

“Mrs. Claus! Oh my goodness! What happened to you? Did he do this? Is he in here? Where did he go? What has he done to you? How dare he! Where did he go? Why aren’t you answering me? Mrs. Claus!”

Her fingers fumbled along the tile floor for a few moments before they grasped her spectacles.  Once she brought them to her eyes, she blinked several times, and her countenance softened.  “Rudolph, my dear.  Nick is not himself.  He has become corrupt, somehow.  I don’t know what’s happened to him.” Her mouth fell into the saddest little frown he had ever seen.  “He hit me, Rudolph.  Pushed me out of the way like some door.  He has never set a hand on me in anger before.  What—or who—could have done this to him?”

He shook his head, baffled, and sauntered over to her.  “I don’t know, ma’am.  I just don’t know.” He lowered his head, and she was able to wrap her arms around his neck and pull herself up.  “But I’m going to find out.  I can promise you that.”

He found the door to Santa’s secret room partially ajar, and once he stepped inside, he could not comprehend what he was seeing.  Claus was standing off to the side, somehow larger than ever, and long claws extended from the hands that were at his hips.  Furthermore, he smiled broadly, and his teeth were as sharp as icicles.  He was near a closet on the eastern side of the room; the closet had no doors, and it was not empty.  Inhabiting its space was an object that he had seen in the storybooks that Santa used to read to him and the other reindeer.  What was it called again? They’re almost always black, usually made of iron, and witches fancy them….A cauldron.  By all that is holy, it’s a cauldron.  He noticed black wisps slithering from the bowl, and here and there an oily bubble would rise and pop in the air.  What is this? Who brought this here?

“Rudolph,” said the man in a deep, acidic voice, “won’t you guide my sleigh tonight?”

Rudolph tried to avoid his eyes.  “Crap,” he muttered.