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