A TERRIFYING CHRISTMAS EVE ADVENTURE
Christmas Eve 2010, 2:33 a.m., stockings are hung, snow blankets the ground.
Something quite terrible has happened…
- I shot him. He’s on my lawn, leaking blood from a head wound into the unforgiving snow. I didn't mean it; I was aiming for something else. It's gone wrong. I have all the toys.
- Sorry to those expecting presents. I killed him and he didn’t get to everyone. I was gonna finish his work in the manner of Tim Allen but meh.
- That “bright star” in the sky? That was Santa’s sleigh exploding after I hit it with a rocket.
- Oh irony of ironies! Just as I was getting ready for bed, I noticed that I now have two white hairs in my stubble! And Santa’s barely dead!
- Looking down, I notice my belly is - dare I say it? - like a bowlful of jelly! It seems that, when I shot him, his spirit passed into me!
- It falls upon me to complete the job, as he lies lifeless in the twinkling snow, in the shadow of his exploded sleigh. I must deliver.
- First, I must find appropriate boots, as my reindeer socks cannot provide sufficient grip in the snow. Brainwave! I should take HIS boots!
- As I pull on his hefty boots, I cast a rueful glance in the direction of the sleigh, now a charred husk in a landscape of festive debris.
- I am freezing cold out here. Good boots, but my penis is sticking out of the side of my underpants. Should take the rest of Santa’s outfit.
- I’m losing valuable time as I struggle first to divest Santa of his clothes and then to dress myself. The coat is lovely, the trousers a joke.
- Penis has been tucked in, grateful for the gesture. I am now wearing Santa’s outer garments (the vest, I felt, was unbecoming). Now what?
- My immediate concern is the whereabouts of the presents. I admit that, earlier on, I spent half an hour or so just breaking toys for fun.
- On second thought, I’ve decided that I prefer having the penis out. Have cut a hole in crotch of trousers. Feel emboldened, righteous. Hot?
- My current hotness is immaterial, however. I am wearing a dead man’s clothes and am on a mission to distribute his (are they his?) presents.
- Progress! I just spotted Santa’s sack in a nearby tree. Also spotted Santa’s sac, or parts thereof, protruding from his Y-fronts. Must cover
- Covered Santa’s lower half with a “SANTA PLEASE STOP HERE” sign. Really quite hard to trudge through snow in these boots. Must persevere.
- Not sure how to retrieve the sack from the tree. Considered shooting it down but a) I have already killed tonight and b) noise issues.
- Kicked the tree; several kilos of snow landed on my head. Feared concussion but carried on. Sack dislodged; landed on snowman, decapitating.
- Now this is new. Sack appears on inspection to be empty, but when I plunge hand into it, it feels full of toys! What is it with flying folk?
- A problem: how will I know which presents to leave in which house? Test run at my house has yielded a futon and set of knives. It’s magic!
- Safe in the knowledge that Santa’s sack will decide for me which presents we’ll leave in each house, I set off for the neighbours’ driveway.
- Wait a minute! I can’t just shimmy down chimneys, willy-nilly! There’s got to be another point of ingress. Catflap? No. Letterbox? Nope.
- Slightly overwhelmed. Have done some calculations, jotting down figures with a stick in the snow. Target: 1 billion kids. So far: zero.
- I must resort to corner-cutting. Going to be systematic yet rushed. Running up to houses, in numerical order; throwing toys into gardens.
- A warning: many children, certainly in the immediate vicinity of my house, will wake up to find their presents strewn on the snow outside.
- My hasty present-flinging is a necessary measure, given the time constraints and my inexperience. Rest assured I’m moving as quickly as I can.
- I can confirm that all presents I pull from Santa’s sack are pre-labelled and immaculately wrapped. Don’t ask how - I don’t understand magic.
- Status update…. Target: 1 billion kids. So far: 15 kids (all neighbours of mine).
- Now sincerely regretting blowing up Santa’s sleigh with a rocket and then shooting him in the head. This task is gargantuan. Penis, not so.
- Wish I could locate the reindeer. Occurs to me that they may have exploded in initial blast. Hope that a) they didn’t and b) they forgive me
- Have made it further down the road, to an enormous housing estate. Will visit (i.e. throw presents at) the odd-numbered ones, then the evens.
- My shooting arm hurts. So many bicycles to deliver. And it’s getting harder to throw them over the garden walls. Getting sloppy now.
- Have done the unthinkable. Am abandoning heavy parcels on the footpath and only flinging the small toys into the gardens. I’m only human.
- Fatigue beginning to set in. Another brainwave: those bearing presents on Christmas Eve are entitled to free food and drink upon arrival.
- I’ve mulled it over and have decided against entering houses to avail of milk and cookies. Some homes have an inordinate number of locks.
- Panicked. Dashed - or rather stumbled - back to scene of the crime(s), where Santa’s corpse remains. Pondering my next move.
- It’s too much. I’m just one man, a man who slaughtered a flying man and possibly a group of animals (pending investigation). I must strip.
- Fingers almost numb. Adrenaline, cold, unfamiliar buttons and incompetence conspire to delay the removal of clothes. Penis already exposed.
- Couldn’t think of a better idea, so I just left Santa’s clothes in a twisted heap. Scene suggests a one-man sex party gone tragically wrong.
- Can’t believe it. I’ve locked myself out of my own house! And I’m in my underpants (and reindeer socks). Need to find another way in.
- Fear and possible frost-madness (I’ll have to look it up, but it sounds like it may be a real thing) have enabled me to scale the drainpipe.
- Looking for an open window, an air vent, anything large enough to crawl through. The view from up here is both beautiful and harrowing.
- A cruel twist of fate has led me to this most unfortunate of situations: standing on my roof in my underwear, penis askew, in the snow.
- Having killed Santa with rocket and pistol and failed to complete his deliveries, I must now break into my own house through the chimney.
- Wish me luck. I’m going in. To all a good night.