Irving 82431 12-11-19
(30 minute Christmas story in 6000 characters? Nailed it!)
The Reindeer weren’t always cannibals. Not before we had Hummers and asphalt. As the state of world deteriorates quickly, Santa’s chained to my bed, becoming Patty Hearst.
Four hundred years. That’s how long I’ve been trying to spring a proper trap. I only have him now to keep him safe from himself–it’s really quite embarrassing for both of us.
The man’s gone batshit. I imagine it comes with watching all those little villains beat puppies with sticks and learn how to twerk. Can you imagine knowing a million demented sociopaths are waiting to mature to a point where they can inflict the maximum damage?
Santa use to love the natives. They brought him gifts, asked him how he was doing! How many times do you think those little shits now ask the old man about his day? Those little psychotics make my kleptomania look like a rain dance.
I only ever wanted his sack, and all of the goodies we know to come with it. The last time I came close was 1942:
He was crying in Germany, not paying attention. The only adrenaline I could find came with the indecency of genocide. Don’t get me wrong, I love the Jews. But they had the best stuff, and you know addicts–we take what we can get. Anyways, package delivery was slow in those days, so as I was going house to house I was mostly just collecting MY trinkets.
I was alone in a tinker shop when I heard the basement weeping. That’s not something I usually investigate –to each their own, know what I mean?–but this form of sobbing, it was unmistakable: “Ohhhh, ho ho ho hooooo! Oh, oh, oh, hoooo!” I knew that I had him, and after all of these years, I could relieve him of duties and items of pleasure.
But me and old Santa, well, we’ve been at it a while. My scent must have triggered something. Because when I came through the door, he was climbing in the furnace, and, I don’t know, he got the best and made his escape.
It’s been almost 80 years now. And I now feed my hunger with the courteous Bezos: It’s no secret he knows what I do–kind of like the Taliban all over again.
Anyhow, I was just doing my rounds, looting some of my favorite porches, and I heard the sobbing again, but this time it was closing in on me! I couldn’t detect the direction. And then he fell from the sky, naked, drunk and heavily pierced. “Good god, Chris, is that tramp stamp from Tijuana?”
“You have to help me Grinchy, I can’t take it anymore. They’re all nuts. It’s insane I tell you! And Bezos, he’s a monster. He’s taken my purpose…I need an escape from the pain. Ohhh ho, ho hoooo!”
SLAP. “Have some respect for yourself Kringle! Pull yourself together and give me the fuckin’ bag.”
“It won’t work without me. But if you take me home…maybe let me stay on your couch…I’ll do anything.” Licking his lips. “Annnything.”
SLAP. “I’m not that kind of demon Kringle. Grab your things, I don’t want to win like this.”
I took him home. Fed him some soup. And let the poor guy tell me all about it.
Apparently, one day, he was feeling the stress: wanted to do something nice for himself, you know? So he thought, maybe I deserve a little gift, and he reached in the bag with his eyes closed–to let the sack decide what would suit him best. Well, when he pulled out his hand, with it came an AR-15 and 30-round banana clips, taped to each other in opposite directions, like the way we’d still do if we didn’t fly the drones every time we thought it right to have a Pakistani village cleansed. Needless to say, that kind of freaked him out a little bit. It’s been all hookers and blow ever since.
Christmas is now two weeks away, and not that I care, but it’s kind of a tradition. So I made some phone calls–scheduled an intervention–but no one really seems to give a shit: The Tooth Fairy is into the nightlife, the Easter Bunny can’t take time away from the kids, Jesus is kind of pissed that Chris stole his thunder, and Satan’s waaaaay too happy to come.
So it looks like it’s up to me. I’m gonna have to save this bitch-ass Christmas.
“Give me the keys Santa. I need to go and collect your things. If you don’t try to find the key those chains, you can watch whatever you want on the Internet. Make sure you don’t download if you come across my Favorites.”
The reindeer have changed since I last saw them. They’ve been lacking in diet and sustenance. I think Donner is missing a limb, and Blitzen just shit out a pinky.
I see the freaky little elves have been having their way. Those little liberal bastards have gentrified the Pole. As high strung as those assholes already are, what could they possibly need from a Starbucks?
Fire hose ready: It’s mattress flipping time! “Get out of bed you little maggots! Is this how you repay the man that keeps you safe from the circus!”
They’re saying something back to me, but I don’t understand their dialect. All I can tell you is that it’s disrespectful to English. That doesn’t keep me from rallying troops, and to let the resistors be known, I attach to them the Star of David.
A handful of magic is all that we need, and that explains the detour we make in Tijuana.
We make it back to my pad and the big man is almost done with his fever. His bucket of waste is liquidized cookies, and he’s fried my computer–his fetish is sick.
Smoking a joint, we know what comes next: We’ll play the new Madden while speaking ambition.
Because times have changed, our schedule has, too. We’ll need to deliver while school’s still in session. There are no requests for dolls and turtle ninjas. Something else has been trending in style.
We don’t have time to slow down while we make our deliveries, so we’ll just toss all this shit as we hover through sky. I hope their tiny little necular vertebrae can withstand the impact from these bulletproof backpacks.
Not that it matters. We’re all dying from climate change anyways.