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| | Hogs of Entropy Text Files Present... | |
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| | "Santa Claws MUST DIE!" | |
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| | By: The Chickenlord | |
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"Just look at this! Would you look at this! Look at the roof!!" My
father pointed down at the torn shingles which littered our roof. A stretch
of about twenty feet was utterly destroyed. Broken and splintered shingles
were scattered everywhere, and holes were punched through the tar paper
every few inches.
"We're gonna have to have the entire roof redone! At least three
thousand dollars right there!" My father clawed at his hair as he turned
around. "And the chimney! There's another three or four thousand!"
I turned to look at the chimney. What was left of the chimney. What
once been nearly four feet tall was now merely a pile of bricks. Most of
them broken or crushed. The roof around the chimney had bulged outward:
another repair.
"I can't believe this! We didn't even hear a damn thing. What could
have done this?" I told him I had no idea, but that was a lie.
As we made our way down the ladder, I thought about last night.
Christmas Eve. I had been up late, as always, watching TV. There was
nothing special on, just countless airings of It's a Wonderful Life and
continuous episodes of _The Real World_ on MTV. Like I said, nothing
special. Just as I had turned off the tube, a quick movement in the corner
of my eye caught my attention. I whirled around in time to see a bit of red
disappearing up the chimney.
"What the hell was that?" I had thought to myself. When I stuck my
head into the fireplace to check it out, something crashed into my forehead,
knocking me down. The object had been a brick, covered in soot. It was
followed by many others. After shaking off the blow to my head, I had gone
up to bed. I decided it would be best to keep quiet.
When my father and I reached the ground, he drew in the ladder's
extension and carried it into the garage. I stayed behind to take a peek in
the bushes by the side of the house. Laying half-covered in the snow I
found a red and white stocking hat. Just as I suspected. I picked it out
of the snow, revealing an empty bottle of Jack Daniels. Ah ha! So it HAD
been Santa Claws. And that old bastard had been drunk too.
Once again, I decided it would be best if I kept my discoveries to
myself. I could take care of this situation on my own.
A year passed, and eventually Christmas came around again. It had
taken us two months to fix the damages from last year, ringing up a total
cost of nine thousand dollars. And our insurance company didn't pitch in
one damn cent. Communist bastards. Fed us some bullshit about a clause in
our contract, about not being responsible for any acts of God. Act of God
my ass. Funny thing neither me nor my father remembered that clause being
in the contract when it had been signed. And I don't think that Santa
getting drunk and tearing up our roof is an "Act of God." Assholes.
So my father footed the entire bill himself. Said I would have to
put off getting a car for a long time. That did it. Not only did that fat
drunk destroy my roof, knock down my chimney, and hit me in the head with a
brick, he had taken away my only hope of getting a car. I was gonna make
him pay.
I had been plotting my revenge for an entire year. The past three
months I had saved every penny to buy a crossbow. Top of the line, spared
no expense. I was gonna do this right. With a 180 lb. draw, it had the
power to shoot through a concrete block. Which was just what I had in mind.
The day of Christmas Eve, I snuck the crossbow out of my room and
stashed it in our tree. I removed the wood from the fireplace and put a
fake plastic set in its place. Another month's worth of saving. Even
though the new chimney was less than a year old, I made sure it was clear
from obstructions. Wouldn't want Santa to get stuck stuffing his fat ass
down my chimney, now would we?
By the time I had finished setting up for the big event, it was well
past four o' clock. My parents were prancing around the house with joy.
Must've been that "Christmas Spirit" I hear everyone talking about. Never
experienced it myself. To me, the Christmas spirit was what I hoped to
watch rise from Santa's lifeless body after I slayed him. But I was
exhausted, Christmas spirit or not, so I laid down on the couch to catch
some sleep before night came.
As soon as I hit the couch I was asleep, and the next thing I knew I
was sitting up, the living room pitch black around me. I pressed the light
button on my watch, a cheap Timex from the Christmas before. It said 11:37.
"Fuck!" I shouted. I had probably missed him. A whole year's worth
of planning for nothing. I jumped off the couch and found my way to the
light switch on the far side of the room. I flipped on the light and looked
toward the fireplace. Even though I had to squint from the light, I could
still see that the fireplace was still intact. He hadn't come yet.
I sat down, relieved, and almost fell back asleep again. I couldn't
believe how tired I was, considering I had just taken a seven-hour nap.
Maybe it had something to do with Santa. Could it be possible that he was
some sort of wizard, with the power to put all living creatures in his
presence to sleep? Or could it just be that I was unexplainibly tired?
Most likely the latter.
I shook off the urge to return to my slumber, and walked to the
fireplace. I HAD to stay awake!! I looked down at the false log set I had
placed in there earlier that day. It almost looked real. But not quite.
Oh well, it didn't matter. Santa wasn't going to be staying long anyway. I
reached up onto the mantle, grabbed the gas ignition key, and inserted it
into the large square keyhole. I turned the key as far to the right as it
would turn. Once I heard the hiss of escaping gas, I lit the Zippo I
carried in my back pocket and held it in the fireplace.
The gas ignited instantly, burning off the hair on my hand and
halfway up my arm. "Sonofabitch!" I cursed as I yanked my hand out of the
flames, dropping my Zippo as I did. It fell under the gas pipe in the
fireplace, still lit. Seconds later the metal casing popped. A fifteen
dollar lighter, ruined. Something else I would have to take out on Santa.
Using my unburned hand, I slowly turned the key counter-clockwise until the
flame was barely visible under the artificial log set. The plastic on the
logs had burned quite badly on the underside, producing a cloud of toxic
black smoke which steadily rose up the chimney. Another treat for Santa.
After turning off the light, I fetched my crossbow from inside the
tree. It was a beauty. And so were the ten-inch titanium bolts I had
bought to go with it. I carefully perched the crossbow on the coffee table,
pointing it towards the fireplace. With great pains I was able to cock it,
and I ever-so-carefully placed a single black bolt against the string. All
set to go. Now all I needed was a Santa. And perhaps a kitchen knife. I
hurried into the kitchen to fetch our best knife, which was a nine-inch
serrated butcher's knife. Beautiful. Just then, a crash sounded from
above.
I raced to the living room and ducked behind the coffee table.
Within moments, a clamor came from above as several bricks fell down the
chimney. They were followed by the butt of a great big fat man dressed in
red. Santa was here. I took no sympathy on that drunken bastard as I moved
the crosshairs of the sight onto Santa's chest. Just as Santa turned my
direction, I fired.
I would have paid my life's savings and more to capture the look on
Santa's face as he realized he was being shot at. He stared in confusion at
first, but then his eyes opened wide and his mouth gaped in shock. Shock
and fear.
The bolt traveled smoothly in its short path through the air to Santa
But the sight must've been off, because the bolt buried itself into his left
shoulder instead of his chest. The sheer power of the shot forced him back
against the bricks of the chimney. But the bolt did not stop at the bone of
Santa's shoulder. It exited through the back and dug two inches into the
brick. Santa was pinned!
The puncture wound was spurting blood, darkening his already red suit
quickly. Drunken screams came from his mouth, but they were mostly shouts
of shock rather than pain. He was too loaded to feel anything. I
approached the babbling Santa, brandishing the knife menacingly before me.
Drunk as he was, Santa recognized the knife as an instrument of pain, and
attempted to shy away. The titanium bolt held though, and with every effort
he made, Santa ripped his wound open even more. Blood poured out onto the
bricks, and was slowly trickling down into the fireplace.
I held the knife against Santa's wriggling body, and pressed on his
stomach. His overly large stomach. Enough blubber there to feed a family
for a week, I thought to myself as I mercilessly inserted the blade into the
jolly rolls which now shook with terror instead of laughter. A small ring
of blood formed around the blade as its full nine inches slowly penetrated
Santa's skin. Nine inches in, and it hadn't even punctured the other side.
Disgusted, I yanked the blade out, pleased by the tears of anguish coming
from dear old Saint Nick. Now the blood was starting to flow. From
Santa's stomach erupted a steady flow of blood, pulsating with every fading
heartbeat.
I threw the knife down, leaving a bloodstain on the carpeting. Big
deal! There was more on the chimney. Santa was still trying to escape, his
life force rapidly escaping through his two bleeding wounds. When he came
to the realization that he wasn't going to live, Santa began to cry. No,
not crying, he was sobbing. Nothing made me sicker than a crybaby. I
raised a bloody hand, curled it into a fist, and brought it down on Santa's
fat face. His head jerked to the side with the impact, and he continued his
sobbing. I hit him again. And again. I beat him until he was on the brink
of consciousness, his white beard now red from the blood of fresh cuts on
his cheeks. One eye was nearly swollen shut, and his nose was definitely
broken. More blood flowed from Santa's mouth, much brighter than the blood
which was still oozing from from his stomach and shoulder.
Santa's body had gone limp, all bodily control was now lost. The
bolt in his shoulder was the only thing holding him up. I grasped this with
both hands and yanked. Nothing. I braced a foot against the wall for more
power, and tugged again. Still nothing. That bolt wasn't going anywhere.
So I grabbed Santa's body instead. With a hand on either side of the
puncture on his shoulder, I pulled the body toward me. His shoulder slid
slowly along the length of the shaft, coming free at the end.
I was suddenly holding up Santa's three hundred pound body on my own.
I nearly collapsed. Santa fell between my arms, and slumped backwards. His
body fell halfway into the fireplace, his legs hanging out onto my living
room carpet. I kicked them in as far as they would go. Santa was still
moaning faintly, his last breaths being used for useless pleads for mercy.
No mercy. Not for this overweight sack of shit.
Reaching down, I found the gas key. With a quick twist of the wrist,
I turned it to the left as far as it went. Flames leaped up from the
ignition pipe beneath the plastic log set. It was engulfed in flames, along
with Santa's now lifeless body. A thick black cloud rapidly filled the
room, smelling of burnt plastic and singed hair. And flesh. The burning
flesh was the worst, yet somehow a pleasant odor.
In less than five minutes, Santa's body was reduced to a pile of
ashes and smoke. The gas flames reached up the chimney, reaching for more
fuel. More food. I slowly turned the gas key to the "Off" position, the
flames dying in protest as they were sucked into the pipe. My hand shook as
I picked up the bloodied knife off the bloodstained carpeting. Was it fear?
Nervousness? Perhaps the delayed shock of tonight's events?
I didn't take the time to think it over. I returned the butcher's
knife to its place in the rack, blood and all. Not even stopping to pick up
my crossbow, I walked down the hallway to my bedroom and closed the door
behind me. What would happen to the reindeer? How would my parents react
when they found the mess? Who would take over Santa's job? I didn't care.
I had killed Santa, a justifiable punishment for a crime he had undoubtedly
committed countless times to peoples worldwide. I had killed Santa Claws,
and now I was tired. So I went to sleep, with dreams of sugar-plums dancing
through my head.
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Copyright (c) 1994 HoE Publications and Chickenlord. #59 --> 02/04/95
All rights Reserved.