Post by Mike Best on Nov 13, 2006 20:15:48 GMT 10
Silent Night, Deadly Night
(Subtitled: When Good Santas Go Bad)
by Michael Polowy
Sirens wailed. Children cried. So went the night Kris Kringle went off the deep end. It wasn't pretty. A town in shambles. People in the streets, rambling about the horizontally challenged man in red that ruined Christmas.
But what else was to be expected? The pressure of it all was too much. Too many children, too little time. Being Santa Clause is certainly no picnic. The step aerobics weren't working, and he gave up on Tai Bo. And the beard? He hated it. He couldn't so much as eat at McDonald's without getting a few french fries caught in his beard. And the kids... oh the kids were the worst part of it all. Delivering bigger presents every year to ungrateful little brats all over the world. Never a "Gee, thanks Santa" from one of the little monsters. Only cookies. Two billion cookies every Christmas Eve. What's a man supposed to do with THAT MANY cookies? Eat them? He was trying to LOSE weight! A vicious cycle of giving and never recieving had Santa depressed.
The worst part was returning home, though. The North Pole wasn't just frosty and cold. It was a battlefield. Mrs. Clause wouldn't shut up to save her own life. Rudolph had long since retired. Prancer had cancer. Donner was a goner. And Cupid was stupid. Yes, stupid. After trying to fly the wrong way for the last two years, Santa made him call it quits. It was a sore sight. At the last minute last year, Santa had replaced the whole squad with a bunch of the younger reindeer. And they were cocky indeed. Always gossiping about Santa around the water cooler, and working at half pace. Yes, life up North wasn't exactly heating up. Not by a long shot.
And so, the preceding events still in his mind, the reign of yultide terror began. The twinkle in his eye was gone, replaced only with rage. This Christmas would be different, he promised himself. This year, Santa would get his due, even if it meant a little FORCE.
Flying through the night, a vicious laugh escaped his not so jolly mouth every little while. Gone was the chuckle of the merry old elf, replaced with a dark, gutteral cackle. Scary stuff. As he approached the first house on his list, he carefully looked over the child's profile on his naughty and nice list.
"Little Billy Johnson, eh?" said the disgruntled Clause. "He's nice. But not this year. They're ALL naughty THIS year!"
With a hearty cackle, the plump elf headed down the chimney, only briefly getting stuck on the way down. Exiting the fireplace, he scanned the room with his good eye, surveying the situation. It was a nice house. Not a palace by any means, but it would do for a small family. Without hesitation, he went to work. One by one, he took Billy's gifts from under the tree and placed them into his sack. Though it seemed a bit backward for him at first, it soon became great fun. But Santa didn't stop THERE. He was no coward. No, taking the presents wasn't enough. He had work to do.
Ideas rolled into his head like grains of sand in an hourglass. Little Billy, only seven years old, was left a six pack of Budweiser in his closet, and a pile of dirty magazines by the tree. Santa located dad's briefcase, and emptied the contents into the fireplace with a menacing chuckle. He cut down the Christmas tree, and left the refridgerator open. He even stole the last can of Who Has. Er... wrong story.
And so went the routine all night. He'd enter a house, take the presents, and terrorize the house. He left Barbies for boys and bugs for girls. Soon enough, the police were notified, and the mad dash for Santa's arrest began. It was hard to keep a straight face while calling in a burglary on Santa Clause, but the authorities managed to do it without too much trouble. Even the FBI got involved, patrolling towns like the Grinch Who Stole Christmas. Everyone locked the doors and lit their fireplaces, hiding in fear of the jolly offender. It seemed Santa had gotten his revenge after all.
Nobody would take the case. Spiderman was on vacation. Superman didn't believe in Santa. It seemed there was no hope. That is, until Hanukkah Harry showed up. Who's he, you might ask? Well Hanukkah Harry is the not-so-well-known Jewish superhero. Never heard of him? Yeah, me either. But let's go with it, ok? *ahem* So Hanukkah Harry decided to track down the Christmas tycoon and put his shenanigans to a stop once and for all. With a cry of "Oy!" he hopped into the Menora Mobile. Using his keen sense of Jewishness, Harry tracked Santa to a house in Venice Beach, California. With lightning speed and agility, Hanukkah Harry ran into the street and with all his super powers.... hailed a cab. (What? Its irony, people!)
And with the author's power of creative license, Harry appears in Venice Beach in five minutes by cab, instead of the forty or so hours it should've taken. As Harry entered the house quietly, he could see Santa loading the last present into his bag. Quiet as a mouse with clogs on, Harry crept up behind the big guy, who smelled faintly of Jack Daniels and was humming a Kiss song. Without even looking back, Santa spoke to Harry, as if he KNEW he'd been there.
"Hello, Harry. Still can't figure out that this is MY holiday, can you? I figured you'd show up to play the hero." Santa said with a sneer. "You disgust me, you Jewish superhero has been."
"Oy vey, Santa, you must stop this madness! Think of the children!" begged Harry, to no avail. "This is your life! This is their childhood!"
"No, Harry." he retorted quickly and uncaringly, "I've been thinking of those little brats since I made my decision. Christmas is MY way this year."
With that, Santa reached into his belt, and produced a large, pointed candy cane from under his robes. With a quick swish, he went for Harry's chest. He rolled to the left, avoiding Santa's attack, and pulled three "Throwing Stars of David" from his own robe, tossing them at the angry elf. Santa dodged as well, but in the commotion, dropped his weapon. Harry picked up the fat man and tossed him into the street, using all his energy. A small crowd of onlookers gathered as the two holiday icons proceeded to have the worst looking fistfight in history. Like schoolboys, they punched, kicked, and scratched at eachother till their robes were tattered and their energy faded. As Harry hobbled to his feet, Santa took one more swing. Harry ducked it, and with all his might, tackled the mighty man to the ground like a festive sack of potatoes. As the crowd cheered and chanted "Hanukkah Harry", Harry beamed brightly.
With a start, he sat up in bed. Looking around him, Hannukah Harry realized it was Christmas morning. Rushing out of bed like Scrooge did so many years before, he reached for the paper, expecting to see his name on the front page. Instead, nothing. Not a mention at all. And then it came back to him. Last night, he and the Easter Bunny had gotten together, and played cards with Frosty and the Tooth Fairy. They had a bit too much eggnog, and he'd taken a cab home. It had all been a bad dream.
"Well, *sigh* it COULD happen." he whispered...
(Subtitled: When Good Santas Go Bad)
by Michael Polowy
Sirens wailed. Children cried. So went the night Kris Kringle went off the deep end. It wasn't pretty. A town in shambles. People in the streets, rambling about the horizontally challenged man in red that ruined Christmas.
But what else was to be expected? The pressure of it all was too much. Too many children, too little time. Being Santa Clause is certainly no picnic. The step aerobics weren't working, and he gave up on Tai Bo. And the beard? He hated it. He couldn't so much as eat at McDonald's without getting a few french fries caught in his beard. And the kids... oh the kids were the worst part of it all. Delivering bigger presents every year to ungrateful little brats all over the world. Never a "Gee, thanks Santa" from one of the little monsters. Only cookies. Two billion cookies every Christmas Eve. What's a man supposed to do with THAT MANY cookies? Eat them? He was trying to LOSE weight! A vicious cycle of giving and never recieving had Santa depressed.
The worst part was returning home, though. The North Pole wasn't just frosty and cold. It was a battlefield. Mrs. Clause wouldn't shut up to save her own life. Rudolph had long since retired. Prancer had cancer. Donner was a goner. And Cupid was stupid. Yes, stupid. After trying to fly the wrong way for the last two years, Santa made him call it quits. It was a sore sight. At the last minute last year, Santa had replaced the whole squad with a bunch of the younger reindeer. And they were cocky indeed. Always gossiping about Santa around the water cooler, and working at half pace. Yes, life up North wasn't exactly heating up. Not by a long shot.
And so, the preceding events still in his mind, the reign of yultide terror began. The twinkle in his eye was gone, replaced only with rage. This Christmas would be different, he promised himself. This year, Santa would get his due, even if it meant a little FORCE.
Flying through the night, a vicious laugh escaped his not so jolly mouth every little while. Gone was the chuckle of the merry old elf, replaced with a dark, gutteral cackle. Scary stuff. As he approached the first house on his list, he carefully looked over the child's profile on his naughty and nice list.
"Little Billy Johnson, eh?" said the disgruntled Clause. "He's nice. But not this year. They're ALL naughty THIS year!"
With a hearty cackle, the plump elf headed down the chimney, only briefly getting stuck on the way down. Exiting the fireplace, he scanned the room with his good eye, surveying the situation. It was a nice house. Not a palace by any means, but it would do for a small family. Without hesitation, he went to work. One by one, he took Billy's gifts from under the tree and placed them into his sack. Though it seemed a bit backward for him at first, it soon became great fun. But Santa didn't stop THERE. He was no coward. No, taking the presents wasn't enough. He had work to do.
Ideas rolled into his head like grains of sand in an hourglass. Little Billy, only seven years old, was left a six pack of Budweiser in his closet, and a pile of dirty magazines by the tree. Santa located dad's briefcase, and emptied the contents into the fireplace with a menacing chuckle. He cut down the Christmas tree, and left the refridgerator open. He even stole the last can of Who Has. Er... wrong story.
And so went the routine all night. He'd enter a house, take the presents, and terrorize the house. He left Barbies for boys and bugs for girls. Soon enough, the police were notified, and the mad dash for Santa's arrest began. It was hard to keep a straight face while calling in a burglary on Santa Clause, but the authorities managed to do it without too much trouble. Even the FBI got involved, patrolling towns like the Grinch Who Stole Christmas. Everyone locked the doors and lit their fireplaces, hiding in fear of the jolly offender. It seemed Santa had gotten his revenge after all.
Nobody would take the case. Spiderman was on vacation. Superman didn't believe in Santa. It seemed there was no hope. That is, until Hanukkah Harry showed up. Who's he, you might ask? Well Hanukkah Harry is the not-so-well-known Jewish superhero. Never heard of him? Yeah, me either. But let's go with it, ok? *ahem* So Hanukkah Harry decided to track down the Christmas tycoon and put his shenanigans to a stop once and for all. With a cry of "Oy!" he hopped into the Menora Mobile. Using his keen sense of Jewishness, Harry tracked Santa to a house in Venice Beach, California. With lightning speed and agility, Hanukkah Harry ran into the street and with all his super powers.... hailed a cab. (What? Its irony, people!)
And with the author's power of creative license, Harry appears in Venice Beach in five minutes by cab, instead of the forty or so hours it should've taken. As Harry entered the house quietly, he could see Santa loading the last present into his bag. Quiet as a mouse with clogs on, Harry crept up behind the big guy, who smelled faintly of Jack Daniels and was humming a Kiss song. Without even looking back, Santa spoke to Harry, as if he KNEW he'd been there.
"Hello, Harry. Still can't figure out that this is MY holiday, can you? I figured you'd show up to play the hero." Santa said with a sneer. "You disgust me, you Jewish superhero has been."
"Oy vey, Santa, you must stop this madness! Think of the children!" begged Harry, to no avail. "This is your life! This is their childhood!"
"No, Harry." he retorted quickly and uncaringly, "I've been thinking of those little brats since I made my decision. Christmas is MY way this year."
With that, Santa reached into his belt, and produced a large, pointed candy cane from under his robes. With a quick swish, he went for Harry's chest. He rolled to the left, avoiding Santa's attack, and pulled three "Throwing Stars of David" from his own robe, tossing them at the angry elf. Santa dodged as well, but in the commotion, dropped his weapon. Harry picked up the fat man and tossed him into the street, using all his energy. A small crowd of onlookers gathered as the two holiday icons proceeded to have the worst looking fistfight in history. Like schoolboys, they punched, kicked, and scratched at eachother till their robes were tattered and their energy faded. As Harry hobbled to his feet, Santa took one more swing. Harry ducked it, and with all his might, tackled the mighty man to the ground like a festive sack of potatoes. As the crowd cheered and chanted "Hanukkah Harry", Harry beamed brightly.
With a start, he sat up in bed. Looking around him, Hannukah Harry realized it was Christmas morning. Rushing out of bed like Scrooge did so many years before, he reached for the paper, expecting to see his name on the front page. Instead, nothing. Not a mention at all. And then it came back to him. Last night, he and the Easter Bunny had gotten together, and played cards with Frosty and the Tooth Fairy. They had a bit too much eggnog, and he'd taken a cab home. It had all been a bad dream.
"Well, *sigh* it COULD happen." he whispered...