‘Twas the night before Christmas, and the wind was wailing like a banshee outside the door. Somewhere a shutter was banging against the shingles, making a racket to raise the dead.
I channel surfed the 800 channels of paid programming and Time-Warner music collections, which I can’t live without, and other assorted infomercials in search of mindless entertainment to take my attention from the hols and the rest of reality, finished my carton of pork fried rice and a tall glass of sangria, and decided it was time for bed. I donned my favorite footie jammies with the flap in the back and trudged off to slumber.
The wailing wind and indigestion from the pork fried rice helped sleep elude me until the wee hours. When sleep finally did come it didn’t bring visions of sugarplums dancing in my head, but rather nightmarish visions of bill collectors, creditors, and evil lying politicians. I tossed and turned for several hours, finally falling into that deep sleep only to be awakened by the howling wind and a clattering out on the lawn.
I sprang from my slumber and staggered through the house to the window. Peering out into the darkness I was startled by the frightening sight that met my eyes; out on the lawn stood a great demon beast. It had burning red eyes, a 14 point set of antlers, flames shooting from his nostrils, hooves of steel and a thick coat of fur. It wasn’t alone. There seemed to a herd of them—eight to be exact. Eight terrifying demon deer.
The demon deer herd was hitched to a sleigh, and in the sleigh stood a rotund midget wielding a whip whirling it around over his head. “On Slasher, on Masher, On Cynthia Nixon, on Maryann, on Ginger, on Greg, on Marcia, Marcia, Marcia. Up to the tree tops, and on to the roof, this crib ain’t been Santa proofed,” he shouted over the howling wind.
I watched in horror as the demon deer leapt into the air, pulling the sleigh behind them above the pine trees and oaks, and then landed on my terracotta roof. The clattering of breaking terracotta tiles shattering on the frozen ground below filled the air. I cringed and bolted from the window to the closet in search of a weapon.
Damn pacifist that I am, I don’t have a gun. An aluminum baseball bat is really just for fun. A rain stick won’t do, I thought realizing how fragile it was, and them I found it, a 9-iron swiped from the local driving range when it was still in existence. I really would’ve liked a .357 Magnum, but I had to improvise when being threatened with home invasion from a menacing elf.
I raced through the house searching for the venue through which he would choose to enter. I found he had jimmied a window in the bathroom and was loose in the house. He was definitely a pro, and moved about quiet as a mouse. I hurried about checking what he might’ve swiped, and discovered his sack. It was sitting in the living room, packed rather quickly with my laptop, DVD player, digicam recorder, ipod, an older VHS recorder, two clock radios, a jewelry box, and he was still searching for other goodies.
I shouldered my liberated 9-iron and waited. I knew the little fiend would not leave without his loot, and once again lamented my lack of gun with which to shoot. As I practiced saying “go ahead elf, make my day,” in the mirror, making menacing faces, I realized it just didn’t work as well with a 9-iron. As I was considering calling 9-1-1 for back up, he rounded the hall corner and bounded into me.
I leapt on him like Rosie O’Donnell on a donut. “I’ve got ya you little creep!” I shouted. We rolled on the floor in a grudge match-like tussle. I wasn’t going to let him get away with his haul. I didn’t want to have to replace all that stuff; I hated trips to the mall.
I body slammed the little thief against the door frame, but realized if he was seriously hurt I’d be to blame. My insurance doesn’t cover self-defensive acts of aggression. Besides, for this particular battle I was loosing my passion. As I grabbed him a choke hold I said, “Give up, elf. Leave your booty and go.”
“Oh no you don’t, Bobby. Not by my ho, ho, hos.” He replied, elbowing me in the ribs.
“Hey! How’d you know my name?” I asked, recovering from his sneak attack.
“I’m Bizarro Santa. I know all. I see all. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“Huh? I should be ashamed of myself? You come in here and try to rob me blind and I should be ashamed? You little thief, I’m gonna pulverize you like a snowman facing a snowplow,” I threatened.
“Sure, resort to violence.”
“You broke in here. No jury would convict me. O.J. stands a better chance of conviction than I. Now why don’t you beat it, little guy?”
“You’re a bigot,” he snarled. “You have a problem with my size.”
“I do not.”
“Since I’ve been here you’ve called me little three times. You’re prejudiced against people of diminutive stature.” He stood up and moved for his sack.
“Oh no you don’t,” I shouted, leaping toward him again.
He whistled and to my horror one of his demon deer did appear. “Brutus meet Bobby. Bobby meet Brutus.”
“Is he housebroken?” I stammered as the buck’s fiery breath filled my foyer. The beast seemed to smile at me, although it might’ve been more of a leer. I think he snickered and then he sneered.
“That Navajo rug might get a nasty stain if you don’t back down and know when you’ve been beat,” the very bad Santa threatened.
“Look, you’re supposed to be this kindly jolly elf who brings things to good writers and Realtors around the world. You’re not supposed to go around stealing.”
“I’m Bizarro Santa, dude. Don’t you pay attention to your comic books? The Bizarros are the opposite of the real ones. If you want you sweet and loving Santa go to the mall and sit on his lap. I know about your mall Santa fantasy.”
“Okay, okay. You win.” I said as Brutus backed me into a corner. His antlers were obviously sharpened and ready for battle.
Brutus and Bizarro Santa disappeared in the wink of an eye, man I hated that nasty little guy. The next thing I knew I was lying in bed staring at the ceiling. I looked at the clock and realized it was three in the morning. I leapt out of bed and checked my house for my loot, discovering my own bounty was all in tact. Apparently another night of bad dreams had abounded, turning my dream world upside down.
I’m hard pressed to find a moral to this tale, and for now I’m just looking forward to the after Christmas sales. I’m swearing off sangria and pork fried rice out of a carton, from my nightmares I am still smarting.
So to all I can offer these words of good cheer, happy holidays and a joyous New Year.
Robert is the author of the novels Cool Mint Blue, Melba Ridge, and the recently released The Adventures of Homosexual Man and Lesbian Lad; and the creator of the on-line comix Impure Thoughts found at his web site Inside R.A. Melos, as well as having been an on-line staff writer for QBliss where he had a monthly humor column, Maybe A Yip, Maybe A Yap. In his non-writing time, when he's not studying the metaphysical or creating a tarot deck, he sells real estate in Middlesex County New Jersey, hangs out with his dog Zeus, and spends time at the Pride Center of New Jersey in Highland Park, NJ, where he is on the Board of Trustees.
ABOUT ROBERT A. MELOS
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11.27.07 @ 4:53p
Well done! Here's to sweeter dreams of the holiday season!
11.27.07 @ 6:21p
I think Bizarro Santa should know nothing and see nothing.
"On Slasher, on Masher, On Cynthia Nixon..." Gold.