Part III

(An email sent on the 26th December 2008)

Hey

So I guess you’re wondering…how did he get out…

To catch up the stragglers (and don’t we all just love the voiceover guy – ‘previously on Santa Claus Must Die…’)

Santa Claus is an evil git.
A fat evil git.
And he needs to be stopped.

I have made it my life’s mission to stop the fat bastard by any and all means possible.

It’s the most amount of effort I’ve ever put into anything. Last year, I ended up in the North Pole and after my best efforts at subterfuge had been seen through, I was captured. And that’s the last you had heard from me. A prisoner of the fat man, left to die alone in an ice igloo prison; living off the kindness of a seagull who took to dropping food to me, I suspect, because it was stupid.

As a matter of interest, I had named the seagull Cat2 in the memory of my pet chicken, Cat, who was so far the only tragic victim in my war against the Claus. May she cluck in peace.

So how did I get out of that prison?

Well it was actually pretty simple. Around New Year’s Day, I got tired of sitting in a cold wet room. Actually the thing that annoyed me most was sitting in a room without corners. You only think it’s easy.
So I decided to tunnel my way out thinking if Andy could do it...

So knees to ground, I started to dig. Wasn’t easy. Actually I didn’t progress at all unless you count sliding from one end of the igloo to the other (‘end’ is a term I use loosely seeing as I was in a round room). I needed some sort of digging device and yes, I was a spade short of a toolshed.

While thinking about it, Cat2 turned up, as the fates would have it, without any food.

So I ate her. One always thinks better on a full stomach, and Cat2’s leftover beak would make a great digging device (I surmised after accidentally sitting on it).

So I began digging. After three hours and two centimetres down, I surmised that digging down was stupid and attacked the roof instead. The nice thing about an igloo, you’ll find if you’re ever trapped in one, is that it’s pretty much blocks of ice held together by itself.

After an hour of careful chipping, a big block fell out of the roof and resulted in much cursing and clutching of my left foot (it should have been ten minutes but I spent a lot of the time using the beak as a hand puppet and talking to myself). And so I climbed out…to what you would think would be freedom.

Good thing that you’d be right.
That was a year ago.

Now, more intelligent people would put it down as a lucky escape, hang up their machine guns in their booby trapped stockings and call it a day.

Not me.

If there’s one thing I learnt about myself when I was trapped by the Dalai Lama is that I know how to hold a grudge.

I immediately compiled all that I knew about Santa and all that I had managed to learn in my undercover operation before being caught. Knowledge, after all, takes up less space than videos on your hard-drive.

Shit I know about Santa (aka That Fat Bastard)

1. He’s fat and has a beard. 
2. He has a preference for red suits and lady’s underwear (don’t ask me how I know that). 
3. Common knowledge is that he likes cookies and milk. This is a lie. He actually likes banana cake and hot chocolate (what were you expecting?).
4. He likes children and keeps a special list of the naughty ones. He likes to make them sit on his knee so he can tell them how he’s going to give it to them on Xmas morning. (Sounds sick doesn't it?).
5. HE KNOWS. How much does he know, you may ask. Well he knows what Jesus would do!
6. He killed my pet chicken, Cat (and God knows how many other innocent chickens!).
7. He likes reindeer pornography. 
8. His sleigh runs on diesel. There’s absolutely no reason for twelve helpless deer to run ahead of the sleigh as he whips them with a twelve foot piece of licorice. Also Rudolph’s red nose was the first documented case (although encrypted and classified by the CIA) of a reindeer getting syphilis (think about it).

That was my list. And yes, it wasn't much help. Beyond dressing up as a naughty little boy disguised as a reindeer pretending to like licorice, I was stumped.

By July I was pretty depressed. Really depressed. Even watching Dr. Phil didn't help. And Dr. Phil usually helped. I mean seeing a bald, fat guy from Texas with a weird little Hitler moustache trying to help fat women in pink tracksuits lose five pounds by saying ‘I hate you’ to pictures of their favourite tv dinner is always good for a laugh.

But luckily I snapped out of it.

I came up with a cunning plan.

Being an authority on Geek mythology, I drew inspiration from the Trojan Horse. From August I worked around the clock building a Trojan Horse of my own. Of course it was a hundredth of the size, made of cardboard and contained Anthrax (ok, I couldn’t get my hands on Anthrax so I sneezed on it several times). And it was actually a reindeer. In addition to the common cold (which has no cure, ha ha, take that Santa), I
also included a time bomb.

Old, crude, simple. It’s what I called a classic.

In order to complete the ruse, I made an ad and put it on EBay (Santa’s daily google would definitely pick up ‘reindeer toy for adults’. The bait was set, the trap was ready. And it was still mid August. All I had to do
was wait.

And wait I did. For four months, I waited.

Until three days ago.

One new buyer – alien_vistas. This was an obvious anagram for ‘Santa is evil’ (I mean seriously, anyone should be able to see that immediately’).

With minimal amount of effort I sold my Trojan Reindeer. I loaded it up (sneezed on it twice more), set the bomb’s timer device (tick tick tick boom), taking extra care to cater for the extra hour in the North Pole, and loaded it up with the courier service, Glacier Delivery (It'll get there eventually).

At peace with the world, knowing that it was just a matter of rotations on a small wind up Mickey Mouse clock before the world was finally free of Herr Klaus.

And here we are the day after Xmas. And for once, I’m safe and happy and ready with a thousand hand written ‘I told you so’ notes to distribute amongst my friends.

I wonder what I’m going to do today. No planning. No scheming.

Maybe I should go and mourn Cat. Then maybe go and get some Nandos. Or maybe I should finally get around to writing that book (How I Killed Santa - needs a catchier name though). I could learn
Klingon…or how to use Internet Explorer 7.

But first before I do anything, I need to go and find the source of that damn ticking that’s been coming from under my Xmas tree since yesterday. It’s so annoying.

It’s just this constant tick, tick, tick for like the last 23 hours and fifty nine minutes.

Hang on…

Oh shit…

Kamal

PS: I’m sure it says Merry Xmas.
PPS: I hope you opened your gifts with a sense of foreboding, panic and fear.
PPPS: Ah-chooo