(An email sent on 26th December 2012)
This time, the day after the day before was
different.
For one, I was completely sober. And awake. Unlike
the Croc.
It was last year, on the night before Xmas that the
Croc had scurried to a dark corner of the Cat Cave, and that’s where I had left
him. It had taken me three days to gather the courage after Xmas to investigate
if he was still alive. What I found was a Chuck Norris blow up doll hidden
under several layers of foul smelling covers.
I was about to panic when I checked Twitter for @CrocHasen’s
feed and saw hundreds of tweets. It didn’t take a CSI agent to deduce that the
Croc had snuck out to the camp of mine enemy just to go to a party that didn’t
even make it on MTV.
I was trying desperately to avoid the twitter pics
that raised the 140 character limit to the thousand words that pictures often
aspire to. While this was clearing in my head, and I was convincing myself to
click the unfollow button; the door to the Cat Cave swung open. I made a mental
note to check why I had created a lair that had such crappy security.
The Croc walked drunkenly in and fell into a heap
that coincidentally intertwined with a now unhappy looking Chuck.
Me: Dude…WTF?
Croc: Yeah…man…look…can
you like…turn off the sun…
Me: You
went to the party???
Croc: You
aren’t going to shut up about this…are you?
Me: Don’t
you remember what we were trying to do last year???
Croc propped himself up on his elbow and opened one
eye to groggily look at me.
Croc:
Dude, this is getting old. Yes, Santa
Claus is evil. Yes, you have been trying to kill him every year. And yes, you
bloody go on about it all the time. Look, I’ve just summarized it in three
sentences. Not a ten page monologue.
Me: Fuck, dude, you were supposed to be on
my side.
Croc:
Right now…I am…sideways. That was one
epic party. I’m pretty sure I saw some shit that will make the new Bible.
With that he let out an ungodly sound that I can’t
say for sure came from his mouth, rolled over and began a complex practical
geometry problem that involved string theory and tails.
What a Croc.
I realised that he was going to be of no immediate use,
so I spent some time going over the security of my Cat Cave. It was shocking to
say the least.
My Security:
1.
Twenty three entrances, at least a dozen well
lit, and sixteen that had welcome mats (keys cunningly left under fourteen of
them).
2.
Several openings in the roof of the cave that
Bruno, my interior decorator, insisted were necessary to let in the natural
light (he claimed to be an expert on openings and letting things into them).
3.
A Croc shaped hole in the North facing wall that
was created after he had watched the Avengers and then insisted that he was the
Hulk and ran through the dry wall.
4.
Twenty CCTV cameras, all of which I found
pointing at the Croc’s bed from various angles. I immediately formatted all the
security drives without checking what was on them. I’m pretty sure this was how
that creepy girl in the Ring was born.
5.
One ‘Beware of Cat’ sign.
I needed to improve security. But that needed money.
As the world was still recovering from my previous spending sprees, I decided
that it was about time to get a job.
Considering my rank, I managed to get a job as the
captain of a cruise liner. It was actually a breath of fresh air being back in
charge of navigating point A to point B. And sometimes taking the scenic route
(sometimes on purpose).
The problem, I found soon enough, was that the
Concordia was a pretty big ship chock full of passengers whose backgrounds were
not checked. On a routine voyage, I was taking a leisurely stroll on deck to
celebrate Friday the 13th. The deck was deserted and it was a fresh
Italian night with the wind in my hair and salty spray in my face.
Cue sinister background music.
A passenger slowly walked on to the deck and
drunkenly stumbled up to me wearing a long trench coat. I tipped my hat in a
friendly manner.
In response, he whipped open his trench coat.
More salty spray hit my face.
Inside the now open trench coat were three elves
standing on each other’s shoulders.
Head Elf: What
are youse lookin at? My eyes are up here.
Me: Yeah, but technically
there are eyes down there as well. And even more down there.
Head Elf: Don’t
do anything stupid, see.
Me: Why would I do anything
stupid? I mean if I knew it was stupid, why would I do it?
Crotch Elf: Is
that a riddle?
Me: No.
More of a rhetorical question for Johnny the Hat over here.
Legs Elf: Furgeddaboutit.
Me: Forget
about what?
Crotch Elf: Is
that a riddle?
Me: No,
but Toe Tag Tony here told me to furgeddaboutit.
Head Elf: Shut
up. We’se gonna makes you takes a long walks off a short pier see.
Me: Fuck
piers, I’m on a boat motherfucker.
Legs Elf: Furgeddaboutit.
Crotch Elf: Yeah,
that song’s too old to be parodying in 2012.
Head Elf: Youse
gonna take a dirt nap and sleep with the fishes.
Me: Now
you’re just mixing up your killing methodologies.
Legs Elf: Furgeddaboutit.
Head Elf: Shut
up your face. Look, you know what I’ve got here?
Me: It’s
either a gun or you’re pretty happy to see me.
Head Elf: Well
I is certainly ain’t happy.
Crotch
Elf: I’m pretty happy down here.
Why are you so angry all the time? That can’t be healthy.
Head Elf: Shut
up your face.
Legs Elf: Furgeddaboutit.
Me: I
think Little John has a point.
Crotch Elf: Heeeeeeeey.
My name’s Limp Noodle Larry.
Head Elf: Look,
we’se gonna makes youse an offer youse can’t refuse.
Me: I’m
feeling lucky.
I kicked out hard at Legs and the domino effect
bought me a few seconds as the elves tumbled in a cacophony of Italian swear
words. I ran to the bridge and swung the wheel hard to starboard. Running out,
I stumbled over an unfortunate drunk, who I slapped a couple times and gave him
my hat and with a, ‘You’re the Captain now’; I launched myself onto a lifeboat.
A terrible crunching noise filled the air as I sped
away, but as with all things in life, it is better to look forwards than back.
This was a terrible sign. The year had barely begun
and already the Claus was sending out the elf-Qaida.
I stayed on that lifeboat for 3.14 weeks wishing I
had a cat for company.
The good thing about this is that out on the open
ocean, I was pretty much under the radar and there weren’t any midgets trying
to kill me. Unfortunately I was getting hungry. The lifeboat was stocked to the
brim with Twinkies, but there’s only so much Twinkies a man can eat in life.
And, come on…Twinkies – there’ll always be Twinkies.
In the dark of night, I paddled my way to shore. I
landed in Port Said in Egypt.
It was quiet. The streets were deserted. Shops were
closed. Tumbleweeds had taken the night off. A bit of investigation found that
everyone was at a soccer match, so I went to the stadium in search of shawarmas.
The first half was exciting and I was gorging myself on kebabs and falafel.
Then a smoke signal appeared in the night sky.
Someone in the crowd screamed, ‘Death Eaters’.
‘Don’t be
stupid’, I thought, ‘It looks nothing
like a skull. It looks more like a cross.’
Instincts kicked in like a hoss that was being
milked by a Guru; and dropping my Kunafa,
I ran for the exit. I couldn’t bear to look back as the gates twinkled with a
Christmassy light and began to close. I made it out with seconds to spare as
the screams began behind me.
How was he doing it? How was he finding me with such
speed and accuracy? And why were the attacks so severe and now, completely in
full view of the public. Saying that, the public always found a way to avoid
seeing the truth. They would probably blame it on the opposing fans.
Herr Claus was probably becoming annoyed. This story
is now going on seven years and my attacks on him were possibly no longer
amusing. I could feel the chill in the air. Why the hell was there a chill in
the air?
I checked the weather. The world map was horrific.
Using the right algorithms and by putting a bunch of pictures into PowerPoint,
it was clear to see. Fingers of cold had been expanding from the North Pole,
and like a cold grip of death were encasing the world. His Royal Fatness was
obviously using meteorological warfare to cut off Europe from the rest of the
world. He probably had a fusion reactor lying around somewhere. He was going to
make the world one big North Pole.
He would destroy the world, and when it was done,
and the world was in ashes, he would, no doubt, give me permission to die.
Hundreds of people had already died while I was out
on the ocean. Unprecedented cold and snow had gripped the North. People were
too cold to notice the twinkling of Christmas lights snaking across the ice
encased telephone lines.
This had to stop.
I immediately wrote up a Call to Arms and uploaded
it to Megaupload under a file name of Anachronism.rar that with the password of
PoeticLicence.
A minute later the ‘FBI’ shut down Megaupload.
Jesus Christ. I mean Santa Claus. I mean. Fuck.
This was bad.
I ran.
I know that sounds bad. Running. But it had been
scary enough over the years when Santa hadn’t been proactively trying to kill
me. I was just one man.
Also I knew that Mr. Claws was not a stupid man, and
it probably was costing a shitload of money to try to pull off a second Ice Age.
I figured he was trying to flush me out. To tug at my heart strings with the
number of innocent deaths and have me walk up to his door with a knock knock
joke admitting defeat.
So I ran.
Sure enough, the cold snapped.
I spent most of my time hiding in Dubai. It was warm
for one and would take some serious ice making machines to drop the temperature
below 40 degrees Celsius. Also, I hadn’t visited the family of C4 (may she rest
in peace) and they begrudgingly took me in. They told me that C4 had left
something for me in her will. I was excited until I found it was C4’s set of
sex toys (14 feathers of varying size and colour).
I became a recluse. I didn’t call anyone. I didn’t
write. I didn’t text. All of those deaths hung heavy on my conscience (thank
Jiminy I still had one). I questioned my motives and life and death and cats.
But the Claus had also withdrawn his attack. Maybe
he couldn’t find me. Maybe he was mounting one last final hurrah and I should
write my will.
Last Will and Testament of the Captain (aka UG)
·
Guru Shaun
the Monster is to perform the last rites, but is in no way allowed to milk me.
·
I leave
all my worldly possessions (14 feathers of varying size and colour) to the
Croc. I hope he chokes on it.
By July, the pigeons kicked me out. They said the
entire lot of them were off to London to go crap on the Summer Olympics. This
seemed like a good idea (not the crapping part); so I planned to go to the UK
as well. Unfortunately by the time I got my UK visa, the Olympics had finished,
so I missed seeing the man with no legs not win the 400m race. Shocker!
Back home, news that some South Africans were finally
beginning to take my yearly rants seriously were met by an immediate show of
force by the Claus. In an attempt to flee, they tried to follow the lead of the
Chilean miners, who had tried to hide down a hole a couple years ago, but Santa
having learnt this trick, cut them off at the pass. My new found followers were
gunned down by the ‘police’ outside a South African mine. Their placards of
‘Down with Claus’ and ‘No Ho Ho’ were photoshopped to make it seem they were
striking for more hot water and tea cakes at lunch.
While deciding whether or not to come back to South
Africa, I ran into the Croc in a dingy pub in London near Paddington Station.
He refused to talk to me, using his appendages to
tell me that he thought I was a dick (this took about three seconds of charades
to translate, followed by twenty minutes of screaming by me).
Nevertheless, he overcame his annoyance and followed
me into several pubs where we drank copious amounts of beer. We used Paddington
Station as our base and randomly rode the Underground in between stopping at a
number of pubs searching for a Beer and Burger special.
One day we hid out in the London Dungeon, where lots
of people dress up to scare the shit out of you. This did not have much of an
effect as there wasn’t one person dressed up as Santa Claus. If you’ve spent
years trying to kill the most evil person on the planet, a bit of blood and
guts doesn’t quite get you going. Still it provided a dark, moist place for
Croc to recover from his hangover.
Once out, Croc further remedied his hangover by
taking us to the nearest pub.
The bartender, a friendly Australian, asked us what
our plans were. I drowned out the urge to yell out, ‘To Kill that Bastard
Claus’, because you can’t really ever trust an Australian. I covered this up by
stating that we were going to have a beer, then go to another pub, have another
beer, and repeat until passed out.
The Aussie was mightily impressed and called us a
pair of wankers, which in Australian is probably a very good compliment.
Several pubs later, the Croc’s deeper brain cells
awoke and he forgot that he was not talking to me (alcohol cannot kill Croc’s
brain cells, as even alcohol tries to touch as little of the Croc as possible;
and have stated that it was bad enough that they were inside him at all).
He told me that in my absence, he had not cleaned up
the Cat Cave (lazy bastard), but had buggered off around the world. In his
travels he had come across rumours of an ancient civilization that had prophesized
the coming of Claus. Also the birth of Claus. But mostly the coming of Claus.
This immediately perked my interest and I sent him
off to buy another two pints to keep the story going.
His story began while he drank from both pints (I am
giving the abridged version to clean up the language. To
give the verbatim version, I would need a keyboard where the space bar is
replaced by a Fuck Bar (note to self: that’s a good idea – for a keyboard and/or
a bar):
Long before
the birth of Claus, lived an enlightened race of people. They were advanced in
the sciences even though they were still writing on walls and their idea of
pr0n was a brick with a face. They built great palaces into mountains,
developed the first postal system and farmed extensive fields of coca.
From their
texts, it also became clear that they had an impending sense of doom. It is
said that a large number of texts clearly prophesized the coming of an evil the
world had never seen before.
While the
story was sketchy due to translation and Croc adding his spin to it, it foretold
of the birth of an evil man in a place they called Xibalba. They named this man
Chicchan which roughly translates to ‘The Serpent’. They prophesized that the
man would come and the world would not see the evil for his beard. Within 30 to
40 cycles of the earth, Quetzalcotl, the feathered serpent would descend and
feast on his liver. Chicchan would fall, be put in a cave, but rise to live
again, more dangerous than before.
CrocH paused as he had run out of beer, and scuttled
off back to the bar.
The Mayans were some pretty clever bastards. And
Chicchan! This is probably why he was killing all my (my one) pet chicken, Cat.
However, this information seemed pretty useless. A
group of people running around in their underwear knew that the Santa was
coming 2000 years BC (Before Claus). So what? That didn’t help me. I’m here
2000 years AD (After Damnation) and knowing that he pitched up when they said
he would didn’t help me.
Croc came back with the pints (he still kept both),
“There’s more.”
The Mayans
predicted that there would come another. A saviour. One they named Oc.
Me: Oc?
That better not be me.
Croc: It
roughly translates to The Dog.
Me: Seriously???
Croc: Yip,
now let me continue.
Me: Fuck
me.
Croc: No.
The lore
continues that this one they called Oc, would be a true nemesis of Chicchan.
Many battles would ensue.
Croc paused.
Me: And????
Croc: Well I’ll skip the texts that state that
Chicchan thoroughly pwns Oc, because you pretty much know that from first
principles. It does say that at the turn of the next b'ak'tun, there will come
a significant event between Chicchan and Oc. One that would ultimately change
the course of history.
Me: What the fuck is a b’ak’tun?
Croc: Basically the end of that Mayan calendar
cycle.
Me: And when is this happening?
Croc: 21st December 2012.
Santa probably knew of these prophecies. It explained
his increase in murderous tendencies. While it wasn’t much help, it relit a
dwindling flame. Hope.
Me: Bee Tee
Double-You, did the Mayans mention you?
Croc: Um…well
there are some texts about Imix, the Alligator.
Me: Close
enough. If only they had named you Catix. Story?
Croc: There is one known as Imix, born from the
coming together of ooze and lava and leftover tuna sandwiches. Ignored by both
heaven and hell, it will find a home among us. It will be the green, one eyed
watcher. When bad deeds are done, Imix is watching. It is depicted as an
inebriated alligator often performing acts of self-fellatio.
Me: That’s disgusting.
Croc: You know what Guru Shaun says, ‘It’s not
sick if it’s true.’
Me: Not to change the subject, but what were
you doing in the UK?
Croc: Well beer for one. Also I hear that the
Foo Fighters are playing in Reading and Dave Grohl is said to be an expert on
Mayan/Claus mythology.
Me: Let’s go to Reading then.
The next three days were a blur of music, mayhem and
beer. The Reading festival housed over 90,000 people a day and had the
advantage of being able to be lost in a crowd. Having learnt my lesson, I also
avoided news crews and being on TV.
On the last day, the Foo Fighters played to what I
can only believe was closer to 100,000 people. It was insane. It was awesome.
It was life changing. This is a man who played with Kurt Cobain, one of the
victims of Claus in the 90s, having refused to conform to Christmas traditions.
With a crowd of that size, we only managed to get to
about 60 meters from the stage. Nowhere close enough to speak to him.
Croc, however, was not limited to only having two
feet and tail surfed his way to the front as everyone tried very hard to get
rid of him, while having the mosh pit courtesy of not dropping him.
When he finally got back, I asked him if he learnt
anything.
Croc: I
got my monkey wrenched.
Me: Did
you learn anything useful?
Croc: That
crowd definitely got the best of me. All my life I wanted to do that.
Me: Huh?
Croc: I
did that in your honour! So you can have it all! Learn to fly, man!
Me: Dude,
focus, did Dave Grohl tell you anything?
Croc: He
said he’d tell me next year.
Me: Seriously???
Croc: No,
just fucking with you. In times like these, he said…Cardiff.
Me: I
should have known.
Croc: My
Hero.
Me: Fuck
off. I’m tired of you.
It wasn’t much to go on, but we had to go back to
London first (because Croc forgot his special socks at Paddington Station and
insisted that we visit the London Eye (he was mightily disappointed to find out
that it was a Ferris Wheel)).
We then set off to Cardiff.
Cardiff was a relatively small town. We walked a lot
of it fuelled by more beer.
We eventually visited the Cardiff Castle.
The Cardiff Castle was built on history stemming
back hundreds of years. But after traversing the turrets and pretending to be
Robin Hood in the keep, we didn’t find anything worth finding. We eventually
called it a day, as Croc was starting to sober up. On the way out, we
discovered an obscured stairway leading to a basement. Curiosity killed the
cats. The basement turned out to be a large, well lit room of war memorabilia. My
interest dulled when I found that it was simply a testament to old guns and
dead people.
Sadly having wasted half an hour, we headed towards
the exit/entrance, where we were surreptitiously pulled aside by one of the
museum keepers. His name eludes me, so I’ll call him the Crypt Keeper Steve.
Like a street show performer, he tried to gather our
audience by going off about macabre and violent deaths that happened in wars
hundreds of years ago. Being his own best customer, he told us to wait and
rushed off to a storage room and came back with old guns and said he’d let us
play with them. Never having played with a gun before, this sounded exciting.
It was fun but hard work because old guns are heavy. He continued his
dissertation explaining how much blood would come out of a soldier’s ear if he
nicked it while shaving with a bayonet.
This continued until the basement was deserted.
CKS: Oi. You
are trying to kill Santa, aren’t you?
Me: What
the fuck? Keep your voice down. Who the fuck are you?
CKS: Don’t
worry, I’m a friend.
Me: I’d
be happier if you said that while you weren’t holding a gun.
CKS: I’d
be happier if you weren’t here. You know there’s a price on your head.
Me: I
figured.
CKS: It’s
not a good price, mind, but still.
Me: So if you’re a friend, you’ve got
something to offer? I hope not these guns, because they’re bloody heavy and it
looks like they take an hour to load one shot.
CKS: Information.
Me: Yeah
you’ve been talking our ears off for like half an hour about muskets and
rifles.
CKS: Look,
do you want the info or not.
Me: Ok,
better to have and not need.
CKS: A
long time ago there was a civilization of people called the Mayans.
Me: Yeah,
I’ve heard the wiki version. Skip ahead a bit.
CKS: Well,
they were wiped off the face of the earth.
Me: Well...not
really. They’re still around.
CKS: I mean more as a civilization as a whole,
not Mary the Mayan who lives down the corner.
Me: So the Spanish?
CKS: No…it was by the Claus.
Me: Double
You Tee…actually I’m not surprised.
CKS: It’s not in the history books. The
Spanish Armada set off to what is now known as Central America around the 1500s
with the intention of finding girls who weren’t clued up to their tired pick up
lines and would be swayed by a Spanish accent. While making merry and consuming
vast amounts of cocaine, a group of elite Italian elf hitmen infiltrated the
Spanish colony, killing them all. Wearing their uniforms, they delivered Xmas
presents to the Mayans that night. The next day…there were no Mayans.
Me: Fuck
me.
CKS: No.
Now I’ll bet you’re interested in actual practical information.
Me: Seriously?
You actually have some of that?
CKS: There is an interesting story that the
Mayans wrote. The North Pole is stuffed to the rafters with elves. They invoke
a social caste system. The second to lowest minions make the toys. The untouchable
minions test the toys, which is pretty much how they became untouchable in the
first place. Higher up the hierarchy, you have day labourers, reindeer stable
hands and as you probably know, hitmen. The elves are a noble breed but very poor.
They also fuck like rabbits. This all results in more poorness and inbreeding
(which is hidden under the banner of endogamy).
Me: You really like listening to the sound
of your own voice, don’t you?
CKS: Every year Santa holds a competition
where one or two elves from each village is taken to an annual Games held in
the wilderness of the North Pole. It has a last-man-standing sort of rule,
where each elf tries to kill the other until only one remains.
Me: This
sounds awfully familiar.
CKS: A lot of authors list their titles as
fiction because fiction sells better than history and gets made into movies
instead of documentaries.
Me: Ah.
CKS: So anyway, the winner of these games are
showered with wealth, goes on a national tour, and gets ten minutes with
Rudolph.
Me: What would they want to do with Rudolph?
CKS: Nothing. This actually means watching twenty
minutes of Santa with Rudolph.
Me: That
makes more sense. Santa is one sick bastard.
CKS: It’s
a prize for one elf. If other elves got to watch, it wouldn’t be a prize.
Me: Sounds a lot like the elves are being
troll’d you ask me. I still don’t get why you think I’d be interested in this.
From my perspective it’s just me risking life and limb to watch something that
would make me want to kill myself.
CKS: You’re not getting it. No other elf. No
one else. It’s the one time you would be allowed near Santa when he has no
protection.
Me: What
about IfYouCanReadThisNameTagYou’reAlreadyDead?
CKS: No
one.
I thought about this for a second. It definitely was
an opening. A possible chance.
Me: When
are these games?
CKS: Just
before Xmas. It usually ends around the 20th or 21st.
Me: Fuck
me.
CKS: Seriously…no.
Is this what the Mayans prophesized? Either way,
Steve was right. It was a perfect opportunity to be alone with the Claus. If he
was in a randy mood, he wouldn’t be suspecting an attack. But I couldn’t just
enter the games. I had been roosting for half the year. I needed training.
I asked the Croc, but he claimed that running around
got in the way of his drinking habits, as it usually meant spilling a lot of
beer. With that, he said he’d meet me back at the Cat Cave and found a pub
outside the Millennium Stadium.
Right, I needed a trainer. I knew of a pretty good
cyclist who had retired. I emailed him and he immediately agreed to train me as
he said it was getting a bit windy in the US.
The next few weeks were torture. It wasn’t so much
the endless hours of physical training, but the constant Rocky music playing in
the background. The training itself was largely made up of me pretending to
ride an imaginary hoss while he kept yelling at me, ‘Heyyyyyy, sexy lady’.
By October, he announced that I was ready for high
altitude training. I was game, mostly because I was tired of ending up in an
elevator with a weird, angry Korean dude in the middle of every training
session.
What I was not ready for was Lance forcing me into a
pressurized suit that was covered head to toe in advertising. Then he shoved me
into a small box and ballooned me up to the stratosphere. When I finally
arrived there, he issued instructions from earth straight into my helmet. It was
far louder than the undead chicken voices in my head. He ordered me out onto a
small balcony, claiming the view would boost my adrenaline. I expected that the
surprise would be him asking me to do 400 bicycle seat squats (Lance’s version
of prisoner squats…don’t ask).
So I walked out. And I held my breath. The entire
planet was below me, decked out in green and blue. A silent, lonely planet
that, from a distance, hid the turbulent violent tendencies of its inhabitants
and nature. A picture of tranquillity. There were also clouds.
It was magnificent.
Silence.
When suddenly a whispered voice.
“Jump...”
I couldn’t have ignored it even if I had wanted to.
It was like the word bypassed my brain and injected itself straight into my
nervous system.
I jumped.
I was in a free fall for ages. The green and blue
blurred to 50 shades overrated commentary.
The first word to break the sound barrier was, ‘Fuck’.
This was a given, as it was the only word being frantically repeated from my
lips.
The fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck
continued even after a huge parachute automatically deployed and I hit the
ground nearly 20 minutes later.
Lance met me as I untangled myself from the mess of
a parachute.
Me: What
the fuck was that?
Lance: Was always
curious if that was possible.
Me: You
bastard.
Lance: Look,
I always wanted to try it myself.
Me: Then
why didn’t you?
Lance: Didn’t
have the balls.
I launched into another twenty minute tirade.
Lance: On the
bright side, you’re ready now.
Me: Well
there is that I guess. Want to have a celebratory smoke?
Lance: I
don’t smoke.
Me: It’s
something the Croc gave me from his journey to Central America.
Lance: I really shouldn’t. There’s always some
nutter hiding in the bushes wanting to test me to see if I’m their kid’s dad.
Me: ?
Lance: I used to be the village bicycle.
Me: Go
on then.
Lance: Well
maybe just one…
I left Lance to his own devices and began to plan my
trip to the North Pole.
Darth Claus had also been busy. He bought a company
that owned the documentary on how to make something called a Death Star. It
definitely wasn’t good news.
Luckily, over the years Santa had not found my
secret tunnels into the North Pole, accessed from a wardrobe at the back of the
Cat Cave (which was still a mess). With a whoosh, I was there.
It was expectedly cold in the North Pole and I found
a village at the outskirts – population one very old and very stubborn elf named,
Rentoverdue. Being that he was a very old and very stubborn elf, it was strange
that he decided to convert his igloo into a 9 hole golf course with attached
hotel (The Short Stay Moose Droppings Hotel).
I had been there for just one day, trying to convince
Rentoverdue to let me park outside the hotel, when the games committee arrived
in a fanfare of Carly Rae Jepsen. I immediately tied my shoes to my knees and
acted short. It was an easy choice for the committee and they blind folded me
and punched me in the face before hurriedly moving on. Rentoverdue was throwing
eggs at us.
There weren’t any elaborate rituals. Or last wishes.
Or a nice room where I could put up my feet for a few hours. I was whisked off
to the wild, given a candy cane and was wished a merry Christmas.
It was the middle of December and it was freezing
cold. It wasn’t long before I realised that I wasn’t alone. My opponents had
teamed up and were coming after me. I started sucking my candy cane until I
fashioned a workable shiv. I knew I had finished when I received a salty spray
in my face.
Realizing this was pretty useless, I ran. I ran,
which was increasingly hard as I was still on my knees and was quickly
corralled into a dead end. No pun inten-dead.
So I utilized my main advantage.
I stood up and kicked the lot of them in their
jingle bells.
They all immediately admitted defeat and ran off
together to start a drum circle and cry.
I returned to Santa’s Village, back on my knees,
proclaiming myself the winner.
There was a huge celebration. Fireworks were lit.
Prayers were muttered. You would think that I’d had spent 14 years in the
forest. It’s just a forest, people. Food literally grows on trees out there.
You don’t even have to drink your own pee.
Anyway, after a feast of mini-cupcakes and Reindeer
whisky (I didn’t dare ask where it came from), and a couple Blitzens, I was
jostled into a myriad of tunnels.
I was nervous. I hadn’t thought about carrying any
weapons, which if you consider it all, sounds like a gaping plot hole, but I
really didn’t want to think about holes that were gaping.
Eventually I was pushed into a room, which was a connecting
corridor to another door.
This was it.
This was how it was going to end.
I opened the door carefully.
I walked in.
A gate snapped shut behind me.
The room was circular and everything seemed to be
made of corrugated metal. Dim light shone from the walls. A sooty smoke filled
the moisture filled air, giving an awful inky taste to the atmosphere.
Suddenly the silence was broken.
Ho.
Ho.
Ho.
It was Santa. It had to be.
I began to make out a shadowy figure standing in the
middle of the room, hands held up to his collar and a familiar red hat on his
head.
Me: Santa?
Santa: rwwooooaar rwooaor
Me: Sorry?
Santa: rwooaaar
rooaaaarraar rraoor!
Me: I think it’s that mask thing over your
face. I can’t understand a bloody word that you’re saying.
Instead of replying, he walked up to me and punched
me in the face. Then he punched me again. And again. It was actually quite
embarrassing.
I put up my dukes and tried disappearing into the
shadows. The smoke was still filling the room, making it impossible to see
where he was. I had been backing up over a metallic bridge towards the centre
of the room. I fell over an obstacle and dropped the few metres to another metal
grating below. Water fell from the walls. That made it even harder to
understand what Santa was on about. And he really wouldn’t stop mumbling which
was really annoying.
He jumped down with some sort of triple kick, where
it felt like he kicked me with three feet simultaneously.
I fell to the floor, stunned. Out of breath. Seeing
stars.
I tried to get to my feet, but every time I moved,
Santa kicked me again. I tried desperately to search for a weapon but I had
forgotten my utility belt home. Stupid Mayans. They could have prophesized
that. It wouldn’t have been hard. A simple, ‘By the way, Oc, remember to take a
gun or sword or at least a stapler’.
Another punch hit my head. I uselessly kicked out,
hitting only fresh air.
I was spent. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t think. The
last dregs of energy were leaving my body.
Lost.
The game was over.
Christmas spirit had won.
Silent night.
The world was doomed.
Except Santa wasn’t finished with me.
He lifted my broken body over his stupid head and I
could smell the Mistletoe. I hoped he wasn’t about to kiss me.
And just before he dropped me like a rag doll and my
lower back hit his knee, he shouted out – finally audible, “You’ve been a bad
boy…”
Then darkness.
I awoke yesterday.
I have no idea where I am, but it appears to be a
deep, dark hole. It isn’t freezing, so it isn’t an ice igloo. I turned my head
and my back yelled out in pain.
It took me hours to manage to move my head. A few
more hours and I could move my hands. I figure that in a week, I’ll be back to
my normal self.
I’m in a cell. A prison.
I checked my pockets. My phone. I’ve spent the last
several hours typing out this email. I have no idea what the date is or where I
am (but the wifi is excellent). My battery is dying. I really shouldn’t be
playing Angry Pigs. Fuck.
Someone send help.
Ever the underdog,
Kamal
PS: I’m
pretty sure the world didn’t end.
PPS: Stupid
fucking Mayans
PPPS: If the world didn’t end, it probably will
next year. Because the world is ironic like that. So have a happy New Year. It
might be your last. Again.
No comments:
Post a Comment