Part VIII

(An email sent on 26^th December 2013)

(This SCMD is dedicated to those who, despite sacrifice, pain and struggle, made and continue to make this world a better place for the rest of us.)

I awoke. My arms seemed to be pinned to my sides. I couldn’t see anything. I tried to open my eyes for several moments before I realised they had been open all along. The darkness lay over me like a blanket. Another several moments passed. Then I pushed the blanket off my face.

I took deep heaving breaths of damp, murky air.

“Bonjour.”

The voice came from nearby.

I tried to move to see it, but a shooting pain from my back screamed a bright cacophony that kept me still.

“Who are you? Where am I?”

“It doesn’t matter who I am.”

The voice had an accent; a thick French accent. The type of accent of someone putting on a French accent but had never even tried fondue.

I tried to muster as much anger into my voice as I could, “Where the hell am I? And why can’t I move?”

“Lay still, Ricky Bubby, and you have fractured your T8, T10 and T12 vertebra.”

Ricky Bubby? Before I could question him on this he rattled off in monologue.

French Stewart: Last year you ‘ad le displeasure of fighting with le père Noël. That is Father  Christmas, you salaud. And he, well he broke your back. Silly thing to do, taking on  le père Noël. I wasn’t there myself, of course, being in this prison, but I hear it was  quite a short fight. You were beaten like a little girl.

Me:                   Ok, I get it.

French Stewart: No one said anything about crying, but I bet you were crying.

Me:                   Alright.

French Stewart: Like a little girl cry. Like a little weehhhh weeeeehhh weeeeeehhhh.

He went on to make rather distasteful crying noises in the semi-darkness.

Me:                   Can you just hurry up with the story already. I mean some people could be reading  this for the first time.

French Stewart: Pardon?

Me:                   I’m breaking the fourth wall.

French Stewart: You are in no position to break any walls. You are, pardon my French, fucked up    beyond all identification.

Me:                   Can you just get to the story?

French Stewart: Ok, I tell you what I know. Of course, you already know zat le père Noël is evil git.  I mean otherwise you wouldn’t be here. Now, you must not only know, but like a  silly American...

Me:                   I’m not American...

French Stewart: Everyone who is not French is American.

Me:                   Fine.

French Stewart: You have decided to take it upon yourself to rid the world of la evil. Of course you  are neither able nor capable. Yet you continued to try. And like a madman, you  continued in spite of le fact that you continued to fail.

Me:                   Ok, Ok, I get it.

French Stewart: Then as I said, le père Noël sat you down on his lap, apparently back first, and he  brought you here. Into le inescapable dungeon. A broken little girl.

Me:                   I think you’re mixing your inflections...but anyway who are you?

French Stewart: I am la chiropractor. Now turn your head and cough.

I wasn’t able to move and Jean Reno began a complex routine of jumping all over me treating me like a puppet. (Not like Kermit (Not that he didn’t try)).  

With a snap, crackle and pop, the pain disappeared.

French Stewart: Presto, you are fixed, Ricky Bubby.

Me:                   Hang on. I had a broken back. How can you expect it to be fixed after a bad Black  Swan routine? And why the fuck are you calling me Ricky Bobby?

French Stewart: Oh look, the cage door is open. Shake and bake.

French Stewart looked a lot like Borat as he skipped out of the cage. I followed him out. Apparently none of the prison doors were locked. The prison rooms were built on a number of floors whose epicentre was a large open area; that now seemed to contain a large number of people. We were literally down a deep dark hole. Smooth walls ran up the inside of the cylinder chasing a few sharp rocky outcrops all the way to the top.

Me:                   What’s going on?

French Stewart: When I said this place is inescapable, I was not being entirely accurate. You can try  and climb out. But look, it is impossible.

As he finished his sentence a large man with very loose pants had been trying to climb out of the hole and had tried to jump from one ledge to another and fell violently before a rope tightened around his waist and he was lowered to the ground.

Me:                  So what you’re saying is, I should train myself over the next few months, become ridiculously strong, and because of my strength and strong desire to kill Santa, I will be able to climb out of this hole?

French Stewart: No, you stupid American, I told you, it is impossible to get out of la hole.

Me:                   Hang on, didn’t you say Santa brought me down here?

French Stewart: Oh yes, and he spent a good two days with you on his lap and he had a twinkle...

Me:                   I’d rather not know.

French Stewart: ...leather chains...

Me:                   Shut up.

French Stewart: ...and he made you wear a reindeer head, you know like that horse mask, but a    reindeer...with horns...a horny horse.

Me:                   SHUT THE FUCK UP.

French Stewart: ...

Me:                   So after all this, did he climb out of the hole?

French Stewart: Don’t be stupid. He used la ascenseur.

Me:                   La what?

French Stewart: La...how you say...elevator.

There was an elevator. An unguarded, unlocked elevator made completely of thick glass and had lots of buttons. After a long discussion with French Stewart, I found that prisoners were brought down on the elevator. It would have been mean to just throw people in. Also lawyers have to visit every now and then and the phones didn’t always work. And then people have to come down to the fix the phones.

Me:                   So why has no one just escaped using the elevator!?!?!?!?

French Stewart: That ‘ardly seems fair, Ricky Bubby.

I left French Stewart in the midst of a tirade on American ethics and jumped into the elevator and pushed a big button labelled, ‘UP’.

Luckily the glass elevator was no ordinary elevator. It didn’t just go up and down. It went leftways and rightways and sideways. It burst out of the hole, zoomed straight up, swerving only once to miss a very annoyed pigeon, before slowing down and hovering in the stratosphere. This is when I decided it would be a good idea to push another button before ending up in outer space and fighting some weird aliens. That would just be ridiculous.

I should mention that the elevator had thousands of buttons. It covered the walls and the ceilings and the floors. And lo and behold, a murky red button was marked, ‘CAT CAVE’. It was next to the one labelled, ‘GOTHAM CITY’.

The elevator, using Apple Maps, decided that outer space was the best way to get there, so it shot upwards to the exosphere. This surpassed my unintended mission to the edge of space from last year and the elevator was a much better vehicle - being enclosed in a glass coffin gave me a lot more things to look at; including what seemed like a very small dot in the distance. I didn’t pay any attention to it. Space is pretty much full of very small dots in the distance.

The elevator, suddenly, went into a swan dive and crashed into a house. It was dark. But it definitely wasn’t the Cat Cave. Goddamned Apple maps. The house itself was silent but I had made quite a disturbance crashing in, which included extremely feminine screaming on my part. A light was on, but I realised that it was the bathroom. I figured it was best to get the hell out of there before someone mistook me for a burglar.

I found the right button again and hit it.

Luckily the glass elevator, possibly realising its error, came out of the hole it had made and hovered for a second as little mechanical hands came out of its bottom and repaired the damage. It was like I was never there.

Just before the blast back into space I heard a man and woman shouting, followed by gunshots. Unfortunately I was already in take off, so I put on some Bullet For My Valentine and strapped myself in.

The elevator returned to orbit. I noticed that one dot in particular was growing larger. It turned out that a large meteor the size of Texas was heading straight for earth. My brain quickly kicked into rocket scientist mode and did the maths. Not being very good at maths, I tried remembering the plot of Armageddon. I spent ten minutes trying to remember all the words to “I Don’t Want To Miss A Thing” and then another ten minutes giggling after thinking that those words would make a pretty good anthem for a meteor. Afterwards I just came to the conclusion that a meteor that size hitting earth would be a pretty good way to kill Santa Claus. The collateral damage would have been horrendous though, and there would be no one left to throw me a parade. I really want a parade.

But I didn’t have a big drill or nucular bombs.

Luckily the glass elevator had a button for just such an occasion.

I pressed it.

“Comet Me Bro” shot a laser deep into the asteroid and for a second it paused, appeared to have a ‘Why does this shit always happen to me’ moment and exploded in complete silence. Most fragments hurtled off into the safety of space while several thousand burnt up in the earth’s atmosphere. One piece, barely a baby, did manage to get through the earth’s defences and land in Russia.

Even in victories, there are unfortunate casualties.

I eventually got back to the Cat Cave. It hadn’t changed much except for the new skylight that the glass elevator installed.

It was the middle of February. The world had kept on turning. It amazed me. The absurdity of it all. Countries burning itself from within. Countries, with a bit more sense, turning on their neighbours. Thousands, tens of thousands of people dying for causes in the name of a god, a flag, a word. And millions more dying just because they’re in the way.  This is the history of mankind, a perpetual cycle of creation and destruction. It probably looks beautiful from a million miles away.

Then add Santa as a variable, though I’m sure he’s at the root of it all, once I sit down and do the maths.

There was a knock at the door.

“Who’s there,” I asked furtively looking around the room for some significant weapon.

“The Pope.”

“The Pope who?”

“Open the fucking door...”

Well, you really can’t argue with a knock-knock joke like that.

Outside the door was a little old man, dressed flamboyantly in dirty white. He had a jittery look about him. He looked like he belonged in a Star Wars movie or as an extra in an Asterix comic.

“Yes?” I asked.

“I have found the truth?”

“Well that’s nice. Was it between the couch cushions?”

“Listen my son, be serious, I know that Santa Claus is evil.”

“I don’t know what you’re on about.” You can hardly blame me for being suspicious. Although directly behind me was a ‘Santa Claus is a Git’ poster from when I had planned to picket at the Vatican.

“It was several years ago, before I became Pope, that a little boy...a friend of mine...very angelic...”

 “You might want to stop right there before I decide to add you to my naughty list.”

“...this boy sent me the Chronicles of your pursuit to kill Santa Claus. Whilst mildly amusing, it’s not exactly Leviticus. Anyway, then I became Pope and have received access to secret documents. Long story short, it’s disturbing. And I can no longer go on. Not knowing what I now know.”

“Listen mate, does this story have a point? You know, because I have things to do.”

He shuffled towards me. He rummaged deep in his robes and eventually pulled out what looked like an old leathery sausage roll. I jumped back.

“Mate, put that thing away!!! I’m well past puberty!!!”

He continued to pull it out and it turned out to be a roll of parchments bound in light brown leather.

“Take this. Read it. It may help.”

“Sure mister, but I’m not into spam. And this will be really difficult to forward to ten people.”

“Listen,” he shouted this time, flecks of spittle flying out of his mouth, “I can’t go on. It’s been centuries since a Pope has resigned without dying, and my faith dictates that I cannot end my own life. But I am between the devil and the deep blue sea.”

“So....?”

“So I’m choosing the sea. Before I go let me canonize you,” he said with his hand slipping into his robes again.

“Um...no thank you...I’m pretty sure I’d need to die to be canonized.”

“No problem. Just close your eyes and I’ll just canonize you from behind, you won’t feel a thing.”

“No thanks, Saint UnderdoG just doesn’t make sense.”

“Oh well...” Disappointed, he spun his robes in an impressive ballerina display and took off. In fairness it took him about five minutes to ungracefully make his exit and by that time I had made a cup of coffee and opened the scrolls.

“Oi, you holy bastard,” I shouted after his long departed shadow, “You could have at least translated it for me!”

It was written in a complicated calligraphy in a mix of several old and dead languages and required quite a bit of Google translating; so allow me to précis the writing.

It is written that a beast rises out of the earth and with forked tongue will deceive the inhabitants of earth to profess love to a false image. It will consume and spread like a hungry fire across the forests. It will rise to infamy, prospering in lies, deceit and shadows. It will sit in its nakedness upon a destructive ball, sullying its tongue to the masses. And the inhabitants will welcome it, and sing its name.

It is the Anti-Kristos.

It is further written of the Second Coming of the Messiah, to face the Anti-Kristos. The dead will rise to be witness to the destruction and creation. This will be the End of Days.

This was all stock standard stuff. Then on the final scroll in a typeface that screamed secrecy.

The many stories of the End of Days show similarities – truth traversing culture, religion and heresy.  It is, however, not so. Each story comes from the source of truth but is clouded by the hand of fear, the voice of error.

This is the truth:

The beast will be born. But it will have gentle face and healing hands. It will be welcomed. The beast will rise, hailed as a saviour by some. But it will suffer persecution and betrayal which fuels its anger and hatred. It will not forgive.

It will be reborn.

This is the Second Coming of Krist.

Just like the Mayans, it was nice to be given some written down words. But they didn’t really help me. Just for once I’d like someone to pitch up with a dusty old book that has one page in it that says, “And this is how you kill him...”

Studying and translating these texts (it was comprised of 218 scrolls with very few pictures and the gist was the few paragraphs above), took me several weeks. Ironically I finished the last page on the first of April and spent a few moments wondering if this was all some cosmic joke.

I had seen neither hide nor scale of the Croc. Santa was also rather quiet after the full scale attack of the previous year. I concluded that he assumed I was still Alice in Chains – Down in A Hole.

I was still wasting a lot of time. But I had zero cunning plans. Maybe it was ok to take a break. While I was under the radar, to recuperate. To forget the world for a change. I was beaten and battered and weather worn. And all for nought. And it had literally become a pain in the back.

But then I remembered the words of a man greater than I,

“Do not judge me by my successes, judge me by how many times I fell down and got back up again.”

Well I’d done a fair job on the falling down bits so far.

But Santa had been quiet. I didn’t know where to start.

I turned on the TV. And the universe, in its wickedness, delivered.

Two pressure cooker bombs had gone off during the Boston Marathon killing three people and injuring hundreds more. Later, the suspected bombers were shown and the world noted their youth and Russian ethnicity and their Muslim beliefs. As far as the story went, they claimed not to have allegiances to any known terrorist groups. That raised an eyebrow. Santa Claus did not run a terrorist group. He doesn’t do it for political purposes. He doesn’t even do it for religious purposes. He does it because he is pure evil. And being evil for the sake of being evil – that’s fucking terrifying.

But I could not confirm that these two idiots belonged to Santa Claus’ vast network of evil. This world is full of ignorant and idiotic people who are accidentally evil.

At the same time, it was just such an act that would awake Claus from his slumber. Evil, one must remember does not need to arrive on a grand scale. Evil comes from one seed and grows and spreads. This is why Claws sinks into children. It infects like a poison. And perhaps this is the true World War Z. People infected with animosity. The little day-to-day rise of anger. When someone cuts another someone off in traffic. When someone has the last cup of coffee without brewing a new pot. When an apple fanboy bangs on about the new iPhone. When some idiot says YOLO thinking they don’t sound like idiots. Anger leads to fear. That’s why we walk past those in need of help; and those in need of help, in turn become, angry. Soon, the whole world will become one heartbeat of hatred. Santa Claus will have won.

I was always looking for the big bombs. The wars. The carnage and blood. And yes, Santa was responsible for his fair share, but that may not have been his end game.

The thing to remember about humanity though; is that it reacts amazingly well to adversity. When cornered, humanity shows courage and strength against the odds. People will rise and stand together. That is our hope.

A lot of fucking good it’s done me so far. You still think this shit is fictional!

The Cat Cave became a prison in its own right. I had enough food and running water. Uncapped, unrestricted internet access. And even a giant hamster wheel for exercising in. But I was stagnating. I wondered where the Croc had gotten to, not that I missed him.

But speak of the Devil. A few days later I received an email.

Iron Maiden. Bring beer.

Croc didn’t believe in too many words, always stating that he had much better uses for his mouth. I hoped he was just referring to drinking and smoking various substances but I had never had the courage to ask.

I had to detective my way to figuring out he meant Belgium (and by the time I did he tweeted me to meet him in Switzerland instead).

Belgium. This was the last time that I had almost come face to face the Claus before he was fooled by the Croc to turn his attentions to some poor innocent cows in a neighbouring field.

Kill Santa Claus.

See Iron Maiden.

I don’t have a kick-the-bucket list, but there’s two things right there, and I wasn’t making much progress with the first.

So I did the arbitrary paperwork, spent some money and got on board a plane. It was mid-July and I found myself in Zurich. I contemplated visiting Geneva to yell at someone as to why there weren’t any Clauses in the Geneva Accords that would actually help me, but Croc had laid root in the city of Lucerne.

I got off the train at Lucerne and was greeted by the Croc in the midst of what I can only hope was a rainstorm.

“Where have you been?” I asked Croc after avoiding a hug.

“Do you really want to know?” he said. He sounded surprisingly sober, but I would hazard a guess that some small towns would run out of alcohol before the Croc began feeling tipsy.

“No, not really.”

“Let’s go.”

The Croc was staying in a lair 3.6km from the city centre and we walked the entire way.

“I see you are increasing your security concerns,” I wheezed as we got past the first 100m, “Staying out of the main areas and reducing the use of public transport.”

“What are you talking about?”

The 3.6km was littered with small cafes and bars and we stopped every few hundred metres to have a drink.

“I have decided we are going to mount Pilatus,” he exclaimed with vigour after the second drink at the third cafe.

“Hang on, I have no idea who Pilatus is and I have no desire to mount...him?”

“It’s a mountain.”

“Oh, that’s new.”

“We’ll approach from the rear.”

“That’s not so new.”

Climbing a mountain wasn’t the worst plan. There was always the chance to meet an old, wise hermit who was less touchy-feely than Guru Shaun the Monster. And maybe they’d have a good idea.

“But the weather’s pretty shit,” I said.

“Yeah, I saw images from a webcam online at the top of the mountain. There’s zero visibility!”

“So what’s the point?”

“No one will see me coming!!!”

So the next day we walked back to the city, stopping several times for drinks and making our way to the base of Mount Pilatus. The weather was, to quote several award winning authors, shitty. The Croc’s enthusiasm did not wane but he was distracted by a small cafe called Betty’s Bistro.

“We should stop and have a pint to eat,” he said.

“You mean a bite to eat?” But he had already wandered into the cafe.

The cafe was small but inviting. A large man at the bar greeted us with a smile.

“Where are you guys from?” he asked.

“South Africa.”

“South Africa? That is excellent. I have read tales of a South African who is trying to kill Samichlaus.”

“That’s him,” Croc said pointing at me but paying attention to the beers on tap.

“Oh my God,” said the barman, “And you must be the Croc!!!! You deserve a shot. What does the Croc say??”

“Make it two,” said the Croc.

After giving us two shots of Jaeger each, Croc ordered two beers and a pizza. I had forgotten Croc’s habits and when the drinks came, he quickly drank both before demanding the next round.

The barman had snuck off. I was about to yell at Croc for being so blasé about giving away my secret identity. Well I didn’t have a secret identity, but yelling out, ‘This is the bloke you’re after’ didn’t help my cause in the slightest.

The barman returned with two smoking glasses on a tray that was set on fire.

I was ready to flee, except it smelled enticing, which is not a good reason to stay when something’s on fire.

The barman was a true...um...anti-anti-krist...and was happily doing his best to show his alcoholic barista skills.

The drinks, called a Coffee Pilatus, was a potent mix of coffee, Stroh rum, liqueurs and cream and setting it on fire did little to diminish the alcohol potency.

Finishing it set my head alight and my heart afire and I could see that even the Croc’s left eye was twitching. The next thing I remember, we were hiking up the mountain, singing such hits as ‘Who Put the Dick on the Snowman’ and ‘Santa’s Whore is Coming to Town’.

It must have been an hour later that I came to my senses. Mount Pilatus is 7000ft up. And we were about half way to the 3000ft first check point. Sobering up. Without a drop of water between us. Thirst is relative and we were in the middle of nowhere. Not that there wasn’t water. Running water surrounded us. But they were inconveniently placed at the bottom of ravines and at the bottom of back breaking drops.

Soon I was contemplating doing a Bear Grylls but just as suddenly, the path evened out and we reached the first checkpoint. Luckily it had a bar.

Croc quickly ordered a bottle of water and two beers.

He downed both beers.

It was a beautiful setting, I noted, as I inhaled the water. We faced the peak, looking like an unframed painting, and the sun had broken through the thick clouds.

Realizing it was becoming quite a romantic setting, the Croc and I bought two tickets to the top and rode the last two legs in cable cars. This became no less romantic.

At the top, it was cold. Not North Pole ice igloo prison cold, but cold nonetheless. But for thirty minutes, the die of luck fell in my favour. The clouds and mist separated giving us panoramic views of the world - quiet and serene below us. Croc quickly went off on his own. I didn’t follow. I was soaking in the magnificence of this world, and I didn’t want it to be soiled by the vision of Croc literally mounting Pilatus.

While Croc went off on his excursion, I entertained myself by hopping on each foot in an effort to keep warm.

“Playing hopscotch by oneself is often a short skip away from madness.”

The voice came from behind me and I jumped three feet away in self defence straight into a bank of snow.

“Very good form though…” The voice came from a little man with lots of hair on his face and not so much on his head. He was wearing a towel around his waist and little else.

“Who are you??” I asked looking around for available weapons as I pulled myself out of the snow.

“I have many names, but I am often called Guru Putitin Harvajay Jay.”

“Are you the wise man of the mountain?”

“Wisdom is a never-ending journey on the path of enlightenment…”

“True, but why are you up this mountain?”

“One must always be somewhere. The sun lives in the sky but is everywhere. The fish lives in the water, but is cooked in oil.”

This man was definitely a guru. He answered all questions in an annoyingly unsatisfying way.

“How long have you been up here?”

“Time is a beating of pulses in the pot of…”

“Aren’t you cold?” I asked, cutting him off.

“Coolness of the body is in contrast with the warmth of the soul.”

“Well yes…until you get frostbite.”

“Oh I’ve had that. Hurts like a bugger.”

He started fidgeting inside the towel that had a Holiday Inn insignia stitched onto it.

“Listen Guru, I am trying to kill...”

“Life is precious…”

“…Santa Claus…”

“Oh that bastard,” he asked looking around furtively pulling a pipe out of the depths of the towel, “He’s not here is he?”

“No.”

“Good,” he scooped a handful of snow and stuffed it into the pipe stem, “That explains why your aura is so dark. I can give you a thorough cleansing if you want.”

“No, I’m quite clued up to what you Gurus mean by thorough cleansings and have no desire to be canonized.”

He put the pipe into his mouth and looked thoughtfully into the distance, sucking long and hard.

“I am looking for advice on how to kill him.”

 “There are two primary choices in life: to accept conditions as they exist, or accept the responsibility for changing them.”

“Well that’s not helpful at all. I’ve made the decision. I’ve come to the realisation that Santa Claus is an evil git and I have decided to rid the world of him.”

“What counts is not necessarily the size of the dog in the fight – it’s the size of the fight in the dog.”

“I am the UnderdoG and I literally broke my back fighting this cretin.”

“That which does not kill you, makes you stronger.”

“You know these words of wisdom sound awfully familiar.”

“Reader’s Digest Quotable Quotes. It’s $0.01 on Amazon.”

Just as I was going to tell him just how useless he was, the Croc returned. The mist and clouds rolled in like billowing sails behind him. Within minutes I could see neither the Croc nor Guru but I could hear a lot of shuffling around.

I turned suddenly to find the Guru right in front of me.

“Fancy an angel’s three-way?” he asked.

“I’ve only heard of the devil’s three-way? What the fuck is an angel’s three-way?”

The Guru smiled at me, “Three dudes.”

If the cable car hadn’t been there already I would have hopped over the side wall and run down the mountain.

The following days were a blur of alcohol. I liked how much we were moving around. But I don’t remember half of it. We spent one short night in the dodgy side of Luxembourg. I got pissed. I was so pissed; I decided to leave a female bartender alone with the Croc. She seemed quite sure of herself and Croc seemed quite pleased with himself the next day.

Again, ignorance is my friend.

Soon, we returned to the scene of the crime of two years earlier. Graspop Metal Festival.

Three days of music.

Returning to the fine balance of life-affirming passion and excruciating pain. I had walked up mountains, had my back broken by a fat man; but nothing compares to just standing around for over fourteen hours a day.

It was on the first day when the Croc and I were doing just such standing about, waiting for Coal Chamber to take the stage, when a strong hand grabbed me and dragged me off. Being sober for the first time in days, I resisted enough to look back to see the Croc similarly accosted.

I managed to look at the man who had hold of me. A bald, angry looking man who looked like he had seen the inside of a Jim or two. Bald and clean shaven was a higher bet than fat and bearded, but I still wasn’t happy about it. He was shouting at me in a language I didn’t understand. So I started yelling at him, which helped, as he then started shouting at me in English.

We were taken to the side of the main stage under a tent when our abductors claimed to be from the Federale Politie.

I looked at them carefully, ignoring their badges. Santa’s minions could easily forge credentials, but it was much harder to forge a lack of evil. Evil always leaves traces. Usually at the corner of the lips. I gave them the benefit of the doubt. The bald man took away our passports and a different, much friendly looking copper asked if he could search my bag.

It was a good thing I really don’t bother carrying small arms, and other than a picture of Cat the Third (my late genetically modified giant hamster) I didn’t have anything to hide. The Friendly Looking copper then requested to search me while the Bald copper took Croc. I was hardly patted down. I think the coppers realised we weren’t pickpockets; although as I turned to look back at the Croc, the Bald copper spoke in a hushed whisper, “Spread wider.”

I decided not to look back any further and let Bopper fend for himself.

Eventually they realised we weren’t a threat and admitted that they were on the lookout for pickpockets.

“Good thing you weren’t on the lookout for the guy who’s trying to kill Klaus,” Croc said absentmindedly as he put his pants back on.

“Shut the fuck up,” I whispered urgently but I could see the damage had already been done.

“You’re him?” asked Bopper.

“No...no...not at all...who is Santa Claus anyway?” I mumbled.

“You are. You are him,” said Flopper under his breath.

I didn’t reply.

“We heard you were coming.”

I looked back at Croc who shrugged.

“Everyone is Belgium follows @CrocHasen. His beer drinking skills are legendary! Hey Croc, What does the Croc say?!?”

Bopper’s face then became serious and he lowered his voice.

“The heightened security is because of you.”

“What?” I asked trying to aim a kick at the Croc who was pretending to be a bell.

“If we knew you were coming, surely de kerstman knows as well. This place was crawling with little Italian elf hitmen, but you will be happy to know we have arrested them all. But there are thousands of people here. You should not be here. It is not safe.”

Croc interjected anything I was going to say, “Listen, we’re here to see Maiden. Nothing else matters.”

“That's Metallica.”

“Listen mates,” I finally found my voice, “I appreciate the work you guys are doing, but the Croc is right, we’re here for Maiden. If Santa knows where I am, he can come and get me. But I’m pretty much going to do everything, and everything else, to make sure I see Maiden.”

“That is beautiful!”

“Just do what you can to keep us alive until Sunday. After that we’ll do our best to get out alive. Can we go?”

I turned and walked out of the tent, and I just heard the Bopper’s final sentence to Flopper.

“I can’t believe it! I searched the Croc.”

“He won’t tell anyone,” said the Croc striding next to me, “But I searched him too!”

The weekend passed without incident after that.

We passed the Slipknot test for the second time. I admired Corey Taylor’s endurance for pain as he played injured for Stone Sour the day after. In Flames. Papa Roach. Meeting new faces, among the many the names, of Heaven’s Basement and Amaranthe. And POD surprisingly blowing my mind.

No hint of Santa Claus. The police were doing such a good job that when the TV people came around, Croc and I gladly gave an interview without any propaganda.

And finally, it all climaxed.

Iron Maiden.

I ran to the hills. I had no fear of the dark. I was the trooper.

I had never seen Croc so happy without a drink in his hand.

Life changed on that last night. For all the days gone, all the pain and scars and joy and victories, life would never be the same again.

The Croc decided to stay on in Belgium and sample the hundreds of different varieties of beer. I would never survive that, so I returned home.

I was invigorated. Ready for the fight.

Still Santa continued to lie low. I couldn’t understand why. He had defeated me, his greatest foe in years and left me a broken man down a deep hole. He should have been running riot on the world and having his laps rubbed raw by the behinds of little boys asking him to give it to them.

But it was an almost tranquil peace in the world.

So I did what any foolhardy, overconfident man would do. I took out my phone and made a video.

Here’s a little holiday greeting I wanted to send to the Claus, I didn’t know how to phrase it until now. I am the UnderdoG and I’m not afraid of you. I know you’re a coward. So I’ve decided that you’ve just died, pal. I’m going to come get the body. There’s no religion here, just old fashioned revenge. There’s no Christmas tree, it’s just you and me. On the off chance you’re a man…here’s my home address – ten-eight-eighty – Cat Cave Point. I’ll leave the door unlocked.

And I uploaded it on YouTube.

Then I lost myself in reliving the Maiden voyage, every second of it.

Coming out of my reverie, I found I had several dozen messages. I was too cheap to enable mobile roaming and I had forgotten to deactivate the roaming text service, so it had been piling up.

I listened to the first, dropped the phone and headed out the door, causing a Porsche to swerve violently in order to miss me.

There are people in this world that rise above the ordinary.

There are people who complain about the rain and then there are people who go out and invent the umbrella.

My country has an unflattering history. A history of injustice, persecution, fear and hatred. But as I’ve said, humanity finds a way to fight back when cornered.

In a history littered with amazing people, people who fought back for right, who stood up for the downtrodden and spoke for an entire people, there was one man who wore the face of change. A man who is synonymous with courage and hope.

And it was he who beckoned me now.

I walked into a dimly lit room, with a single lit candle raging against the backdrop of the glowing machines. It was deathly quiet but for the whizzing and buzzing.

Me:         Madiba?

Madiba:  Sit, my friend.

He was ill. He had been fighting illness for a long time now. But he was sitting up in the bed, a warm smile on his face. If he was weak, his eyes showed no signs of it.

Madiba:           Welcome.

Me:                 Thank you. I am not sure what I am doing here.

Madiba:           I am well aware of your struggles.

Me:                 But how? How?

Madiba:           Let us not be bothered by the irrelevant details. I have been following your exploits for some years now.

Me:                  I don’t know what to say.

Madiba:           Everyone loves an UnderdoG.

I was humbled. A long pause descended on the room. It was haunting as the candle flickered projecting dancing shadows on the wall.

Madiba:            I am not long for this world.

Me:                  Don’t say that. I’m sure...

Madiba:            Death is unavoidable. I have lived a long life, and I will be happy to reunite with my comrades, my family; to return to my ancestors. I thought it was time you and I spoke. Let me rephrase. It was time I spoke so you could listen.

He spoke slowly but precisely.

Me:                        ...

Madiba:               Good. You know how to listen.

                               

                       There are many people who feel that it is useless and futile to continue talking about peace and non-violence against an evil whose only reply is savage attacks on an unarmed and unknowing people. We must use time wisely and forever realize that the time is always ripe to do right. There is no easy walk to freedom anywhere, and many of us will have to pass through the valley of the shadow of death again and again before we reach the mountaintop of our desires. Courage is not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear.

The candle, in its age began to slip into its own shadow. But the flame burnt valiantly on, almost brighter than before.

Me:                 ...

Madiba:          Don’t worry, my son. You have a good heart. You have a good head. This is always a formidable combination. Now go. Fight your battles. Continue your walk. Do not be a passenger on your journey. Be the Captain.

Me:                Hamba kahle, Madiba.

The candle flickered and gracefully, with its final breath, whispered its last goodbye.

The entire world mourned the next day, and the mourning after and after that.

A week later the world’s leaders arrived at South Africa to pay tribute to the man. This was worrying. It was a perfect opportunity for Claus. One present dropped from a reindeer-fly-by would do all sorts of damage.

Just as I was figuring out who to call and warn, I received a text from the number 666. No country code. Just 666.

Claus.

A single word.

Ceasefire.

Ceasefire? Surely it was bullshit. A good trap always has live bait. Or did his heart grow three sizes that day? Was this the battlefield Christmas between allies and enemies? We could fight another day. We could take this moment to mourn and celebrate a life. Perhaps even Santa could acknowledge this life.

Still, I was on my guard.

Fortunately the memorial went off without attack. Still, an elf did get in. No one else could understand him, but having spent many days working with deaf elves, I understood the gestures they called deafish.

Ceasefire will end. Consider this your only warning. You won’t escape again.

It was strange because the elf had only a dozen words to say, but ended up signing it for four hours. He did sneak in some other phrases but those were the important ones.

Some of the other phrases, in case you’re interested in watching the videos and trying to learn deafish.

Man, I could sure go for a couple Blitzens.

My fucking hands are tired now.

Couldn’t Santa have just texted him this message???

I took the warning to heart and fixed the skylight in that the glass elevator had left behind (installed sign – ‘No Entry’).

Christmas morning rolled around. I hid under the bed with a cricket bat and a towel. A towel is about the most massively useful thing to have. Everyone prattles on about 42, but they forget about the towel.

But again, nothing happened.

Until suddenly, I heard a rumbling in the distance. I hurried out from under the bed, which I realise now defeats the entire purpose of hiding at all. I looked out of the Cat Cave windows that looked out on the Indian Ocean. The morning after dawned waved back.

It was just news helicopters. But there weren’t any other news helicopters. And why would news helicopters head my way, and why head my way now? I had uploaded my address to YouTube weeks ago. I studied the helicopters and did a quick Google Goggles.

The result was not good. The three helicopters approaching were military helicopters and they dropped their disguises to show – what I can best describe as – big ass guns.

They fired.

The rockets hit without mercy. Installing sky lights everywhere.

I stopped, dropped and rolled, then got back up and ran.

The building rained concrete and plaster and wood and polystyrene around me. As I run I thought to myself, if only I had invented a few dozen robots armed to the teeth that I could call on right now. About 35 armoured suits to attack these pathetic choppers. That would have been one damned good party. But unfortunately I did not have these resources, so I ran.

At that instant, a slightly better aimed rocket hit the hamster wheel behind me and dislodged it from its platform. I did a one eighty spin, thinking this would be mighty comical under different circumstances and jumped out the window.

I am not, under any circumstances, considered to be as a swimmer. I let professionals handle the swimming. My favourite pool game is called Stay Alive. But here, my first 30 seconds of almost drowning proved fruitful, as the helicopters presumed I had in fact drowned and buggered off. I under-doggy-paddled to the shore.

I looked up. Through the dark grey clouds of smoke and the fires still burning strongly, I saw that the Cat Cave had been destroyed. Annihilated. It used to be there, but wasn’t any more.

I sighed heavily and started walking. The Cat Cave, being in the middle of nowhere, meant I had a long walk to the edge of nowhere and then still another hour’s waddle to get to somewhere at all.

At the bottom of the ocean, I had found a Nokia 3310 buried in the sand, and once it dried sufficiently, seemed to work pretty well. And at least typing this out gave me something to do while I continued my long walk to figure out what to do next...

Ever the UnderdoG,

Kamal (The Captain)

P.S. It seems this Nokia 3310 evolved to have LTE and I’m pretty sure its evolving some intelligence.

P.P.S. What does the Croc say???

P.P.P.S To everyone still alive and ticking, have a great year and ensure that your resolutions include joining the fight against Santa #SCMD