Part XI

I awoke to the clinical smell of mild disinfectant. It eroded its way into my nostrils and left a lingering taste on my tongue. I tried to move but I was paralysed. I tried to open my eyes and my lids were heavy but with a conscious effort, they opened.

My vision blurred and spears of pain hit my pupils, but soon settled in the harsh, dark light. I was in a dimly lit room. But the darkness was marred by twinkling of green and red lights from around me. Memories flooded back. And they hurt.

I looked around, images becoming crisper and clearer. I was lying face up in a bed. Feet under a think white blanket, knees splayed out at familiar angles. My eyes settled at my waist level. At my hands. Where my hands should have been.

The memories of a decade. A decade of battles and scars and running and hiding. The simple thought, the ultimate truth.

Santa Claus is evil.

And he still lives.

The last memory. The memory of the fight. The epic battle. The view of my hand waving goodbye as it separated from my body. It falling. Me falling. Gravity keeping up to its promises of speed. My life flashing before my eyes. Saying last prayers and wishes. Absolute despair as I fell. The icy edge of the wind flying past me with a sound that seemed like it was asking me if I knew that dogs couldn’t fly.

It’s not the fall that hurts. It’s the sudden stop. And stop I did. Suddenly.

I screamed loud into the sky as my body, my bones and muscles and nerves came to an opportune meeting with a glossy hard surface. I landed with a crunch onto the hood of the Catillac. It buzzed sympathetically as a door automatically opened. I ignored this as I rolled myself over the windscreen into its open top and into its loving arms.

The car seemed to shrug and slammed closed the door. Dismembering my other hand.

Stupid fucking car, I thought, as I logged the last of my memories. Until now.

I started swearing again and a strange figure raced into the room and laid a hand upon me, poked me with something pointy, and in a very Guru voice mumbled, ‘Don’t fight it my son.’

Time passed in broken blurs of trailer snippets.

·         Crocodile Hasen using my IV holder to open his beer.

·         Guru Shaun the Monster doing veterinary things to me.

·         The buzzing of mechanical fingers rebuilding mine.

I think it was better that I slept through most of it. I was ensconced in the comfort of my dreams. But in the midst of looking glasses and clocks, it always melted into nightmares of tinsel and mistletoe. The past was a terrible cliché of history repeating itself. It would be wonderful to think that the future is unknown and sort of surprising.

That was the thing with heroes. Where there were men who sold the world and lived well into their golden years, others lived a moonage dreams and became stardust.

Eventually I awoke. My hands had been rebuilt, not as machines, but using some fascinating technology that the world has spent decades trying to recreate, had stem celled my hands back into being. That was great news, especially to a code monkey, and someone who relished making useless lists in Excel.

But upon moving my fingers, I found that the research hadn’t extended to the point where my hands weren’t as useless as empty gloves. Each finger lay limp and unhappy at the end of a bone filled, but rather useless hand. I could get into painful slapping contests with French men, but that was about it. I couldn’t even form a fist and chickens would stay frustratingly unchoked.

I finally figured out where I was. I was in the Fortress of Catitude. I still had not explored all the hidden caverns and rooms in the place but it definitely was my lair. I learned that the Catillac has apologetically dragged me here, before making a nuisance of itself making chickens turn back into eggs. Finally in a moment of silliness, it travelled back in time to meet its maker and had accidentally ran him over, thus immediately eliminating itself from existence.

I was irked by this as a time traveling car would have been very useful. I had already wasted it last year by taking it back in to random times. For example, I popped back to 1912 and accidentally appeared in front of a boat causing it to veer and hit an iceberg. Well boats really should watch where they are going.

I began my rehabilitation process. It would take time. A lot of time. More time than I had. I decided to create a team. This was not a new idea. And as much as Croc was a key figure in previous stories, he gave more of the impression that he was secretly writing a story of his own. Most likely something along the lines of 50 Shades of Green.

Over the last year I had actually managed to apprehend several of the Elf Hitmen. They really were everywhere if you looked hard and low enough. I had locked them up in various rooms in the Fortress of Catitude. Locked up is a relative term. They were given rooms with windows and heaters and a bed, and allowed to go the supermarket and make their own food. All in all, it was much better than the North Pole and I’m pretty sure they are actually doing all the housework.

I gathered them all around my bed.

Doubleshot Hoffwhiskey	A short, stealthy, lean elf. A master of all weapons. He had a reputation of having never missed the bowl.
Elf Diablo	A hot headed young elf who liked playing with matches.
Notacapatain Doomerang	Well there could only be one Captain around. I’m not sure what he did.
Manny Quinn	A feminine looking elf barring the deep voice and the knee length beard. Crazy as fuck.

Me	So team, I want to give you all a chance at your freedom.
Doubleshot	No, thanks. It’s quite nice here.
Elf Diablo	Warm.
Doomerang	Roomy.
Manny	Huh? What was that? I should kill everyone and escape?
<silence>
Manny	Sorry. The voices.
<silence>
Manny	Ha ha, I’m kidding. Jeez. That’s not what they really said.
Me	I want to build a team of some very dangerous people, who I think can do some good. Also I don’t have any other options. Don’t you guys want revenge on the fat one? Santa Claus. I’m giving you the chance to kill him and earn your freedom.
Doubleshot	What is this? Cheerleading tryouts?
Me	Listen we can make this a huge long parody or you all can just kick to the end and accept.
Doomerang	Let’s do it guys, we just take off once we’re out of here.
Me	Ha, little did you know, I had Christmas crackers embedded into your heads that will go pop when you get out of line. Look I have an app for it and everything. Cost me 99c.
Doubleshot	Really?
Me	No, not really. Oh and by the way, meet the Croc.
Croc	Wotcher! Anyone have any weed?
Elf Diablo	We need a team name.
Me	I’ve got the perfect name.
Manny	Puddin’.
Me	That’s even better. I’ll call you the Puddin’ Cat Dolls.
Croc	For fuck sakes.

I was hesitant adding Croc to the team. After all, it could just end up becoming an alcoholics synonymous team, but Croc sort of added himself to the team. Croc generally does whatever the fuck he wants.

As it happened a few days after making the team, Santa reared his ugly head. Three coordinated suicide bombings occurred in Belgium. As in the case of things blowing up, it claimed several lives, including those of the Suicide Squad that went in. This was obviously a revenge tactic. I had spent several amazing days in Belgium over my battles with the Claus and the people were definitely on my side. Not willing to take up arms and start a riot, but on my side at least.

Santa, now, presuming me dead, was making a show of force and had ordered retaliatory actions against Belgium.

The Dolls headed off in the Crocket allowing me the solitude of my fortress. My hands were still trembling uncontrollably. I couldn’t type stick, let alone hold one.

I thought about the last decade. The madness. The pain. The sheer destruction. It was amazing that some governing body had not started a pissing contest with me. I mean you would think that the United Nations would have come to me with some sort of accords that would create a panel to oversee and control me. But then again, I was smarter than your average avenger and no one actually knew I existed. I mean seriously, I don’t even have a Wikipedia page.

Of course the world is filled with loonies. Instead of coming after me, the unions were kept busy voting for things and divorcing one another. Meanwhile North Korea were continuing a decade worth of nuclear tests and claimed with authority and certainty that they could kill a flea in Washington by taking out the entire North America. The Middle East continued in its playground battles using real bullets and few words. Every direction on the compass was consumed in varying degrees of seeing how much blood a human body held.

I needed a break. And I wanted to get away from Guru Shaun the Monster who was nursing me back to what I can only hope was health. All his medicine was homeopathic, which wasn’t an issue, but all his medical texts were veterinary and had started speaking to me in hoss. It was definitely a good time to get away. If I only I could go through a process of extreme pain and suffering that would enable some dormant mutant gene in me that would allow me to regenerate and recover from my wounds. That would be cool. But a little too far-fetched even for me.

I decided to return home. Luckily I managed to hop a lift on Ed Force One, as Iron Maiden were on a world tour and happened to be returning to South Africa for the second time. I got off the plane to a cool and cloudy Cape Town. And was met by a very inebriated Croc.

Me:	Croc? What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be off fighting Santa or Santa’s minions somewhere with the Puddin’ Cat Dolls?
Croc:	Do you bleed?
Me:	What? Well yes, if you cut me, do I not bleed?
Croc:	You will.
Me:	What? Why? Where are the rest of the team?
Croc:	I got a bit bored with them. Bunch of nutters. And besides, it’s Iron Maiden dude.
Me:	So why will I bleed?
Croc:	Dude, Iron Maiden. I believe they are going to play Blood Brothers. And we didn’t get to hear that together the last time.

It was not unusual for the Croc to want to see arguably one of the world’s greatest bands, but I was mildly touched that he would want to see them with me. I asked him to stop mildly touching me and we went off to the show.

Iron Maiden are a band going strong for decades. They were a band that is synonymous with amazing metal guitar riffs, rich melodic themes and good old fashioned head banging music. The first time I saw them, it lifted my soul, so I figured it would be the best medicine for now. It may not fix my hands, but a broken soul means the body is just an empty book. The miserable have no other medicine but only hope.

The concert didn’t disappoint. And Iron Maiden ensured they played a mix of their old and new. We ran to the hills. We soared on the wings of eagles. And I sang my heart out in the arms of my blood brothers. The song also gave me a moment to have a moment of recollection to the people I have lost along the way. The original Cat. I still miss you, brother; and I hate you for choosing not to be here.

Cape Town resulted in me nursing myself a bit further back to health and contained, as expected, a long trial of alcohol and Croc puns. I forgot about the Claus. Well you can’t forget, but when you’re in pain, you can think about other things for a while. And new thoughts and memories replace old thoughts and memories. Pain replaces pain which replaces pain. The pain never really goes away. You either just become stronger or you learn to get used to it. Until the point where it is just a comfortable numbness. That you would miss should it go away.

The Puddin’ Cat Dolls had ended up in Turkey and Croc flew off in his Crocket to meet them. Actually he didn’t even say goodbye. I only found out he had left when I learnt of what had happened later.

Two or three elf hitmen, armed to the teeth had intended to cause some merriness at the Istanbul airport. The Puddin’ Cat Dolls were prepared for this. They had been formed for this. The battle ensued with bullets and blades and magic. Doubleshot aimed and fired, not missing, but not having an impact. Manny made snarky comments which didn’t hurt the hitmen. However, I believe that they would have felt it later. Sticks and stones may break your bones, but words hurt forever. Doomerang wasted a lot of time throwing a stick and waiting for it to come back.

Of course once Croc got involved, the bastard little attackers called it quits. They cowardly chose to push a button on a bomb that they had had on their persons and go bang. Because again, that’s what bombs do. They explode in light and flame and extinguish life around it. It’s not a starting pistol to a new life. It’s an end. A selfish end.

Croc later told me that the team had tried but had been unable to save everyone. Casualties of war. Casualties of evil. Another blatant loss of innocent lives. Real life was not a superhero movie.

Santa would say that there was no such thing as innocence. Everyone had secrets. Everyone had flaws. Everyone had a bit of evil waiting to come out. But that was the thing. I believe that the world is fundamentally good. Whether it’s because of lessons of religion or a fear of a god that leads most people to not hit every other person they pass with a brick; or to jump out of a bush and steal the shoes of a jogger’s feet. Every person is fundamentally good. We float like butterflies, we sting like bees, but given a choice, most people would choose to be good. It is a choice; and that is what essentially makes us human.

Santa Claus is not human. Santa Claus is evil. He doesn’t just do evil. He is evil incarnate. The right hand side of the word in the glossary. The picture that will come up if you google image evil. The word you can say in 30 seconds if your clue is evil.

It’s common knowledge to this story – Santa has fuelled the world with Ideas. Ideas that play on the scale of choices. And that’s what leads the weak minded, the feeble, the lost and misguided to become angry, hateful, and afraid. To make the other choice.

As much as I wanted to put my feet up and rest, I couldn’t afford the luxury of staying in one place. Not with the Elf Quaida all over the place. So I went off Canada. From Niagara Falls, I stood alone, eating in the beauty and grandeur that this world has to offer. Thoughts settled around me like debris from falling buildings. This world we call home is such a beautiful place. I understand wanting to fight for it. I mean if aliens came down and wanted to start a bit of a ‘let’s take this outside’, then by all means, let’s team up with some aliens to beat up some other aliens. I’ll ponder those morals later. But right now, we’re just killing each other. I would rather die saving lives that live taking them.

I gathered my thoughts in Toronto, and in a way, I found my direction. Tattooed among the scars, there was hope. Where there wasn’t hope, there was spirit. And spirits when all else failed.

The year had already rolled itself over and I had not come up with a cunning plan. But it wasn’t a year for a cunning plan. It was a year for realising that the end was not the answer. That, even though, I had achieved so little in a decade, I had actually done much. I had become a thorn in the side of the Claus and I don’t think anyone had done that since his pantomime on the cross.

Santa was definitely still going about his business. The year drew to a close with mysterious fires torching the land of his birth. That was actually a bit strange. I couldn’t decide if it was him that was getting rid of some second childhood traumas, or if it was some new vigilante that was doing it for some reason that he would probably blog about. Or maybe it was just some hippy who didn’t know how to put out a campfire and it had gotten slightly out of control.

Ideas continued to spread. People lived. People died. While he who was held as a champion of socialism and anti-imperialism breathed his last; new leaders were rising to the top of the sludge. One can only wonder what will happen when you put a bit of despot on a throne of that size. While comedians are sure to have a field day, I wonder what the next year will hold.

The next year. There is always a next year. Until, there won’t be.

Ever the UnderdoG

Kamal

P.S. Here’s to honour among thieves, and heroes and fiends; to all you family and friends and maybe warriors – have a great new year.

P.P.S – Santa, once you figure out I’m still alive, we’ll start our dance again.

P.P.P.S – It’s been a bitch to type this without the use of my fingers.

P.P.P.P.S – Don’t be silly…I was using my nose.

P.P.P.P.P.S – Most of the time.