Part XII

“Wake up, it's Christmas mourn. Those loved have long since gone.”

The ceiling twinkled. I hadn’t previously considered the colour of failure but it was a rosy tinged hue. The colour of Santa’s cheeks. Santa’s cheeks are evil. This is because they are attached to the rest of him. The rest of him, which is also evil. The blur focused with the thought that we should all know well by now. If you’ve been paying attention.

Santa Claus is an evil git. Santa Claus must die.

I woke up, groggy and dishevelled, in the back of a tiny car. It was the middle of the night, and consciousness brought focus as a house warming gift. The ceiling of the car, the dull twinkling, was that reflection of my phone’s dying battery light. I switched off the phone and stumbled out into the darkness. I realised I wasn’t alone.

Four men were on the other side of the car. They looked awfully tall for elves, but there are a lot of times that one should not judge a man’s tallness by his height.

I raised my hands, and with painful memories slowly clenched and unclenched my fists. They were healing, but slowly. What would I give for super healing powers and something useful like chopsticks that popped out of my knuckles when I needed to fight. Or needed dim sum.

“Oi,” I muttered, “Warrayouguysdoing?”

“So you want to be everyone’s private driver, do you? Get there and die,” one of the less busy men said. He was holding a torch over the windscreen as another tried desperately to take off the driver side wiper.

“What’s this now?” I asked very confused.

The men ignored me as they gave up on dismantling the car and instead, focussed on setting it on fire. They were using matches and newspaper for this and didn’t seem to be getting very far; so I decided to be helpful and gave them my Galaxy Note 7. They could at least Google it.

Shortly after walking away, the car exploded.

I wandered into the darkness, walking among this world that we have created. A dirty, oil painting of a world, making ants by building goliaths. Great, steel wonders tickled the under carriages of clouds; purple smoke stained the moon, leaving behind an eerie glow under broken streetlights. I caught my reflection in a store window.

I wasn’t the boy I was a dozen years ago, when this fight began. I looked at me and the man that looked back was a stranger. As my strength declined, my cookie habit grew, as did my belly. My beard had grown bushy and thick and grey had begun to blossom against my natural black. Whisky gave my cheeks an embarrassed blush.

I was starting to look a lot like…no...don’t even say it.

My pocketed hands, which had been re-grown using science and magic only known to Guru Shaun the monster; were painfully squashed into bags of broken bones. Speaking of broken things; heart, spirit and back all continued to take beatings without the serving of hope that life and karma usually keeps on the side dish. I had also spent much too much time down on my knees. Pretending to be an elf, not in the way that Croc would expect someone to bow before him.

I turned my coat to the wind and walked down into a well lit building. It was called the Pleasure Paradise and Casino. It was well awash with people and at on the stage at the front stood a little man. He looked like a doll that had been patched together by a three year old at a bargain build-a-bear.

He saw me from across the room and began to lurch towards me. His face was an angry, aged tomato. He walked with an air that gave the impression that he was having an argument about who pushed Humpty with the voices in his head. His hair was a straw thatch that C4 would have happily called home, before realising that the plumbing didn’t work and most of the foundation was just an illusion.

As he walked a grandiose voice announced over the PA system.

Ladies and Gentlemen! Welcome to the Trump Inauguration! Dedicated to ‘Murica’s #1 Citizen and greatest living folk hero. The one and only Ronald McDonald Trump. Of course we've all heard the legend, but who is the man? Inside you will learn how Ronald McDonald Trump became one of the richest and most powerful men in America. Learn the amazing history of the Klaus family, starting with his great-grandfather, Buford 'Mad Dog' Klaus, fastest gift wrapper in the West. Learn how Ron parlayed that silver spoon from burgers to towers and into the vast empire called The Trump Organization.

I stopped listening as he reached me and started hitting me on the head.

Ronald McDonald Trump:	Hello? Hello? Anybody home?
Me:	Dude, what the fuck, stop it.
RMT:	There’s something very familiar about you…
Me:	Me, no, I’m nobody.
RMT:	About as useful as a screen door on a battleship.
Me:	It’s ‘screen door on a submarine’, you dork.
RMT:	What was that McFly? Why don’t you make like a tree and get outta here.
Me:	So exactly how are you related to Santa?
RMT:	What do you know? That’s fake news.
Me:	What is the old boy up to these days? You can tell me. Look I’m not a reporter.
RMT:	So the plan was first to get me to be the leader of the free world. Now I plan to slowly unfree the world. You heard about that Great Wall? I will build a greater wall – and nobody builds walls better than me, believe me – and I’ll build them very inexpensively. I will build a great, great wall on our southern border, and I will make Mexico pay for that wall. Mark my words. And Father Klaus will reward me handsomely for my work.
Me:	You just told me your entire plan. Are you trying to make me your apprentice?
RMT:	You’re fired.
Me:	Don’t worry I don’t want the job. But what if I want to stop you?
RMT:	Because, butthead. You’re not going to leave here alive.
Me:	Well Ronald, you’re forgetting one thing…WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?!

With that I grabbed the patchwork quilt of Barbie doll hair from his head and ran.

I was good at running. Even if it never have certain characteristics of running, such as the speed part; it got me away from nasty situations. But even now, I felt the extra weight I had to shift from point A to point B. If the weight of the world wasn’t enough, try carrying a few extra kilograms around your midsection and still break world sprinting records.

The one thing with continuous running for the last twelve years is that I had become pretty good at it. For all the things that had been bruised, battered and broken; my legs tended to work quite well. Or maybe some devilish power had been infused into my tired old running shoes (any shoes are running shoes once you’re in a spot of bother), and I tended to end up in places a long way away from where I had started. If anything, it was as if some magician had instantly transported me to a different space and time. And had given me an umbrella, I guess maybe as an emergency parachute for slowing down. I opened it and yelled out, “I’m Mary Poppins, Y’all!”

Once I caught my breath, and stopped giggling to myself, I looked up and the world had indeed changed. I was on a cliff overlooking a vast expanse of ocean. Lush green grass danced in the breeze against the fresh grey sky. A lone figure stood at the edge, white hair billowing in the wind. He was dressed humbly and not a stitch of blood red on him. I walked up hesitantly. He didn’t exude evil, even though he looked like a department store Santa on his day off.

“Look at this place, it’s beautiful,” said Santa’s doppelganger.

As he said this, in the distance we watched, what could only be described as a ballistic missile flew into the sky and created a snail’s trail trajectory before falling to its tremendous death into a red dotted ocean.

Me:	Who are you?
Santa Doppelganger:	I’ve been waiting for you.
Me:	Are you alright? You look like an escaped mental patient. Can I help you? Can I take you home?
Santa Doppelganger:	Home? Yes. Mary, she calls me. Do you hear it?
Me:	All I can hear are seagulls and I think you may have had beans for lunch?
Santa Doppelganger:	Come sit with me, we don’t have much time.
Me:	Who are you?
Santa Doppelganger:	I am Odin. But you may know me more by my original name, Joseph.
Me:	Joseph?
Joseph:	Yes, I am the adoptive father of the one you know as Claus.
Me:	Holy fuck.
Joseph:	Well people keep going on about it being holy and there not actually being a fuck, but I was doing my best. Holy fuck my arse.
Me:	Um…Are you going to try to kill me?
Joseph:	It has already begun. She’s coming back.
Me:	She?
Joseph:	My life was all that held her back, but my time has come. I cannot keep her away any longer.
Me:	Who are you talking about? Jesus?
Joseph:	No. Before Jesus there was another. Jesus’ sister. Mary’s firstborn.
Me:	Mary’s firstborn. So the immaculate conception was actually the second going around the ring? Exactly what constituted immaculate back then anyway?
Joseph:	Look, I had to tell her parents something.
Me:	So who is she?
Joseph:	The Goddess of Death.
Me:	That doesn’t fucking sound good.
Joseph:	Ho-Ho-Hela
Me:	What the fuck. Hell is in her fucking name?
Joseph:	Her violent appetites grew beyond my control. I couldn’t stop her, so I imprisoned her. Locked her away. She draws her strength from the North Pole...and once she gets there, her powers will be limitless.
Me:	Oi, you crazy old fuck, she’s stronger than Santa???? And you’ve been keeping her at bay? Whatever she is, surely we can stop her. We can face her together.
Joseph:	No we won’t. I’m on a different path now. This you must face alone.

With that, the old man dematerialized into a bunch of snowflakes and flew off into the sunset. I found this very convenient. For him.

This was an unexpected turn of events. Santa was bad enough and now there was someone worse. As I thought this, behind me a black portal opened. I opened my new handy umbrella in case of rain.

A very fat...woman…appeared?

“Santa?” I asked furtively.

“No,” said a very manly voice in character of being a very manly feminine voice, “It is I, Ho-Ho-Hela”.

The person was very much a man in cross dress. It was the thick white beard that gave it away. The fact that ‘she’ was in a tight black figure hugging leather suit and high heels with a low riding cleavage didn’t hide the fact that his jingle bells and candy cane were showing. It was obviously Santa. I figured I should humour him. The bright red lipstick blooming past the snow white beard was too ridiculous to try to even ask about it. So much for Joseph’s story, he didn’t have two naughty kids, but just one very weird kid. That had grown up to be one very weird man. He marked ‘Other’ on gender on forms.

Me:	You must be the Ho-Ho-Hela?
Ho-Ho-Hela:	Kneel!
Me:	Um no, you need to buy me dinner first at least.
Ho-Ho-Hela:	KNEEL BEFORE YOUR HO HO HO!!!
Me:	I don’t think so.

My umbrella had magically turned into a hammer. It wasn’t a missile launcher or a handy stick with a pointy end, but at least it was better than an origami swan, which would offer the ability to maybe give a papercut. I threw the hammer at him…her…it…whatever. He/she caught it and looked at it before shattering it to splinters in her (fuck it, ‘her’) hands.

With that, I was suddenly caught up in a fresh whoosh. The world spun around me in colours and shapes, mostly a sparkly octarine, pulling me upward at the speed of magic. I felt Ho-Ho-Hela’s presence behind me, the pointy tips of her hat nibbling at my ankles. I swam against the celestial current and kicked out at Ho-Ho-Hela, missed completely and felt myself pulled outwards by a riptide. With all the ceremony of a cork flying out of a bottle of champagne I was sucked out and shot into what felt like normal air. Landing heavily, all the air exited my lungs and I blacked out.

I awoke. Blackness subsiding in that familiar way, making shapes and colours out of the world. Nerve endings reacted by doing Mexican waves of pain through my extremities. I was in a seated position, but I couldn’t move; I couldn’t discern if it was from the pain or I had been tied to my current throne.

Prepare yourself. Prepare yourself. You are now meeting the Catmaster.

Catmaster?

I hoped I hadn’t ended up in some loony old cat lady’s home. Stranger things had happened.

The shapes and colours finally settled. I was in a large hall that could have been decorated by a very blind person who had very distinct ideas of what insanity looked like. Colours I had never seen before melded and meshed together on the walls and hung down in curtains, over a blindingly white floor. It looked like a unicorn had exploded after eating too many rainbows.

The Catmaster was louder even than the room wearing blue, red and gold and make up distorting his facial features into a grin. He was surrounded by his minions all dressed up as cats.

Catmaster:	Here’s what I want to know. Who are you?
Me:	What’s it to you?
Catmaster:	You’re my contender now. My fighter. So I want to know who you are.
Me:	I AM THE CAPTAIN OF THUNDER.
Catmaster:	Thunder?
Me:	Okay no, I just wanted to be the captain of something. I mean you’re the master of cats as it is. What does that mean anyway?
Catmaster:	Well Pussymaster lacked subtlety.
Me:	Fair enough.
Catmaster:	My name is Catmaster. I preside over a little harlequinade called the Contest of Champions. People come from far and wide to unwillingly participate in it. And you, my friend, might just be part of the new cast. What do you say to that?
Me:	We’re not friends, and I don’t give a shit about your games! I’d rather go back to Guru Shaun’s Heavy Petting Zoo. (What the fuck am I saying?)
Catmaster:	Any contender who defeats my champion, their freedom they shall win. Of you know, if someone is willing to pay your ransom. Makes you WannaCry doesn’t it?
Me:	Ye may take mah pride, but ye’ll neva take mah…

Before I finished my brave hearted speech, the top of my head received a sudden trauma with what I can only hope was not a cat scratching post. Who knew what the Catmaster would scratch with it.

Blacking out and waking up continuously like this was definitely not good for my brain but I was more worried about it throwing off my sleeping patterns. I woke up with my hair cut and my beard trimmed so I looked like a slightly more presentable hobo. Like a hobo that gave life coaching speeches, but would still have to put a hat out at the end and ask for alms.

I was now in a large arena, stocked to the rafters with beer swilling, screaming fans. The night air appeared somewhere in the sky which seemed very far away. An announcer’s voice rang in my ears with advertiser type words, until it was severed by the sharp slice of silence.

Then the Catmaster’s voice projected to the height and width of the arena.

Wow! Look at all of you. What a show, WHAT-A-NIGHT! Who’s having fun? Please, I’m your host. Big round of applause for all of our undercat competitors... who died so gruesomely. Good sports. What a show! What a night! This is what you’ve come for and so have I. And now, without further ado... it’s main event time!! Making his first appearance, though he looks quite promising, got a couple of tricks up his sleeve. I’ll say no more, see what you think. Ladies and gentlemen... I give to you…the Captain of Something or the Other But Definitely Not Thunder!

I fought the urge to wave shyly as boos and laughter rang out.

A door at the other end of the arena opened revealing a dark, long tunnel that gave off a terrible smell even from where I was standing. The Catmaster continued…

He’s undefeated. HE’S THE REIGNING...HE’S THE DEFENDING CHAMPION... Ladies and gentlemen... I give you...the Invader of Spaces…the Green Monster…CROCODILE HASEN.

Crocodile Hasen?

Croc Hasen took that moment to leisurely stroll into the arena, holding a two large containers that spilt a golden liquid as he walked.

Croc Hasen:	Oi, Captain. Wotcher. Got any weed?
Me:	Croc?! What the fuck?! What are you doing here?
Croc Hasen:	Well I heard about this oke called the Catmaster and I figured it was you, you know what with your obsession with cats.
Me:	<grumbles> I am not obsessed with cats.
Croc Hasen:	But it turned out to be some other weirdo. Not a lot weirder than you, mind, but that’s how the cookie crumbles. But then again, he does have this weird game where you have to go through the Devil’s Anus.
Me:	So what are you still doing here? Why didn’t you come and find me?
Croc Hasen:	Well he gave me a lot of beer to hang around, so I figured there’s a lot worse places to hang out. Also he keeps bringing me into this arena and lets me play with his cats.
Me:	Play? Actually I don’t want to know.
Croc Hasen:	Yeah, no one seems to want to play for long. I mean once the tail comes out…
Me:	No, better left unsaid.
Croc Hasen:	Lot of beer, but no weed. Are you sure you don’t have any weed?
Me:	Dude, for as long as you’ve known me, have I ever, ever had any weed?

The crowd were getting bored and the announcer’s voice catered for this technical glitch in proceedings by sticking in an advert.

A young lady walked out singing what sounded like “Santa Tell Me”. As her voice reached Grande levels, an explosion went off. And as with what usually happens after a big bang, chaos followed. Croc looked extremely unhappy. I noticed that he had dropped his beer.

I took the opportunity to calmly make my way to the nearest exit with Croc in tow, by telling him, we’d go get a gin and tonic once we found a bar. Without realising it, Croc had taken me to the Devil’s Anus, which seemed to be another cosmic ride. This time, I kept my eyes closed until the whooshing was over.

It was night. An ordinary street. In an ordinary world.

A heavy rain began to fall. A red balloon floated haphazardly along before us. It was hypnotic, not because there’s anything particularly interesting about balloons but it seemed to be moving forward along its own sentient path. Croc became interested saying that only a balloon filled with weed would display such drunken flight paths. Croc then got distracted by a little paper boat that was sailing its way in the flooded roads.

“Someone’s obviously put weed in that thing,” he said as he chased after it.

“Dude, how desperate are you for weed? That is the most farfetched thing you’ve ever said and you have said some things that have to go way further than far.”

He ignored me completely as he chased after the boat. Being a Captain who can’t swim, I decided not to chase after boats that may have delusions of Titanic, and so I hid out under a bus stop. The boat floated down into a gutter. The Croc slid down to his knees and seemed to be in a deep discussion with someone or something. Did the boat actually have weed in it?? The long discussion ended and he giddily walked back to me.

“What was that all about?”

“Oh, just some clown.”

“Did he have any weed?”

“No, I asked him and then he tried to eat me.”

“Eat you??”

“Well, he wasn’t very pleased with the mouthful he ended up getting.”

I really didn’t want to know any more that.

We found our way back to the Fortress of Catitude, while along the way learning what Santa, I mean Ho-Ho-Hela, had been up to. She had somehow lit some old flame which burnt off pure evil and sent shockwaves through the world. Ancient evil had awoken from the ground carrying with them a mindless drive for destruction. The effects of carnage and destruction carried through various parts of the world crumbling churches, mosques and all the people between them regardless of whose name was on their dying lips.

The force of these actions was not limited to little angry birds that exploded on impact. Great storms appeared and blew at the world. Rain and winds waded in a sexual dance with each other that climaxed into pregnant pauses. The resulting births of badly named babies shook the earth. It targeted the North America, maybe as an apology for the fire. Nature’s attempt to balance the unnatural.

Santa’s alter ego was drunk on power. Fuelled by an unparalleled desire to destroy. Possibly learning that I was still alive didn’t help his ego. But I really wanted to just tell him that he should stick to the baggy clothes and not wear lady’s heels. He looked moronic. Someone also really needed to give the guy a hug.

The Croc and I had hid out from the storms in the Fortress of Catitude. It wasn’t so much that I was hiding but I didn’t really have any cunning plans. I was always short on money, anyway; and I couldn’t always wait for sales on military grade weapons to continue my fight with the Klaus. But there was always that idea I once had. It was sort of a pyramid scheme. I would ask people for money and in return I would give them the promise of money. As if I had a really important Mario coin and for a small investment, I would give people a bit of this coin. But it would never work, I realised. People weren’t that silly. After all, imagine having all these bits of coins and it being worth a lot of money, but it was in effect imaginary. I have a billions bits of these coins and the only thing I can buy are more bits of these coins. It would never work.

But then again, there are always some loonies who still think the world is flat.

I canned that idea and realised I didn’t really need a cunning plan. Ho-Ho-Hela was already after me. I just needed to stand in one place long enough and she would come to me. Of course standing in an open field with a ‘Kick Me’ sign on my back wasn’t a very bright idea either, but I figured I would make it up as we went along. Also rather an open field than lose another lair. I missed the Cat Cave.

I decided that there was only one thing to do, and I wasn’t going to like it. I would get down to Santa’s level.

With that I walked into one of the lesser used wings of the Fortress. Behind three extremely heavy doors (each unlocked and one wide open), past a three-headed dog that was completely useless at guarding things, and past a security coded lock that opened if you looked at it hard enough; was what I was looking for. I exhaled heavily and began to change.

It was Christmas Eve. Something fitting about the timing. Not the night before Christmas. It was the evening of Christmas. I had never found that confusing until right now. I was nervous.

I knew I was in Jerusalem. Ronald McDonald Trump was still causing chaos by gifting over the city without actually having any claim to it himself. It was just another step that would cause the region to fold in on itself.

An airport runway. Dark but for a few twinkling lights marking the way home for planes. That would really be good for a post drinking night. Lights that guide you home. And put you to bed. But sometimes lights don’t guide you home. Sometimes lights fade. Sometimes lights go out.

I stood alone. The wind blew through my hair which was held in place by a gold coloured coronet. My wrists had rusty gold bracelets. I had a stunning pair of over the knee boots. And a very fetching bodice showed off my shoulders and chest hair. The wind again blew reminding me that the skirt I was wearing barely reached my upper thighs.

I looked around, feeling myself empowering women, but I felt there were better lessons to teach. Not that I had anything against what I was wearing because I looked fabulous, but something that kept more of the chill out would have been nice. Maybe a bit more armour and bit less cleavage, not because I didn’t like my chest; just something that protected my heart a bit more.

Not too far on my right I noticed a fire starting to burn. Not a ‘hey let’s roast marshmallows’ campfire. It was the height of a house and spreading across little cars, getting an applause as the flames found relevant fuel tanks.

In the epicentre…a figure. Black against the flame. Arms outstretched.

“Ho, ho, ho”, it coughed out.

Hela.

She walked toward me. I ran with hurtful intent and jumped towards her. Like two lovers running to each other in slow motion. But then, she materialized two swords out of thin air and threw it at me. It caught me midair but I managed to block it with my wrist bands. However, the sheer force of it knocked me backwards.

I landed hard. Taking the split second to think, I looked up; Ho-Ho-Hela was flying toward me. She pulled another weapon out of thin air. This time a long chain that she flung me. I was tired of Santa in some shape or form always trying to tie me up. I’m sure his reindeers were too. The chain wrapped around my wrist and using her strength tossed me across the runway like a very old horseshoe.

I pulled out a glowing bondage rope of my own, I guess it came with the skirt; and I must have been carrying it down my trousers (I wasn’t wearing trousers, but let’s move on). I lassoed the rope and parried more shrapnel that Ho-Ho-Hela was throwing at me. I caught her on her wrist, although it may have been a little desired in that she caught the rope and took a second to make sure it was double knotted around her wrist. I returned the toss realising that she was smiling because this must have been some sick, twisted hand over fisting game to her.

“Is that the best you have to offer,” Ho-Ho-Hela exclaimed sarcastically.

“I’m doing my best, I don’t know how to run in this skirt and I don’t want you looking up my strings and things.”

This was a mistake as now; I could see that this caused that familiar twinkle in the eye. The battle raged on, as she then managed to get me tied into something that was a mix between an iron maiden and a sex swing that she must have thought up. I really didn’t want Santa peering up my knickers, so I concentrated really hard and broke free.

The fires continued to grow and burn.

“Look at this world! Mankind did this…not me! They are ugly... filled with hatred... weak... just like you, Captain. And for what? Pathetic! You deserve to burn!”

This stirred my emotions People are everything she said. But so much more. People have the ability to be ugly, and filled with hatred and weak. And that’s why it was so beautiful when they weren’t. When the fighting stopped and music fills the air. When kisses land instead of fists. When hands help up instead of push down. Finding the beauty of grey.

Power began to emanate from the bracelets. Obviously it was fuelled by Care Bear Stare power. And as Ho-Ho-Hela attacked, it reflected her as if she was a limp puppet.

“I WILL DESTROY YOU!”

The voice changed. The suit changed. And before me stood Santa. Anger, hatred filled his eyes and shook his body. I felt a little underdressed now that he was back in his usual suit. Electricity shot down from the heavens. Or maybe in reverse it was a highway to hell.

I just smiled.

I knew.

I was numb.

The light shone down on Santa. 

Fierce hot light.

A hot, heavy weight of the universe dropped.

Like a stone.

Time stopped.

The light faded...

…

And when it settled…

…He was gone.

I stood in the dawning light. This showed my legs had been unevenly shaved. There wasn’t a sign of Santa. However there was neither a body. Or a deep crater or lava spilling from the earth.

I knew he wasn’t dead. It was maybe the first battle that I had won. But the war, is not over. Definitely not over.

But the colour of hope burnt its way into the sky.

And it was beautiful.

Even now, more than ever, the UnderdoG

Kamal

P.S. Perhaps this year will bring the peace into the new. Greatest wishes to all. Even to those who are still being ugly.

P.P.S He will be back. Stronger. Weirder.

P.P.P.S I have a sneaking suspicion that Croc has been wearing this outfit. It gets sticky once it gets a little wet.

P.P.P.P.S The lights will shine again.