'Tis The Season To Not Be The Season

And now, because it's summer (well, kinda), I'm going to post up a story about Christmas. Yes, that's the sort of thing I do. You'll learn eventually.

This story is an oldie of mine. I wrote it about three-ish years ago, and whilst you can undoubtedly tell, I still have a little soft spot for it. Mostly because this was where my literary sadistic streak (now my trademark, more or less) first really unleashed itself. What is not so nice in reality is great fun in fiction, so being a maniac in your stories is all to the good. That's what I tell myself, anyway.

So, let's get to it. Ring those sleigh bells, kids...

The Way Things Are Done

Mum had always made sure that I never believed in Santa. It had got me into trouble a few times, notably in Year 3 when I told my classmates that they needn’t worry about trying to get their letter to go up the chimney, because their parents had read it anyway. They went home crying, asking their parents how they could let them live a lie like this, the parents got upset, rang the head teacher, he got upset, I nearly got expelled, et cetera, et cetera. At the time, I couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about. I thought I was doing them a favour, showing them the light and all that. Of course, now I know better.

A few weeks ago, I finally got round to sorting out all the stuff in mum’s house. It had been there for years, a mausoleum, a collection of dead things for a dead person. Waiting for the spirit to take them to the underworld. Whatever. Anyway, I was combing my way through the house, seeing what stuff I’d like to keep. And what I found, in a box in the loft, under tons and tons of other useless garbage, was a book. A diary that mum kept when she was little, almost eighty years ago now. It was falling to pieces, but one bit was still perfectly legible, a short-ish entry that, after almost fifty years of wondering, finally gave me the reason why she hated the Santa legend with such venom.

* * * * *

Sally, the eight year old girl with the diary, and her six year old sister, Emily, crept downstairs, having to feel their way through the tight space for fear of being discovered by turning on the lights. They slowly, ever so slowly, made their way through the dining room, avoiding the more creaky floorboards like they’d done this a thousand times before. Of course they hadn’t. No one had. No one had ever attempted this before. They opened the living room door literally just enough for them to squeeze through, and, sure enough, there he was. Bending down underneath the Christmas tree was a rather fat old man, with a massive fluffy white beard and a woolly hat/gown/shoes combo that was red like the colour of blood. Santa.

Suddenly, unable to contain their excitement at having found the holy grail of childendom, they screamed. A very girly scream, as it turned out. Santa paused, sighed, stood up slowly, and turned around to face them. Damn. They had been discovered.

Emily spoke first. ‘Seen you!’ she said.

Santa laughed. Not the big ‘ho ho ho’ like you’d expect, but something much more sinister, almost maniacal.

‘Yes, I suppose you have. You know, I’ve been watching you two for several months now.’

‘You have?’ Sally and Emily said in unison, in the delighted tone of someone who finally gets to meet their idol, and is told that they, yes they, could be greater.

‘Yes, I have. You two have been some of the nicest kids I’ve ever come across. I don’t think anyone’s done anything but sing your praises this year.’ He sighed, in a very Disney-evil, forced reluctance way. ‘Which is why it makes me very sad to say that I’m going to have to take your presents back.’

‘WHAT???’ the girls screamed, utterly shocked, stunned and outraged.

‘OFFRED regulations. Part 7, Section 9, Sub-section 28, Clause 3, Sub-clause 18, Sub-sub-clause 321. “If any child shall try to catch a glimpse of you, then they shall be deemed Bad, despite whatever they may have done since last Christmas”. I’m sorry, but it seems that you two have been Bad Girls.’

Sally and Emily were utterly stunned. Finally, after about two minutes, Sally dared to speak. ‘You heartless bastard!’ she screamed.

‘No, sadly not. I’m sure that if you met me in normal life then we’d get on quite well. But, as it is, I’m just doing a job.’

Emily looked confused. ‘What d’you mean?’ she asked. In the background, Sally pulled the face of someone who knew what was coming.

‘You don’t honestly think that just one guy could deliver presents to nearly six billion people in one night, do you?’

‘You mean there’s more than one Santa?’

‘Of course. More like a million. We’re all just normal guys with normal jobs who trek up to the North Pole each year, get given a heap of presents, lists and addresses, and told to deliver them before the morning. It’s as boring as hell, but it’s more money on the side.’

This was not what the girls wanted to hear.

Noticing that Emily had just burst into tears, Santa perked up a bit. ‘In case you’re worried, this is actually a real beard. Not a piece of wool with two bits of wire in it, not like the sad losers you see in the shopping centres.’

Sally looked up, straight at him, pure hatred blazing in her eyes behind the pearly sheen of the tears, teeth and fists clenched. ‘What are you talking about? You are a sad loser.’

Santa laughed, a genuine human laugh this time. ‘I suppose you’re right. Hell, I only took up this job so I could get into kid’s bedrooms.’ He seemed to realise what he’d just said, and so carried on before the girls got a chance to think. ‘Anyway, I really must be going. So little time, so much to do…’

As he bent under the tree to pick up the presents, a silent agreement passed between Sally and Emily. Simultaneously, without any kind of planning or forethought, they leapt onto Santa’s back, pounding on his head and neck, anywhere they could see skin under the mass of clothing. However, they were not experienced fighters, and Santa was a big guy, and so he was able to stand up with enough force to send them flying into the opposite wall. The whole fight had taken less than ten seconds.

Santa turned and looked at the girls darkly, with a slightly bemused, but overall unimpressed manner. Why the hell hadn’t he seen that coming? People like them would do anything to protect their possessions… Sally looked up at him, her face even more bewildered than before. Her voice took on an uneven pattern as she struggled to get her breath back.

‘Why do you have to take our presents? You’re only doing it because those stupid rules say so.’

‘I’m sorry, but rules are rules. You aren’t the first kids I’ve done this to, you know. If you break one rule, you break them all, that’s what I say. Fibber today, mass murderer tomorrow…best to head them off early. No sense in being like those poor people. No morals, the lot of them. They don’t deserve presents.’

Sally was outraged. ‘How can you say that? You should give to everyone. That’s your damn job! Anyway, what about the Scratchitts? They may be poorer than the poorest, but you can’t fault them.’

Santa smiled demonically. ‘What, the family you helped through the winter? They should at least be grateful for what we give them. At least we acknowledge them!’

‘Well, they aren’t grateful because you don’t give them anything to be fucking grateful about, you tight-fisted wanker!’

Santa put is hand to his mouth in a very theatrical, OTT, Disney-evil fashion. ‘My god! First Golden Girl fights, and now she swears! And you said you care for the innocent? My arse you do. All you care about is your own fucking presents…’

Sally quietly burned with embarrassment, venomous hatred and pure self-loathing, knowing that he was right, knowing that the door had been opened and she had stepped through, right on cue. She should have seen that she was being provoked into showing that, despite all the care, duty and piety she had shown, she really didn’t deserve anything better than a puke-filled stocking. How humiliating.

Santa was by the front door by this point, the blood-red bag of presents in his hand. The next question surprised him. Well, for a start, it came from Emily. Throughout the previous exchange she had been curled up against the wall, crying quietly. Now, it seemed that she had composed herself.

‘Well, can we at least see Rudolf?’

This was the first time that Santa looked genuinely guilty. He always dreaded the day that he’d have to say this, but, as they say, here goes nothing…

‘Er, well, you see, there’s a small problem in that field. You see, he retired a few years ago, on account of getting old and suchlike. And we offered him a retirement package. Er…’

He took a small blue-and-white-striped plastic bag out of his pocket, and put it on the table next to him. If the girl’s hearts could have sunk any lower, they would have done. Without even looking inside, it was obvious what was in the bag.

A string of sausages. Venison sausages.