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Perry V McGee

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Merry Christmas
By Perry V McGee
Sunday, December 22, 2002

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Merry Christmas

By Perry McGee

As Santa lit on Polly’s rooftop, he felt a tinge of fear. He remembered last year’s little episode and really didn’t look forward to this stop. Polly was scary.
He called the reindeers to a halt and jumped from the sleigh. He landed soundlessly, which in itself was unusual because he weighed over four hundred pounds.
Gotta lose some weight his wife had said earlier tonight.
Yea, piss on her he thought now, standing beside the smoking chimbly. She ain’t been the easiest goddamn person to be around lately. She and her constant bickering about the fucking mess in the workshop and bitching because I screwed an Elf’s wife.
“Fuck it,” Santa said.

Although his sleigh’s landing and his subsequent pole-vault from its cockpit were silent, his statement was not. A pigeon with cancer heard his words and flew away, said pigeon having a life expectancy of two days.
Santa zipped to the fireplace inside Polly’s home (he didn’t know where the rumors of ‘sliding down the chimbly’ came from, he simple transported himself to his destination.) and looked quickly at his surroundings.
Good, Polly wasn’t there.

A wonderfully decorated and well-lit Christmas tree stood tall against the wall. Beside it, a folding table with food, drink, and a note.
He re-examined his surroundings then approached the dying Douglas fir.
Last year, he recalled, the tree was artificial. This year it was a real one. He hated real trees because the pine sap always got on his gloves, which in turn got pine sap on the gifts. It’s harder than hell sorting gifts when they’re all stuck together like a bunch of snails and slugs.

Santa then walked to the makeshift food carousel. This was the part of the routine he despised the most. He would read the letter, zip back to the roof to grab some presents, then zip back. Sometimes something would go horribly wrong though, like giving a little boy a Brittany Spears’s cosmetic case or something.
Two years ago he had inadvertently given Rev. Billy Graham a vibrator that was earmarked for Pamela Anderson. Graham used it on a flock(I ain’t saying which flock though).
Anderson ended up with a pack of church candles, so she pleasured herself accordingly. (“Look Tommy, I’m like that chick in the Excorist... Fuck Me Jesus!!!.) Later that night, Tommy burnt the fuck out of his left nut.

A glistening glass of room-temperature milk sat next to a plate of cookies. Good thing sour milk is good for me, Santa thought. I’d be dead by now if it wasn’t. And the cookies looked safe enough for the reindeer.
He drank heartily from the glass as he stuffed some of the cookies into his pockets. He left the ones that contained chocolate because chocolate gave the reindeers the shits. There is still a stain on the sleigh’s runner from Blitzen’s diarrhea last year. Probably Polly hid Hershey’s kisses in the sugar cookies he figured. Damn her, she can be so nasty.
He returned the now empty glass to the table and internally belched; he made no noise, just felt gas move from one place to another.

Then he recalled the events of the early hours of last Christmas morning, how Polly had came at him with a knife, the crazed look in her eyes, and the speed and dexterity in which she acted. If he hadn’t known a little self-defense his ass woulda’ been grass. She swung the blade in a downward arc and his four-hundred pound frame moved away gracefully, just like in the kung-fu movies. He escaped alive, but if he had to slide up the chimbly then surly she would have caught him and slit him to ribbons.

Yea, Polly was a wild one. Over in Africa there were a few wild children, but in all the world, Polly was the worst.
Santa’s memory took him back several years, to when she was just a baby, to when she threw-up on him. That’s when he knew Polly was destined to become a ‘challenge’.
And did she ever.
Every year since her birth she had fucked with him one way or another. Like the puking thing, then one year leaving jacks on the floor. Even with boots on, them things hurt like a muther fucker when he stepped on them.
Yes, Polly was like a fast growing female Son of Sam or something.

From the table, he lifted the handwritten note.
Dear Santa, it began, just like the other twenty million notes began, I been good. Please get me a Barbie play-set and a little brother to play with and a...

Good Christ O Mighty, now she wants a fucking brother? One kid in this house is aplenty. What’s up with this chick?

...and please make mommy and daddy stop yelling at each other and...

He laughed at that part. “Hells far, I can’t get my ole’ lady off my back and she want me to be some kind of marriage doctor for her mom & dad? Yea, right,” he said. Then, because his own voice startled him, peered around the room.
Shut up he told himself mentally.

...and a talking parrot and a parrot cage and a...

He saw a shit-load of gifts under the tree. His thinking was: Polly didn’t deserve this much stuff, the little bitch.
Even his thoughts were not loud. Santa thought quietly.

...and a Black Sabbath best of CD and a...

Over the top of the handwritten request list, Santa thought he saw a shadow play across the tree. He turned and again saw nothing.
Nerves he thought, thinking even more quietly than before.
He resumed his perusal of Polly’s letter:

...and a swing-set for when the weather breaks and a new toothbrush because mine’s wore-out and a...

Santa couldn’t remember reading that one before. A toothbrush?
She was shit out of luck though, he had no toothbrushes on his sleigh. He’d done the inventory enough to know what was and wasn’t in his bag. He did have a baby brother on board but knew damn well that he wasn’t leaving it at this house.
He continued reading,

...and a bow and arrow and a...

Now that was funny! A bow and arrow? After she tried to kill me?! Get a life! Man this girl is out there. Out of her mind. Next thing ya know she’ll ask for a gun.
Back to the note now, it said:

...and a South Park doll of those farting guys and a...

Santa recalled seeing the South Park movie and smiled at the fond memory.

...and a rocket launcher and a computer like daddy got.

A rocket launcher?

Thank you and I love you very, very much it stated in childprint. After that was Polly’s name.
Towards the bottom of the text it said:
PS, Don’t bother bringing me a gun because I have one already.

Santa stiffened as if he was solidifying, as if his entire body was getting a hard-on. Also the hair on his fat neck rose and his skin turned bright red. He then remembered forgetting his high blood-pressure pills.
His concentration fell completely to the last few words. I have one already it said, what the hell does that mean?
There was one last line to read on the letter, he decided to read it real quick then high-tail it the fuck outta there, presents or no presents.

PSS, muther fucker: I’m standing right behind you.

Santa heard the unmistakable sound of a cartridge slamming into a chamber...

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Reviewed by Karla Dorman, The StormSpinner 12/23/2002
yipe. scary write! poor santa...mebbe the poor kid needs psychological evaluation and/or ritalin?? i'll never think of santa the same way again...this is creepy, intense...grabbed me from the git-go and wouldn't let go. reminds me of a stephen king story...excellent! (((HUGS))) and hope you have a better christmas than ol', karla. :0

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