Silent Night, oh Holy Crap

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Come to think of it, I guess I've always been a complete bastard.

I blame everybody else, and simultaneously forgive them.

There. I feel better. Don't you?

I remember Christmas one year. We were spectacularly poor ... Depression Era geezers used to circle us on wheelchairs and walkers, pointing and mocking how poor we were.

I often got the crap beat out of me at public school for having to wear thrift shop clothing. In Chicago, nothing will seal your inner-city fate quicker than making your debut on the first day of class dressed to the nines in ill-fitting plaid pants, a button-up green shirt and white dress shoes. Without cufflinks or zodiac jewelry! To pull off that look, you've either got to be really cool or really durable: Always leaning to the practical side, I chose the latter.

One day as the kids at school held me down while the Depression Era geezers did unspeakable things in my Dukes of Hazzard lunchbox, I accidentally busted Timmy Farkas' pinky finger on my forehead. It was pretty bad. He was bleedin 'an stuff.

I got scared and skipped school so's I could duck THE MAN.


***

I had been skipping school a lot anyway. Back then we had Truant Officers roamin the streets, and I was on a first name basis with my local guy. Invariably -after a grand chase- he'd return me by the ear to that kiddie prison of sadistic glandular freaks, drug and firearm deals and atomic wedgie-dishing where I would be safe from all the evils of the world. Long story short, I got suspended from school anyway because of the grievous wound I had inflicted on poor Jimmy Farkas.

Mom subsequently informed me that -as far as Christmas was concerned- Santa "had my number": as the virtual poster boy for 'naughty', I was essentially going to get screwed.

"Everybody tells their kid that," I thought. "Every kid's gotta get something for Christmas. You know, like a retainer!"

By December 23rd, I positively beamed with wholesome goodness and a youthful, zesty exuberance. And despite this mammoth effort, Santa's rat never changed his story or revealed his or her identity. At one point I was virtually certain it was the guy that ran the arcade. Maybe he was feeding encrypted info to the Ice Cream guy ...

... and so it goes.


***

On Christmas Eve, Mom was pretty adamant that Santa was still pissed, and at this point, I'm essentially panicked. Whoever this squealer was, he wasn't changing his story for anything short of curing cancer, and I had busted my microscope during a GI Joe interrogation months ago. ["No, Mr Joe. I expect you to die!"] And while burnin stuff down is always fun, lumps of coal aren't really the best medium for it. This was the day and age of napalm thank you.

I paced in my room, my massive soon-to-be-unfulfilled Christmas list ran through my mind like those glowing numbers on the Stock Exchange. No aircraft carrier. No F-16s. Probably not even some lousy weapons-grade plutonium.

No tanks.

Nothing.

I went back downstairs to get a last forlorn look at the Christmas tree. It was really pretty, and the colored lights danced playfully along the walls. Why I could swear there was more lights than you could count. One for every curse word Dad uttered as he dragged the box of 'em out of the garage attic, hauled them in, located and fixed the busted bulbs, and drag the ladder in to put that star on top.

Scattered around the bottom of the tree, there was already presents.

"To Mom from Dad".

"To Dad from Mom"

It was a beautiful thing. While there was nothing for me there, I stood gazing at the spectacular demonstration of love expressed between my parents.

I teared up. For it was in that one shining moment that I understood the true spirit of Christmas.

While Santa might not be coming to give me presents, he would be coming here tonight.

For them.


***

My mind raced as I padded upstairs. What kind of fight could one expect from the fat man? Was he even fat? Santa obviously had a vast intelligence network ... could the rotund, happy and good-natured image be entirely composed of a propaganda campaign? What if he's all slimmed down from a Mrs Claus-mandated diet of lowfat proteins and carbs? I pictured a Rambo-like Santa running on a Nordic Track, Glock in each hand, picking off pictures of people on his "naughty" list.

From my closet, I dug out my armor and weapons: my football helmet, pads, cup, and a nice aluminum baseball bat.

"You don't come on my turf and mess with the bull," I growled. "You'll get the horns."

Then, arching my body impossibly over the presents, I nestled myself comfortably behind the tree.

And I waited.


***

Now, I'll bet the Emergency Room sees a lot more of this on Christmas morning than they are really willing to admit.

My mom got up early and -in her bathrobe and big fuzzy bunny slippers- made coffee. In a rare moment of quiet solitude, she wandered by the tree to admire it. The big cup of coffee cupped in both hands, head slightly cocked ... in my mind's eye I can almost see her angelic wistful face admiring the splendid culmination of all my dad's cursing.

Spotting a fallen ornament, she gracefully leans down to pick it up and re-hang it.


***

I woke up to the rustling sound of activity nearby. Bleary, I listened through the helmet. No, I definitely heard something. I opened my eyes cautiously, and spotted movement.

It was time.

I tensed up and sprung out like a cat, screaming.

Now, my mom, previously enjoying a quiet solemn Christmasy moment, probably reacted pretty normally to a screaming midget in a football uniform wildly waving a baseball bat bursting out of her Christmas tree dragging huge, macabre tangles of Christmas lights and tinsel.

She screamed.

Dad, hearing us both screaming, came tearing out of bed and rushing downstairs. Now, do you know how many times this man has yelled at me about running up and down the stairs? Sure enough, he missed a stair and crashed noisily to the ground, breaking his leg.

Mom looks at dad and screams. I scream. Mom looks at me again, screams, and then faints --cutting herself on the broken ornament and requiring four stitches. I see blood and I faint.

... And so on.


***

The paramedics and police, alerted immediately by the neighbors, got on the scene in minutes.

I woke running a fever. Seems Santa not only has a sense of humor, but he possesses biological weapons and is more than willing to use 'em. Must have injected me while I was asleep.

Next year, fat man.

Next year.