Prologue – It’s Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas
“Take that, you little shit” said Santa, forcefully stuffing coal into the bulging stocking.
Little Gwyneth Caulken lay gently snoring mere feet away, her golden curls haloed around her cherubic head. Seven years old and bright as a brooch, she slept the determined sleep of one who for whom the morning cannot come quickly enough. Her podgy little fists clenched as she rolled over – in her dream she was hugging Rudolph.
“Think you’re so bloody clever don’t you.” Santa rammed another fistful of coal into the protesting garment. “Just like the rest of ‘em. We’ll see how bloody clever you are tomorrow when you’re crying into the bowl of coal I presume you’ll be eating for breakfast.”
He looked down at his work, satisfied. The stocking had pictures of happy elves frolicking with equally elated reindeer in a winter wonderland. The internal pressure of the coal was causing a seam to split, making it seem as though the ground of Lapland was erupting with black gore from the bowels of the earth. This pleased Santa. Taking one last look around the room, he paused only to wipe his soot-covered feet on the carpet and smash a gloved fist into the mince pie that Gwyneth’s mummy had left out for him, before stepping awkwardly into the fireplace and disappearing up the chimney.
Chapter 1 – The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year
Christmas comes but once a year, but it doesn’t come all at once. As the world spins and the dawn races like a cresting wave, children across the planet wake and run gleefully to tear into their brightly boxed gifts. One by one, the countries of the world awoke. The Kiwis were the first to discover what had happened. The Aussies were not far behind. By the time little Gwyneth Caulken woke from her determined sleep it was all over the news.
Gwyn was blissfully oblivious at first, stirring with the innocent sleepiness of the innocent and sleepy. It took all of five seconds for the wheels in her head to click. Sleepy, sleepy, bed is nice, hold on – wasn’t there – CLICK! She sprang upright like a cat who’s heard the sound of impending food and jumped out of bed in a single boisterous bounce. She raced first to the stocking at the foot of her bed where she came screeching to a halt, hands pre-raised to extract the goodies with minimum faff-time. What she found made her recoil in horror.
Coal!
Surely there was some mistake. Gwyn was the goodest of good girls. She helped her mummy and daddy with chores. She tried hard in school. She was never mean to Bruce, her baby brother, even if he was annoying and screamy and no good at games. Perhaps this was a joke, and the real presents were at the bottom. She burrowed down through the grimy stuff, flinging it aside in her urgency. But no, nothing but coal, coal, coal all the way down. She clasped her hand to her brow, where it left a black streak.
“Dios mio”, she breathed.
An idea struck, and she turned and ran to the living room. In her haste she ignored her mummy and daddy’s figures, could not see mummy’s tears or daddy’s frown or even hear baby Bruce’s wails. All she saw was a present under the tree, fat and ripe and marked for her, the one she had had her eye on for a week. Too frenzied for trepidation she launched herself at it and tore through the colourful paper and stiff card box. Coal.
Grotesque black lumps of the stuff, sitting there, mocking her.
“Motherfucker”, said Gwyn.
Chapter 2 – Merry Xmas Everybody
The external world slipped back into Gwyn’s consciousness. She felt as though she had been underwater, or far, far away, where fairytales happened and nothing was real. She could hear her mother uttering comforting platitudes, her father soothing the baby. She ignored them, focusing instead on the blaring TV on the wall.
“Christmas Ruined For Everyone”, read the ticker tape which ran across the bottom of the screen “Experts Baffled”.
“COAL-GATE!” screamed the headline.
The screen showed helicopter footage of a cozy cottage in the middle of a pristine snow-field. A sleigh was parked outside, with reindeer roaming in a paddock nearby. Tiny green figures could be seen scurrying for cover. Surely that was Santa’s grotto, the place where joy was smelted? The view cut to a lone reporter struggling through the snow drifts to the cottage. She knocked on the door. When there was no reply she knocked again, and again. Finally the door opened a crack. A worried-looking woman’s face peeked though. “I really don’t think he – “
There was a roar from inside.
“STEP ASIDE MARY, I WANT TO SPEAK TO THOSE WHORSEONS!”
The door swung wide open and the woman at the door, slight and clad in red and gold, was swept aside by an impressively fat man. White bearded, rosy-cheeked, barrel-chested and full of cheer, there was no mistaking the man. In one hand he held a shotgun, in the other a half-empty bottle of whiskey.
“Santa,” started the repoter, “can you shed any light on the stories that children around the world – good children – are waking up to stockings full of coal this morning?”
Santa scowled at the camera, ignoring the reporter entirely. He hurled his bottle to the frozen ground, snatched the microphone the unlucky woman was pointing at him and leaned closer to the screen.
“I’ve got something to say to all you little brats out there that are crying and wailing and snotting all over the place.” His voice was lower now, steady and measured, with just a hint of drunken slur.
“Yeah I left coal for you. Naughty or nice, rich or poor, coal, coal, coal, coal, coal.” He laughed heartily at this, then leaned in even closer to the screen. On Gwyn’s mummy’s HD screen you could see the pores in his red, bloated face, the coarse hairs of his immense beard, the steam rising from his breath. You could practically smell the whiskey fumes emanating from him.
“Do you want to know why, little ones?”
Unconsciously, and against her own better judgment Gwyn nodded yes. Her lower lip was beginning to tremble.
“I did it because I hate you. Santa hates you, kid. You, personally.” He jabbed a stubby finger at the screen. Gwyn flinched from the gesture. “I hate your whiny voices, and your stupid little faces, and your grasping little fingers. I hate your mummies and your daddies. I hate your brothers and your sisters. I hate your cats and I hate your dogs. But most of all I hate you.” He laughed again.
“Are you crying, brat?” now he pantomimed a blubbing child, rubbing at his eyes. “Waah waah waaah! Good. I want you to cry. And I want you to remember this – you will never get a present again. Not on Christmas. Just coal, coal, coal, coal, COAL!”
He leaned closer and closer as he bellowed these last words, til Gwyn could practically see his tonsils wobbling. The screen went dark and there was the sound of squabbling, followed by several gunshots.
Gwyn’s lip was no longer trembling. Her mouth was drawn in a thin straight line of determination.
“Not on my watch,” she muttered, grimly.
Chapter 3 – Baby, It’s Cold Outside
“Talk to me.” Flynn’s first words were characteristically brusque. Eight years old, tousle haired and sharp as a concealed blade, he didn’t have time for wasting time.
“You see that fat fuck on the TV?” asked Gwyneth.
“Yup.”
“Call the others. We’re going in.”
She slammed the phone down, and turned to leave. Her mother stood barring her way.
“Out the way mummy,” said Gwyn. “I’ve got stuff to do.”
“For goodness sake,” said her mother, “put a coat on at least, you’ll catch your death out there.”
“Someone will,” replied her daughter. But she put her coat on anyway.
Chapter 4 – Jingle Bell Rock
“I call this meeting of the One O’Clock Club to order,” declared Gwyn, hammering with her gavel on the bare wood board which served as a lectern.
Ranged around the room were a dozen or so kids, bundled up in winter clothes like little woolly dumplings. Little Billy Scrimshaw was the youngest of them at just 5 years old. Lilith Walker was the oldest, at 10 years old. The others viewed her as something of an elder statesman. She was the last survivor of the previous generation of One O’Clock Clubbers, the rest of whom had been ousted over the summer by the younger kids in a bloodless coup. There was no question who the leader was of this little group. All eyes were on Gwyn.
“I won’t waste your time. You know what’s happened. And you know what must be done. My proposal is this: we head up to Lapland, we kick seven shades of shit out of Santa, everybody gets presents. Thoughts?”
One of the dumplings raised a padded arm. “How do we get to Lapland? Isn’t that like, at the North Pole or something?”
“That’s why we have to steal a jet” said Gwyn, smiling.
She walked over to one of the weapons lockers and kicked it open.
“Now load up.”
“SIR, YES SIR!”
Chapter 5 – Let It Snow
30,000 feet above Lapland, the members of the One O’Clock Club steeled themselves for the coming onslaught. “We don’t know what’s going to meet us down there” Gwyn’s voice crackled over the intercom. “But it’s not gonna be pretty. I want weapons live, shoot to kill, repeat, shoot to kill.”
The squad nodded agreement. A few mumbled furtive prayers to themselves. Most patted their parachute packs intermittently for reassurance. Only Gwyn sat utterly motionless, her mind focussed only on the task ahead. For a moment, all was calm. Then all was bright.
Sirens wailed and red lights flashed. The plane banked steeply, throwing bodies to the floor and hurling them against the wall. “What the fuck is going on out there?” yelled Gwyn.
Big Franky Knuckles, who was piloting yelled back over the intercom: “we’re taking fire boss! They’re hitting us with SAMs! LZ’s hot! You have to go now!”
Gwyn grunted. “You all hear that?” she shouted at her staggering crew. “Get ready for immediate evac! Bay doors open in 3, 2….”
The doors of the plane opened and infants came spiralling out of it, spinning like sycamore seeds. Beneath them scurrying green figures aimed missile launchers at the sky. Rockets screamed through the air around them, bursting like flowers in spring. Between the snowy, forest-speckled landscape beneath them and the blooming flowers of fire above, the beauty of this savage spectacle was undeniable.
Another rocket corkscrewed past, just metres from Gwyn. She watched it as it continued up past her, saw its trajectory. She cursed and screamed, clawing helplessly at the air. It was no good. The rocket found its mark, hitting the fleeing jet square in the tail. The plane vanished in a fiery ball of explosion.
“Noooo! Franky!” She screamed in anguish. “You’ll pay for this you motherfuckers! You’ll pay!”
Still in freefall she slung her M16 from around her shoulder and began to fire wildly at the green figures below. It was hard to aim at this range, but she saw one fall, then another. She was almost to caught up in her vengeance to pull the chute, but some small survival instinct kicked in and she pulled just in time to avoid a pancaking.
The first to reach the ground, she rose firing, while gunshots from her colleagues rained down around her like snowflakes. Deadly snowflakes.
Chapter 6 – I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day
Dead elves littered the ground like dead leaves.
The One O’Clock Club had lost another two members since making landfall, and were now bunkered down behind a snowdrift some ten metres from the cottage.
On Gwyn’s nod Billy and Emelio simultaneously launched grenades over the sheltering drift. As the explosions exploded the children were up and running, shooting wildly into the smoky clouds ahead.
Gwyn led the charge, running and gunning with wild abandon. Despite the pain of losing her companions, her bloodlust was up and the thrill of it was electric. Without warning, a massive figure emerged charging from the smoke.
“Santa!” someone behind her gasped, but Gwyn knew it was not he. Not fat enough to be that corpulent relic.
No, this was a reindeer, six feet tall not counting the antlers. Astride it sat another elf, taller and more imposing than the others (which wasn’t hard). The elf pulled up the reindeer and addressed the invading children. “I am Romulus” the elf squeaked, in a ridiculous little voice. “King of the elves! Return now or be destroyed by my kin!”
Gwyn eyed him disparagingly. “You’re not worth a quip” she replied. She let loose a blood-curdling roar and raced forwards. At a mere three-foot-and-a-bit she could run right underneath the reindeer’s abdomen. As she did so, she raised her gun, bayonette first. She split the reindeer down the middle like a baked potato, the steaming filling tumbling out all over the ground. The reindeer went down, screaming and protesting and trapping the leg of the pompous elf. The squad ignored his pleas for help as they surged forward to take the building.
Chapter 7 – Santa Baby
Gwyn dived through a window, ninja rolled and rose to one knee with her pistol drawn.
Three stories below ground, deep in Santa’s underground facility, she had begun to lose her bearings. Half her squad were dead, the rest were scattered to the wind, searching for the chubby despot of this nightmare-land. They were meeting less opposition now at least. The elves’ morale had broken after the fall of Romulus and most had fled or surrendered. The clockwork soldiers have proven to be a challenge, but they now lay in heaps of cogs and broken mechanisms. Blood, oil and snow were smeared over her clothes. The smell of burning filled her nostrils – she had no idea what was on fire.
She turned another corner, and found the door she had been looking for. Giant candy canes on either side of it supported a wooden sign.
‘Santa’s Workshop: DO NOT ENTER’
“Fuck your sign,” said Gwyn, kicking the door open.
The room within was dark and smoky, lit only by the light of a smouldering fire in one corner. A giant figure stirred within.
“Come in, my dear” said a familiar voice. Redolent with brandy and plums and warmth and cheer, there was no mistaking this voice. It promised presents and sweet treats and magic. “I have been expecting you.”
Gwyn stepped through the doorway warily, and saw Santa. His trademark jacket was off, slung over a chair. He wore a grubby white vest with black suspenders over his red trousers and black boots. In the flesh he was even more immense than ever. He flopped down into the chair.
“Have an egg nogg” he waved towards a jug. “Fuck it, have two. It’s Christmas after all.” His booming laugh filled the hall.
“Do you remember,” asked Gwyn, stepping forward into the light, “coming to the Arndale centre by my house last week?”
“I visit a lot of Arndale centres, my dear”, said Santa, “I can hardly be expected to remember them all.”
“You sat me on your knee” continued Gwyn, “and you asked me if I had been a good girl. You asked me what I wanted for Christmas and I told you I wanted ninja stars. You looked me in the eye, and you winked, and you told me that I would get whatever I wanted. You lied, Santa, to my face. To my face. And then you lied to the next little girl in line, and the next. You lied to my baby brother. You lied to us all.”
“So I did” replied Santa, his equanimity undisturbed by this tirade. “And I would do it again, just to see your little hearts break”. He poured himself a brandy and guzzled half of it in a single swig. “Now what exactly can I do for you, little girl?”
“Before I kill you” said Gwyn, “answer one question for me. Why?”
“Why? Why? Why do I hate you? For centuries now I’ve been pandering to you little balls of phlegm. Do you know what it means to be immortal? Have you ever considered that? To watch the world age and crumble. To see everyone you ever loved wither and die. And not only that, but I have to play out this same inane charade year after year after year. Do you know how hard it is to enter a house through an air conditioning unit? Do you know what radiators did to my routine? No, you don’t know, because you’ve never thought, because you don’t care. No one cares about Santa, not really. You just care about presents. Well fuck your presents, and fuck you. Santa is done.”
He leaned back and grinned a huge and horrible grin, slurping noisily at his brandy glass.
Gwyn walked towards him. She felt cold and numb. There was no redemption for this obese sot. Santa is done, she told herself. She would do what she must. She scampered up his chest and knelt on his tummy, gun cocked and resting on his temple. He made no move to resist her.
“Good. Gooood.” He said, smiling. “No more Santa, no more presents, no more Christmas.” He was cackling now, hooting at his own evilness.
“Do it! Fucking do it! Kill me and kill Christmas! All you little kids can just go to school instead!”
“Don’t do it!”
The new voice came from the doorway. The remnants of the One O’Clock club were looking on, wide-eyed.
“I don’t wanna go to school! I wanna get presents! Don’t kill Santa, please!” the voice belonged to little Billy Scrimshaw. His eyes were filled with tears.
“There is only one solution” Lilith, wise and old, chimed in. “One of us must become the Santa”.
“How?” asked Gwyn.
“To become the Santa, one must devour the old Santa’s heart. It is the only way”.
Santa’s eyes grew wide with fear and he began to rise. Gwyn pistol whipped him into submission and he slumped back into unconsciousness.
“Pass me that knife” she said.
Chapter 8 – Happy Xmas (War is Over)
Santa’s heart was still warm as Gwyn bit into it.
The blood was thick and metallic and she nearly choked on it, but she forced herself to continue, tearing hunks of the flesh off. It took her a full ten minutes to eat the thing, gross and engorged as it was. When she finished her hands and face were covered in blood.
“Do you feel like Santa now?” asked little Billy.
Gwyn shook her head, causing little gobbets or heart-meat to go flying.
“No, I –“
She paused. Strange feelings were coursing through her. She could feel her tummy growing, her hair whitening, her beard sprouting.
“Get the sleigh” she said, her voice already noticeably lower.
“I’ll drop you guys home.”
And all the kids got presents that year.
MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYBODY!
Raf Tries To Work Things Out 