Father Christmas Meets The Cannibals

Forty feet above where you sleep, defying the laws of physics hovers a morbidly obese millenniategenarian with brandy on his breath and teeth rotted away with the surviving incisors caked with sugar, pastry and mincemeat. He abides in the North Pole with his wife, mother and sister who goes by the name of Anya Klaus. Whilst Anya cooks, cleans and generally looks after the home her husband, know at the Pole as Santo Nicolai Klaus would oversee his kidnapped and eugenically bred elves making, stealing and faking toys Cramped in his sleigh with Arch Elf Grundomeyer, Klaus and his partner endured many splinters whilst barely-breathing-at-death’s-door reindeers pulled them across the circumference of the Earth from nation to disputed nation. If they did not pull their weight then Grundomeyer would beat, kick and scratch them until they learned how to behave. Grundomeyer was the dark reason why Rudolph had a red nose. It only shone when the scars cracked in the sunlight.

Rudolph acted as navigator. Instinctively he knew where everything was. At home he was kept in the coal cellar and fed vegetables that were almost at the composting and mulching stage. He focussed on his unique ability to take his mind off the brutality that he suffered. One day on a pre-Christmas Eve trial flight Rudolph was in a bit of a quandary. With his bloody nose he could smell out a small island near the equatorial line somewhere in the Pacific Ocean. He knew in the back of his intelligently designed brain that bringing his master’s attention to a place that was unheard of until now would lead to the threadbare Rudolph being thrashed by Arch Elf Grundomeyer to within an inch of his life and then some. Rudolph decided to go against his natural ability and ignore the equatorial island. Unbeknownst to him the glass eyed Arch Elf spotted the island. “Ho! What is that down there?” Klaus without hesitation looked down. All the other reindeer could see the newly discovered Pacific island making noises of excitement. Rudolph made the loudest noise he could and when he felt the crack of Klaus’s bullwhip on his back the mutilated nosed reindeer dive bombed his way down to the small land mass where cruel fate awaited him.

Santo Klaus, Arch Elf Grundomeyer and their reindeer landed carefully in the thickness of the newly discovered island’s dark green rainforest. Rudolph sweated cobs as Grundomeyer battered his ribcage with a termite infested branch. In his moth eaten crimson and cream velveteen outfit sewn together by the bruised-eyed Anya Klaus the distributor of hand crafted toys, forgeries and stolen goods searched for signs of life and signs of children. The Arch Elf catching his breath lifted up the branch to give Rudolph a final thwack for exhausting him. Removing his polar bear skin coat Arch Elf Grundomeyer tossed it over the sleigh. The other reindeers were left behind to keep watch over Rudolph whilst Grundomeyer followed his master.

Deep inside the rainforest Klaus and Grundomeyer were startled when they found that they were being stared at by dozens of tribesmen hidden within the thicket. Both the millenniategenarian and the eugenically bred elfin figure stood pale in shock with only their rapidly pounding hearts providing any semblance of movement. Grundomeyer’s face then twitched in scepticism when he noticed that all the tribesmen’s gazes were unblinking. Their eyes looked paler than normal and when a brightly bi-coloured frog landed on one tribesman’s face there was no reaction. “That one should have dropped down dead immediately unless of course these gentlemen are zombies.” Said Klaus and with his ivory walking cane tapped one of the tribesmen on the face. To Klaus and Grundomeyer it was more than a mild surprise when the tribesman’s head gently swung back and forth. Both Klaus and Grundomeyer did a double take. They looked at one another and high from the tree tops they all heard a chattering sound. Grundomeyer’s nerve endings trembled but as always Santo Nicolai Klaus stood firm. He removed his horn rimmed spectacles, cleaned them with a pair of bloomers half inched from Queen Elisabeth The First, placed them back over his pock-marked mandarin peel of a nose and removing an extendable brass telescope from his leather boot took it upon himself to search for the source of the hollow sound of mockery.

Rudolph was still panting. His broken ribcage made breathing painful. From his vantage point the blazing hot equatorial star was unbearable. Soon he was shaded by Blitzen looking over him. Rudolph felt a touched by this sign of altruism. Blitzen smiled and then Rudolph felt a bit more shade, it was Comet also smiling. “Are my friends clubbing together to make a plan? Are we going to tell the world the truth about their beloved Father Christmas?” Thought Rudolph and as that notion just crossed his mind who should now look over him but the sisters Vixen and Cupid. The former he was deeply in love with but too shy to tell. Perhaps he could be brave this time and let Vixen know his true feelings for her. Or maybe not. One doesn’t want to look an utter fool in front of one’s friends. Finally Donner with his broad friendly smile completed the picture.

Far across the Pacific Ocean and across the Atlantic in the little known village of Sonning Common two young lads were playing in the Millennium Green.
“Have you not seen ‘Blazing Saddles’ then?” Asked one sat upon a metallic scooter who went by the name Vincent Cooper. His friend Matthew Boakes shook his densely blond head; he too was stood upon a metallic scooter. “Aw, man! You gotta see ‘Blazing Saddles’. There’s a really funny campfire bit where all the cowboys are breaking wind and farting.”
Matthew chuckled. “Sounds good.”
“Fancy a race?” Asked Vincent and he took his scooter into a part of the Millennium Green that the late founder Sibella Bonham Carter insisted that no person ventured in. An area left for the expansion of wildlife.
“You’re not meant to go in that part Vincent.” Shouted Matthew.
“Not everybody picks up turds with shopping bags, Matthew. Nobody’s here. There’s no CCTV. If an old biddy with crab paste sandwiches goes by we’ll pick up our scooters and leg it down Kennylands Road. Come on, race me. I want to beat you again.”
“Oh no you won’t!” Retorted Matthew and the two best friends scootered a figure of eight (a vertical version of the symbol of eternity) in the forbidden zone of Sonning Common’s Millennium Garden.

Let us now leave the naughty school boys to their high jinks and return to the equatorial Pacific island where Klaus and Grundomeyer are exploring. They had somehow managed to make it through the rainforest and were both stood by an elaborate temple of stone with an altar that appeared to have been carved out of the mountain. The seemingly endless steps leading up to the altar were permanently stained with human blood from ages past and with some fresh groups O, A, B, negative, positive. The distributor of presents to all good little children and his Arch Elf had been spotted by the island’s tribesmen. Klaus was ready to fight, as he always was, so they greatly admired his foolhardy attitude and brought him and his Arch Elf to their monarch, a chief dressed resplendently in the crimson and cream plumages that once were the tail feathers of the male of the species with necklaces consisting of human molars, sea shells and freshly gouged eyeballs. The Chief was stood beside Klaus and Grundomeyer and wanted for them to see an island tradition. It consisted of the High Priest sacrificing an according-to-the-law-of-the-island ne’er-do-well on the altar. The High Priest would begin with a ritualistic movement of his hands before removing the victim’s soft jellied eyeballs and placing them in a dish with forty others. Then the High Priest began to recite a short piece of incantation over and over which was repeated by the tribesmen of the island who was oblivious to the sounds of bestial agony occurring in the distance. The High Priest dug his nails into the torso of the sacrifice, tore off a piece of the victim’s flesh and tossed it into Grundomeyer’s hairy purple hands.

At moonrise the population of the island along with their honoured guests were sat by numerous small fires chewing the torn pieces of flesh and innards of that day’s ne’er-do-well. What remained of the wretch was his head still attached to the skeleton for later foliage decoration. Halfway through his own meal the monarch of the island stood up and clapped his bearlike hands three times. From his hut that no mortal must ever point towards appeared ten young fertile maidens. The monarch of the island indicated to Santo Nicolai Klaus that they were there for him to do whatever he wished with. Santo Nicolai Klaus stood up, did a human flesh burp which felt like a tubular bacon crisp burp, removed his clothing and with his wrinkled, morbidly obese liver spotted body wobbled towards the maidens with a gristly smile on his face and fairly obvious pleasure. Grundomeyer knew that from now on things would be different.

Darren Wetherall was a close friend of Vincent Cooper. He used to tease Matthew Boakes a few years back but after an honest heartfelt apology they became fondest friends. That Christmas Eve he left a mince pie and a glass of brandy for Father Christmas, kissed his parents goodnight and then trod up the wooden hill to Bedfordshire. One by one children of all naughty and nice persuasions were trying their best to fall asleep whilst gastric juices were doing their best to keep them awake. Little did they know that as Santo Nicolai Klaus was on his way he had other plans in mind.

Darren managed to fall asleep and dream one of those dreams that one never recalls after awakening. It was at that point a hairy purple hand popped from under the bed and clasped Darren’s mouth. Darren woke up in shock and eyeballed the real Father Christmas (not a superstore out of work actor) holding an empty uncomfortable looking jute sack. Before Darren could speak he was tossed into that empty sack and if this story was a poem I would write how he ain’t never coming back.

A sleigh without presents but sacks full of weeping girls and boys was pulled by the now carnivorous Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner and Blitzen with Rudolph’s severed head decorating the front of the sleigh. All the bagged children felt the air getting colder and colder. By the time the condemned children of Planet Earth were taken to the North Pole (where Anya Klaus was chained and gagged in an ice cellar until Boxing Day) they were segregated into bamboo cages barely big enough to stand in. Cages that were stacked side by side atop one another creating skyscrapers of sobbing innocents dressed in their jim jams. An extendable bamboo ladder would be placed against a skyscraper and an elf would climb up it and remove a naughty child from its cage for trial and execution. Santo Nicolai Klaus would be waiting behind a mildly heated stainless steel altar.

When it came to the slaughter of the first child all the other naughty children panicked themselves into a frenzy when they heard the screams of Hans Peter Richter the son of a German secret agent. Each child would tearfully look to the other for means of escape. As each child experienced the same torturous degradation of that particular Pacific island’s ne’er-do-well, their remains would be eaten by Klaus, his elves and the reindeer. Immediately afterwards with the exception of the guards-elves they would all fly back to the child’s home and smear his or her bedroom with faeces and urine the words, ‘THIS IS WHAT REMAINS OF YOUR FOUL NAUGHTY CHILD.’ One by one the houses of Planet Earth were filled with the crying of distraught mothers, fathers and legal guardians. The volume was so loud that the naughty children trapped in bamboo cages could hear the inconsolable sounds.

Darren kept his nerve. There must be something he can do. Something. Anything. It might be difficult and if truth be told whatever he thinks of will be highly likely to fail…but anything is worth a try. He looked around. Darren looked below him and noticed he was four hundred cages high, he looked above and noticed he was thirty cages below. To the left of him were six hundred cages of condemned children and on his right were two hundred and eighty. Darren turned to the child on his left and whispered the question, “What is your name?”
“Quoi?”
“Do you speak English? Parlez vous Anglais?”
“Oui, oui. Une petite peu. What is going to ‘appen to us?”
“Listen to that screaming.” Darren then paused. “We’re all going to die. Unless…”
“Unless?”
Darren paused again, beckoned the French girl to lean over and listen carefully. After taking it all in the French girl whispered to her other neighbour who was Greek and unable to speak French but because her family’s café had so many English tourists visiting in high season she was able to comprehend Darren’s mother tongue. In the meantime Darren was playing Chinese whispers with the Antipodean on his right. Gradually Darren’s escape plan spread across the bamboo cages. Whilst in the meantime Matthew Boakes was selected for his misdemeanour at Sibella Bonham Carter’s Millennium Green. As Matthew was escorted sobbing his eyes out and calling out for his mother Darren decided that it was time for action. He took the deepest breath a boy could possibly muster and from the top of his lungs hollered unrepeatable obscenities to the guards-elves. Immediately they all turned and saw Darren insulting their very elvish names. Taking umbrage they sent the mightiest elf up the ladder to drag Darren out of his cage who was taken screaming into Santo’s workshop.

At the same time young Matthew Boakes was undergoing irreparable torment and damage Darren was held down on the workbench with his almost adolescent head clasped firmly in a vice. “You know why you’re here?” Asked one guards-elf.
“Because I’ve being very naughty. Fuck face.” Spat Darren.
The guards-elf tightened the vice’s grip just a little bit. “Yes you have! Yes you have! You’ve been very naughty indeed.” Then another leant over and whispered in Darren’s ear the charges against him. “Three years ago young Matthew Boakes got a Franz Ferdinand compact disc for his birthday and proudly showed it to the few friends he had. Getting that CD was the confidence booster that he needed. Then one day as he was sat on the steps of the Catholic church nearby the petrol station perusing the CD booklet you shouted across as you waited for the number two ‘Vitality’ bus, ‘Franz Ferdinand are rubbish!’” Darren couldn’t believe his vice blocked ears. “That’s it? That’s it? That’s what I’m getting punished for?” The guards elf who tightened the vice informed Darren that he did a very naughty thing. Darren screamed for help but the guards elves cackled. “Please, I beg of you. Have a heart. I’m only a child. Let me go. Please. Me and Matthew Boakes are now friends. Me, him and Vincent Cooper. Wait a mi…Matthew’s out there you multicoloured hairy fucks! Matthew’s not naughty. He never did a naughty thing. Why are you cunts so obsessed with morality?” Darren’s tears turned into screams when an elf stuck his stalactite like crusty fingernails into his left breast, pulled out his beating heart and feasted upon it purring with elvish contentment. Meanwhile the other elves began to have their attention diverted elsewhere.

It doesn’t take a clever clogs who spent years studying to get a doctorate that permits one to wear a floppy hat on graduation to guess what happened next so I won’t bother informing you and instead I shall focus on the aftermath.

With shovels liberated from the workshop the children gave their brethren and sistren a snow burial. One American eight year old was using her shovel for a different purpose. “I can’t believe I ever wrote to you. I can’t. I can’t. Burn in Hell you overweight scumbag. Holidays are fucking coming! Holidays are fucking coming!” She cried as she battered the dismembered corpse of her once beloved Santa Claus. A Russian boy patted her on the shoulder as she broke down. One little girl held up the heads of Blitzen and Grundomeyer with a query to what they were going to do with them. “Let them all rot.” Vincent Cooper emoted. He then heard a pale voice.
“Kill me.”
Vincent then walked towards the source of the voice.
“How are we gonna get back home?” Asked a Canadian.
“We’ll get back.” A defiant Vincent assured. He then looked down at Matthew Boakes and could barely hold his feelings.
“Kill me.”
And the naughty children looked out towards the unforgiving sea…

© 2009 Clinton Morgan