Christmas Special (part six)

©2011 David Jasmin-Green

Ian couldn't believe his eyes. “I can't believe my eyes,” he couldn't help saying to stress the point as a rather overweight two foot tall Santa Klaus scurried into the room and ran frantically around in circles. There was nothing but darkness beyond door nineteen, that and a faint, inconceivably distant rendition of Jingle Bells.
“Help! Help me!” the miniature Santa squealed as he spotted the little jungle around Kerry's desk, which was the only available cover. He tried to conceal himself amongst the pots, tucking a huge, perforated leaf from a Swiss cheese plant under his hat in an attempt to hide his face and tearing a handful of flimsy fronds from a Maidenhair fern to provide extra camouflage, but his red suit sort of gave the game away. “Don't let them get me, please!” the little man said. “They're gonna bite my fingers and toes off one by one, they're gonna whittle my knackers to petit pois with a cheese grater, suck my eyes out and fry me lightly in a garlic and ginger sauce. Then they're gonna throw me to the lemmings, and Christ only knows what those squeaky little bastards will do. They know how much I hate verminous furry things!”
“What's the matter, George?” Kerry said in a soothing voice that didn't suit her one tiny bit. “You know you're not allowed in 'ere, it's strictly against company regulations. Get back where you belong at once, and take your punishment like a man. You know it make sense!”
“Shan't!” George yelled. “And it doesn't make sense, you foolish woman – nothing make sense in this place. I'm staying right here in this magical shrubbery; it might not be heaven, but it's a damned sight safer than madhouse number nineteen.”
“What the fuck's going on?” Ian whispered. “What's Santa doing here? Isn't he supposed to be delivering presents? And isn't he a bit, well, a bit small?”
“'E's not the real Santa, you dick!” Kerry replied. “George Smiff is our Christmas department sub-manager, 'e 'appens to be a midget, and 'e's in fancy dress. In case you've forgotten it's Christmas Eve, and the office party is in full swing. I guess 'e's had one too many, bless 'im, which explains why 'e's talking complete and utter bollocks.”
“I am not a manager in the middle of his festive celebrations, you lying little whore,” George cried. “And I'm not a midget – or at least I wasn't until those bastards in there midgetified me. I'm a prisoner in this godforsaken hole, and you're at least partly to blame for my incarceration because you falsified information on that form you filled in on my behalf. I suppose she's asking you the same stupid questions that she asked me, stranger. Refuse to answer them - tear the damned thing up, if you can! And whatever you do don't trust her; she's crooked through and through, she's a cheat and a scoundrel and a stealer of innocent souls. If you know what's good for you you'll get out of here while you still can, if you still can. If you want my advice, kick the damned door down before the bastards midgetify you, because once that happens you'll be completely powerless. You have to escape, sonny, and you have to do it now. Go on – run, flee, scarper!”
Four little men in lime green suits and ridiculous matching jester hats ran through the open doorway and skidded to a halt. When Ian focused on their faces he realised that they weren't men at all, they were parodies of men with grey-green skin, huge, black almond shaped eyes, enormous ear to ear mouths full of tiny shark like teeth and great, raking claws instead of fingers. Despite their diminutive stature his stomach curdled in fear because they were obviously bad news. “There he is!” one of them growled, pointing at the little Santa hiding in the shrubbery. “Get him! Rough him up if it makes you happy, but don't do too much damage because the Rev has other plans for him.” George screamed surprisingly loudly and scuttled under the desk.
“Leave him alone, you bullies!” Ian roared, standing between the little man and his pursuers. “Four to one - I suppose that's regarded as fair odds under whatever slimy stone you lot crawled from under, you fucking cowards.....”
“Leave him alone or what?” the self-elected spokesman of the creatures said. “Do you really think you can prevent us from retrieving our rightful prey, you miserable, flimsy mortal? This man is a heddai – he's a sinner, a criminal, a piece of shit, and he deserves what's coming to him. Now get out of the way, infidel! You're no match for us.”
“Do as they say, Ian,” Kerry whispered. “Don't try to be an 'ero, you bloody fool – don't try to fight 'em or they'll bite chunks out of you quicker than you can say monkey imp, and you'll very quickly bleed to death.”
“What's a monkey imp?” Ian said.
“That's what they're called,” Kerry replied. “As I understand it they're demons from the bowels of 'ell itself – they're the Rev's faithful, formidable little servants.”
“And what might a heddai be?”
“I really don't know. They often come out wiv indecipherable words from their own language - they must be Poles or Muslims or somefink.”
“What do you intend to do, short-arse?” Ian said to the most talkative of the creatures. “Bite my ankles? Nibble on my knees? Play dirty and take a sly lunge at my three piece suite?” The little horrors made a sudden move towards him, but they weren't even nearly quick enough. Ian leaped into the air, landing two impossibly swift kicks simultaneously, one on the chin of the imp spokesman and one on the nose of his nearest compatriot, knocking both of them out cold. As the other two creatures launched themselves at him he punched one of them sharply on the top of the skull, which unexpectedly burst like an overripe melon, showering him in a foul smelling yellowish fluid. The remaining imp took one look at his splattered comrade and headed straight for the darkness beyond door nineteen, squealing like a stuck pig, no doubt to summon reinforcements.
“That was an impressive performance, you stallion,” Kerry gasped, “but it'll more than likely land you or possibly both of us in very deep trouble indeed. What are you, some sort of Kung Fu champ? You some'ow forgot to mention that, didn't you, you?”
“That's because the question didn't come up in your patently ludicrous questionnaire,” Ian grunted.