The Boxing Day Grotto (a.k.a. Santa Receives Feedback)

Richard loved being Father Christmas. It was the highlight of his year to don the red velvet suit with white cotton trim, to squeak around in weighty black boots and take the light-adorned seat in the local mall grotto. Alas this period of work lasted for only two thirds of December before ending rather abruptly on the 24^th.

            Then again Richard didn’t do it for the money. He had received a decent retirement package from his years working focus groups at Ruddlesden Superstore, plenty to live on in his dotage. It was just lovely to be able to listen to what kids wanted for a change. They certainly had a better grasp of such things than their parents.

            Regardless Christmas Eve soon came around again and he found himself especially broody. One thing that had always bothered Richard was how nobody ever followed up on these kids, checked that they got what they wanted or else were happy with what they received. Perhaps it was his old business brain working overtime but he saw a definite opportunity here.

            So it was that he set up a new grotto in the communal field round the back of his cottage, just far enough away so that the local kids didn’t get too suspicious. Richard didn’t officially open for business till Boxing Day morning.

            The first person he saw was Aneesa, the nice girl from two doors down. He had mentioned to her what he was thinking of doing when they crossed paths in the park and she was keen to help out. Seeing her jingle across the grass, adjusting her pointy elf ears was a sight to behold.

            “Excellent elf costume, dear,” Richard said. “Hope you didn’t go to too much trouble?”

            Aneesa shook her head. “My brother leant me these ears. He’s a big Trekkie. As for the costume, I improvised with one of Mum’s old dresses.”

            Richard regarded the rather vibrant red and green swirls that came to a glittery halt at the hem of a rather short skirt.

Aneesa shrugged her shoulders. “She wore this stuff in the 60’s.”

Richard nodded, wondering if his electric pink bell bottoms were somewhere in the back of his wardrobe. “I’m not sure what to expect today. Could be nobody comes. If you get bored, feel free to head back home.”

“Thanks but Dad’s on with making enough Peshwari Naan for the neighbourhood. At such times, it’s better to be out of the house.”

“Right.” Richard put on his Santa hat. “Let’s see who turns up then.”

 

True to prediction, the first two hours were incredibly quiet. Their only visitor was Mrs Ashcroft from Hogarth Lane, dressed in her orange Mackintosh while exercising her fox terriers. Aneesa flinched at the sudden appearance of a furry snout so Richard stepped outside. As soon as seeing him in his outfit, Mrs Ashcroft chuckled.

            “You do know what day it is, don’t you, Richard?” She spoke slowly though this was mostly a tease.

            The fairer terrier, Sandy, scratched at the toe of Richard’s boot. “Yes, Imelda. Did you not receive the note I posted through everyone’s letterbox?”

            “I did. Our Wesley is a bit too old for this sort of thing now.”

            “Really? He came to Ruddlesden last year.” Richard squinted as he remembered. “Asked for the full latest Power Ranger set if I’m not mistaken.”

            Mrs Ashcroft’s eyes shined with surprise. “You’ve got a good memory.”

            “I do my best.”

            Sandy had now taken to sniffing the behind of her darker brother, Brody. Richard thought the intensity with which she did this a bit indecent but Mrs Ashcroft wasn’t at all fazed. She just tucked a stray lock of white hair back beneath her hood and chuckled again. “So what is this then? Customer feedback?”

            “In a way.”

            “Well, I suppose if any Santa can ask the right questions, it would be you.” She winked. “I’ll remind the Fosters and the Brickleys. One’s to the left of my bungalow and the other’s to the right. We often have little back garden gatherings.”

            Richard smiled. “Thank you.”

            Mrs Ashcroft set out again, pulled by both Sandy and Brody who apparently wanted to investigate a nearby fencepost. “I’ll look forward to your eventual presentation at the next town meeting.”

            She was a snarky one but Mrs Ashcroft had a kind nature. Though she obviously didn’t believe in his project, she wouldn’t see Richard sat out in the cold for nothing. Once she and the dogs had disappeared, he returned to the grotto. Aneesa was watching from the window.

            “Still not a dog person then?” Richard asked.

            “I know it’s silly.” she grimaced. “Mum loves dogs but Dad still doesn’t trust them.”

            “Parents give a lot of themselves to their kids. More than they’ll ever know.”

            With a reassuring pat on her shoulder, Richard got his portable kettle boiling. They both had their tea strong, fingers wrapped around thick mugs.

            Not long after the steam had dissipated, Richard set his tea down and answered a small but firm knock at the door. Little Tommy Brickley stood in the doorway, eight years old and scowling. Richard gave his loudest ho, ho, ho but the belly laugh did nothing to appease the stiff-lipped lad.

            “Hello, Tommy. How are you this chilly Boxing Day?”

            Tommy ripped off his black bobble hat and stuffed it into the pocket of his silver puffer jacket. “A Snottyhead.”

            Richard adjusted his half-moon spectacles. “Pardon?”

            “I asked for a Snottyhead,” Tommy spoke slowly, a rumble to his voice. “You gave me a Grinspan.”

            Richard glanced at Aneesa for help.

            “Father Christmas, aren’t Snottyhead and Grinspan from the same line of action figures? The ones with green goopy hair?”

            After a moment Richard nodded. “Yes. I believe Snottyhead is the goodie and Grinspan is the baddie.”

            “No,” Tommy snapped. “Grinspan is Snottyhead’s partner! Grinspan has a big smile but no bogey hair. He’s smaller too.”

            Richard locked eyes with Aneesa but she just shrugged. With a huff, he knelt down to the boy’s level.

            “Oh, I am sorry, Tommy. Unfortunately Snottyhead didn’t have any toys to spare me this year. However Grinspan was kind enough to pass on one of his.”

            Tommy grunted. “Snottyhead and Grinspan aren’t real. They’re on TV.”

            “Is that what they tell you, eh?” Richard tried a wink but he had the feeling this wouldn’t quite work. The boy was now shaking with anger. “I am sorry, my boy. We’ll see what we can do next year, eh?”

            “You’re Santa!” Tommy shouted. “You’re supposed to make the toys yourself!”

            With that he stormed back out onto the frosty grass, crunching all the way home.

            “Blimey,” Richard said, sinking back into his grotto chair.

            “Not sure what Elaine was playing at there,” Aneesa replied. “Snottyhead figures are in all the supermarkets as well as the toy shops. I even saw one on Christmas Eve.”

            “Really?”

            “Yes. Dad needed me to pick up some ingredients.”

            Richard was downcast for some time after that. Of course it wasn’t his fault that Tommy’s Mum didn’t buy the right action figure but Tommy didn’t know that. He honestly thought Santa handled the entire arrangement himself, as if he were contractually obliged. The more Richard thought about this scenario, the more bizarre it seemed. Food for thought but certainly not the kind he had expected, at least not at first.

            Fortunately there was another half an hour or so of quiet. Aneesa got up to stretch her legs out on the field and when she returned, it was with Mr Foster and his twin daughters Ophelia and Katie in tow.

            Richard did his best to perk up, even pinching his cheeks to add colour.

            The girls went silent when they saw him so Mr Foster tousled their long black hair to get them to talk. Instead Katie burst into tears. Her father looked momentarily powerless, glancing at Richard as if he might be able to fix the mistake.

            “Now, now, petal,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

            Katie sniffed and wiped her cheek with the sleeve of her woolly overcoat. She then turned to Ophelia, lifting one white fluffy ear warmer to whisper.

            Once she was done, Ophelia cleared her throat. “You forgot our puppy, Santa.”

            Richard locked eyes with Mr Foster who shook his close-shaven head.

            “I see,” Richard replied. “Well, there’s a funny story about that. You see, the elves and I were about to make you the cutest puppy ever but unfortunately we ran out of stuff. We had plenty of lovely soft fur but couldn’t fetch the right sparkle for the puppy’s eyes.”

            “Silly me,” Aneesa added. Richard smiled his thanks for alleviating the responsibility.

            “But puppies aren’t made,” Ophelia said. “We saw one being born.”

            Richard paused. “You did?”

            “Yes.”

            Richard wasn’t quite sure what to say. He could stick to his story but then that might complicate the life lessons the girls had already been taught. Judging from the wide-eyed look on Mr Foster’s face, he had no idea how much they already knew.

            “That must be where we’re going wrong then,” Richard replied conversationally to Aneesa.

            Ophelia gawped at them while Katie set off crying again. At last Mr Foster took the initiative to lead them both out before any further damage was done.

            Richard reached for a handkerchief and mopped his creased brow. “My goodness. It’s all go today, isn’t it?”

            “I’m afraid so.”

            He turned to Aneesa now who was still watching the Fosters from the window.

            “Do you think this was the right idea?”

            “Well, Santa does have a lot of explaining to do. All those kids asking for things their Mum and Dad can’t give them.”

            “I never say yes.” Richard straightened up. “It’s always been my understanding that Santa only ever says ‘I’ll see what I can do’.”

            Aneesa wrinkled her nose. “Doesn’t he also talk about them being good?”

            “I hope you’re not suggesting I indulge in emotional blackmail.”

            “Not you.” Aneesa chuckled. “Santa. One way or another, Father Christmas has always been about giving gifts to only good kids. Still it all comes down to what their Mum and Dad can afford or are willing to do. The whole philosophy runs the risk of good kids feeling punished for trying their best but not quite succeeding.”

            Richard massaged his temples. “I’ll agree it’s not a perfect system. All I can say is that I try my best to represent the better part of Father Christmas. The open ear.”

            “And you do. Which begs the question, why check up on what kids got or didn’t get when the answer is taking such a toll on you?”

            Richard needed a moment to think about this. It was dawning on him that the grotto idea might have been a little selfish. He was hoping for satisfied customers or customers who recognised the efforts he had personally gone to. Really years of focus group work should have taught him that you needed to take the rough with the smooth. There are many reactions to even the simplest transaction. There is a danger to pretending to be responsible for a moral decision that really comes down to money.

            He fell quiet for a while but then Aneesa didn’t pressure him for an answer. Instead she gave him some space and set about making them another cup of tea. As the kettle began to hiss behind him, he raised himself to his feet and began peeling the Christmas lights off his grotto chair. There was really no point carrying on with all this. Whatever happened next would just disappoint him.

            Richard didn’t notice that the girl had wandered in till he turned around. He gasped, clutching his chest. “Deary me! You’re light on your feet!”

            The girl giggled. Something told Richard he was on a good wicket here so sat back down. The girl looked about eleven or so, tall for her age and rubbing her pink mittens together. Aneesa appeared behind Richard.

            “Hello, Kelly!”

            “Ah yes. Kelly, pet. How are you?”

            “I’m okay,” she said. “Just want to say thank you.”

            “Thank you?” Richard couldn’t disguise the shock in his voice.

            “Yes.” Kelly pulled the toggles on her red trapper hat. “I got what I wanted.”

            Richard smiled carefully. “I’m glad to hear it.” Unfortunately he could not recall what ‘it’ was precisely. That was one of the other issues of doing this, he was accepting thanks for other Santa impersonators.

            “Okay,” Kelly replied, turning back towards the door. “Have a nice day, Father Christmas.”

            “Before you go…” Richard began. He was going to ask what she had got for Christmas. His desperation would have had him come right out with it. Then again that would have shown that Santa did not know what he had gifted Kelly with. It would have completely dispelled the girl’s already fragile belief system. In a year she might very well no longer believe. Did he really have it in him to ruin that so early?

            No. To hell with customer service appraisal or whatever this was. For now Richard was Father Christmas, one who had apparently delivered. Better to leave the dream alone.

            “Merry Boxing Day, Kelly,” he said.

            Kelly giggled again. “Thank you. You too.”

            “See you, love,” Aneesa added.

            Once the girl had gone, Richard turned to Aneesa. “Well, that was something, eh?”

            Aneesa patted him on the shoulder. “Are we packing up?”

            Richard took in a refreshing breath of air. “Yes. We’re done here.”

            True enough, there were no further visitors as they took down decorations. Though Richard huffed and puffed with the work, he was quietly relieved. He wasn’t sure about the presentation at the town hall that Mrs Ashcroft suggested but he was content with the overall results. So long as one in three little customers left satisfied, he was too.  

Pompier (a.k.a. A Whiff of Commercial Nightmare)

Perfume adverts have extraordinary artistic license. Normally they get a fair bit of playtime throughout the year but this intensifies on the run-up to Christmas.

    Diana tends to sit through advert breaks, unless she has a hot chocolate on the go. She did marketing at university ever so briefly but now she is certain that she can decode what these companies are trying to stimulate with their non-sequiturs and manipulation of nostalgia. She also enjoys the occasional nonsensical advert, one that is so bizarre that it can only be striving for ‘high art’.

    Some of her favourite twenty second motion picture puzzles include the advert where a Frenchman huskily reciting a haiku about ‘her passion’ to flashbulbs and recording equipment, the commercial about a glamorous Swede stripping off in a tundra with her every line badly-dubbed and, of course, the advert featuring that Hollywood actor whose name constantly eludes her, being splashed in green paint while fondling a gas station pump. The real joy of these isn’t in definitively solving them but figuring out how on earth they might relate to a glass bottle full of pretty scents.

    The only person Diana makes chuckle with her often ridiculous suggestions is herself. She lives alone and has done most of her adult life, spending her evenings wrapped in a fuzzy pink bathrobe and steadily draining the bottles of Chardonnay her workmates buy her every Christmas without fail. She takes a swig every time one of these baffling perfume adverts plays which, as previously mentioned, happens a lot.

    After the eleventh sip of her night, she gasps and waits for the latest ad break to end which it does with a light and fluffy laundry detergent infomercial starring a comedian known for her bitterly sarcastic stand-up. It is as if her paradoxically white smile triggers the blackout.

    Tapping the remote, Diana rises to her slippered feet and shuffles over to TV to check if it’s still properly plugged in. As she reaches for the main cable a pensive piano solo begins.

    Glancing behind her, Diana sees that snow has started to fall on her sofa. Not only this, it trickles down slowly, long enough for her eyes to take in the shimmery intricacy of each individual flake. Breath catching, she gazes up at the ceiling to see if the rooftiles have somehow fallen loose without her noticing. What she sees is a giant human hand reaching down towards her, as if asking her to dance.

     Against her better judgement, she takes the forefinger and is raised out of her living room and up into a starry night sky. A sun draws in close behind her and the hand but it burns neither of them. In fact she reaches out to feel for any kind of warmth only to receive a flare to her chest. This turns her robe to cinders and reveals a tight-fitting platinum ballgown underneath. Diana can see that she looks a vision from the mirrors that are now surrounding her.

    With a single gasp, these shatter and she discovers that the giant hand has disappeared though a normal-sized version has taken its place, proffered by a suave gentleman who looks the spit of that Hollywood actor. Oh, what’s his name again?

     They dance through outer space till he falls to his knees and sinks into an invisible floor. Diana glances downward and gravity soon takes effect on her too. Shutting her eyes a little too late, she lands in a varnished red cedar canoe in the middle of a gorgeous green ocean. Reaching for a diamond paddle, she begins to move on to destinations unknown. The sun returns but now it is distant and steadily melting a painted blue sky.

     As she rows towards it, the water's current becomes viscous and she feels her grip on the paddle slipping. When at last it falls completely out of her grasp, she peers down into the crystal-clear depths till her own sight ripples and fades.

    At last Diana stirs from her sleep, noticing that her show is back on and has been for a couple of minutes now. She is dressed in her usual pink robe and can see no hole in her roof, let alone snowfall. Shaking her head, the dream lets go but not totally. Even as she rubs her eyes alert, Diana can perceive the faint smell of cinnamon and citrus, of mint and melting chocolate. She takes a deep sniff of her robe collar.

    “Pompier,” she whispers.

A CHILD'S BOXING DAY IN ENGLAND (a.k.a. A Remembrance of Post-Christmas Transition Days Past)

One Boxing Day was so much like another, in those years of small responsibility and not much to worry about.

All the Boxing Days roll into one as I remember pitter-pattering barefoot down the stairs to grab a bowl of cereal and the leftover tangerine from Santa’s stocking. It was quiet but not exactly peaceful with all the presents scattered around the living room still to put away but this was still technically Christmas for me and the rest of the family were asleep so why bother rushing?

I would eat my small breakfast by the computer table, turning the swivel chair to see the heated trays on the dining table just behind me, still full of vegetable spring rolls and prawn vol-au-vents. The greasy smell pervading from the kitchen would remind me that there was still the Beef Wellington to finish, something I had nibbled at the previous night rather than scoffed. However, if the stringy brown slices were to be put in a buttered bread bun that day, I wouldn’t say no.

Once the last segment of tangerine had been swallowed, down came mother who was then followed by sister and eventually father. We would find there wasn’t really much left to say after all the exuberant ‘thank you’s of yesterday so we would instead begin a slow and steady tidy up of the living room.

All my presents: books, DVDs and action figures would be dumped on my bed where I would fiddle with them some more and lose a good twenty minutes contemplating the points of articulation of this Doctor Who figure or really how little I wanted to watch this film that I asked for in earnest.

Then I would dress myself properly, brush my teeth and descend the stairs to find the kitchen occupied with the whirr of the oven heating up leftovers and maybe the hob being click-click-clicked on. The kettle would already be boiled for the parents and perhaps my sister but I would have what was left of the milk bottle once the teas and coffees had all been poured.

Food would then be transported back to the heated trays on the dining room table and we would stack a small china plate each with those spring rolls and vol-au-vents as well as mini-pizzas, breadsticks and crisps. I would always fill up with more crisps than substantial food and had a tendency, when eating battered shrimp, to swallow the tail too.

Then, when I was fit to burst and queasy with all the salt and grease, I would supplant myself on the toilet for a long stretch, both out of necessity and for the me time. If it occurred to me, I may have even started reading one of my presents even if that was only the back of a DVD box.

Outside wasn’t usually worth visiting, a stiff white sky that occasionally cracked and let through a fine winter drizzle. Still, with all the hustle and bustle indoors, any chance to step out was ultimately a good thing even if I only managed to snatch a handful of shallow breaths of chill air. Then I would return to find everyone in the living room, watching whatever animated feature was on, Dreamworks often after Disney. There would be some buzz as the TV guide was handed round, at the prospect of the special episode of whatever show was popular at the time being on that evening. We would set our eating schedule around that then break off from family time, some of us to wash up, some of us to tidy away presents, and me to visit the toilet once again.

I often lost track of time, Boxing Day being so slow, and I would look up and wonder why I was being called back downstairs. Then I would wander into the kitchen to find Beef Wellington slices being packed into bread buns and found that that would be the main course for dinner. Of course, it did turn out to be dinnertime or perhaps half an hour earlier than usual.

I would hunker down and eat, grabbing a fresh plateful of snack foods to fill out the meal, watching whatever was on the telly before returning to the kitchen to begin washing up. We didn’t have a dish washer for a long time so it was up to me and my sister to make sure the fancy wine glasses we only ever brought out at Christmas were sparkling clean and ready to return to the dusty wooden display cabinet. Then father would empty out the heated trays and give us them for ‘a quick wipe’ but I always gave them more attention, at least until there were no visible suds left. Then, if the snacks were sufficiently depleted, the trays and the heater were all boxed up and put at the very top of a tall set of shelves. Dad would deal with this, with some assistance from me when I was tall enough.

Then in the gathering dark, we would seat ourselves in front of the TV once again and spend a little more time watching the latest DFS sale advert and glancing around at the Christmas decorations, determining when they were to be taken down and in what order.

By now I had opened my chocolate selection box and started working my way through a mini bag of Maltesers and perhaps a single Twix bar because there really was little else to do. Boxing Day didn’t make much sense when it came down to it, other than to be a transition day between Christmas and shops re-opening. The older I got the more I realised the disappointing mayfly that Christmas Day was, after the long run-up, after the hysteria those same shops and the TV had caused. It seemed a lot of exhaustion for a short period where presents were torn open and expectations were met. And Boxing Day? That was merely the day when the wrapping paper was stuffed into the recycling bin.

Nevertheless Boxing Day got away from me soon enough and I was back to bed, watching a film I had recorded instead of one of the DVDs that had been gifted to me. When that was over, I muttered some happy nonsense about doing things better next year, and then I slept.

WHAT HAPPENED TO THANK YOU? (a.k.a. Gifting Games - Merry Christmas)

This Christmas, Uncle Troy asked me and my sister, “Whatever happened to thank you?”

            Of course, he meant our tendency to get so excited by his gifts that we forget to show relevant gratitude. Still we do like to make fun. 

            Afterwards, when he had gone home full of brussel sprouts and self-satisfaction, my sister and I answered his question properly.

            “Thank You had some shopping to do,” I started.

            “Thank You has errands all day,” my sister followed up.

            “Thank You owes a lot of his friends.”

            “He can’t just go around thanking people the whole time. They need more than that.”

            “Thank You’s a bit of a layabout when it comes down to it.”

            “But at least he knows where to get all the best deals. Even on Christmas Day.”

            “He will be back in a while. Thank You gets around to everyone eventually.”

            “Thank You is like Santa Claus in that way. He just comes later.”

            “Thank You comes when he damn well pleases.”

            “Please certainly thinks so.”

            “The less said about her though, the better.”

            “Please can be a bit lofty but she does know Thank You best. It’s just they’ve grown apart in recent years.”

            “Not often there at the same time.”

            “It’s a shame.”

            “It’s all Shame ever goes on about.”

            “He’s like that about everyone and everything though.”

            “At least he’s always there. Thank You on the other hand...”

            “He’ll be back.”

            And that’s where we left the matter. Uncle Troy always hears back from Thank You, no matter what happens.

            As for me and my sister, we just get on as we are.

A CHRISTMAS OCCURRENCE ON THE SHOP ROOM FLOOR (a.k.a. A Festive Moment of Entropy)

Closing time was an hour ago. Nobody is in the department store. The cleaner was in and out within twenty minutes, hastily vacuuming patches of carpet and splashing the main lino path with a damp mop. Since she left, the whole building has been very still.

            Then the wrapping paper rolls rustle. The thinnest is pinched forward by the combined weight of the rest and thunks onto the square of crimson carpet beneath it. This green and white roll's bottom half raises two thicker rolls and together they tip the whole box-stand over, everything spilling out.

            It all tumbles a short distance to the base of the large Christmas tree by the tills. Three low-hanging golden baubles dislodge themselves from the feeble plastic branches and roll far to the left.

            One clatters against another then another until the last bauble stops in front of a motion sensor Dancing Reindeer. It shimmies its automated hips, triggering a chain reaction of shimmying until all the surrounding Reindeer have broken out into a muffled poor-quality version of Jingle Bells. They echo each other and fill the store with life, albeit artificial. Just as soon as it begins, the song is over. While it lasts, it plays only to decorative snowmen and caricatures of Santa and his elves on chocolate selection boxes.

            The security camera won't get a clear view of the spectacle as it happened, just a black-and-white recording of a couple of baubles and the stiff mass swaying of the Dancing Reindeer. The magic of the instant will be overlooked by the mess.

            But it has happened. It all has happened in a glorious moment of unexpected life the Monday before Christmas. The staff will tidy it up eventually, sell all these brightly-coloured trinkets and decorations at discount rates. Except these will be mispriced, the department store cheating themselves out of their true worth.

            Then again what is the cost of such a Christmas occurrence on the shop room floor?

SANTA'S LIQUID LUNCH (a.k.a. A Harrowing Break from a Holiday Job)

The girl found me out. I thought I had managed to hide away in this brown and beige bar round the corner from where I was supposed to be. The place was squat and stank more of lacquer than liquor but I liked it just fine. Not a goddamn Christmas decoration in sight. Still I suppose it being the only place in the mall not lit up and draped in green tinsel, I made it kind of easy to find me.

            She stopped beside my bar stool and folded her arms.

            "Santa," she said, "You've gotta go back now."

            Craning my neck, I could just see that there was a line developing from the grotto. "Has the creepy kid left?"

            "A while back."

            "I mean the building."

            The girl sighed. "Short of checking with security I wouldn't really know, now would I?"

            This was the mouthiest teenage elf I had ever worked with. She had bright red chipmunk cheeks and little black eyes that looked constantly bored. Still her ears were naturally pointy so I suppose she had rare qualifications.

            The bartender laid down a neat bourbon for me right on where my fake beard met the bar.

            "Whiskey for your whiskers," he joked. I forgot to laugh.

            The elf girl cleared her throat.

            "I'll admit what that little boy said was unsettling but there are also normal kids about to lose their shit over there."

            I threw back the bourbon.

            "Please don't be that guy."

            I leaned back on the bar. "Which guy would that be?"

            "Another half-in-the-bag Mall Santa."

            I tapped the counter and got the bartender’s attention. He was still chuckling to himself at his little joke. Getting in the spirit of the season I wouldn’t wonder. Glad someone still could.

            I glared at the elf girl. My eyes were probably bloodshot but I just didn’t give a rat’s ass. "Did you hear what that goddamn kid said to me?"

            "To be honest, I've heard worse."

            "No!" I smashed my palm against the bar. She jumped and the bartender stopped smiling. This just made me angrier. "This wasn't just some sugar rush brat bruising my lap! He knew just what he was saying!"

            The elf girl looked unconvinced but what did she know? Fresh out of braces and fresh out of sympathy for some fat old geezer in a red suit. I picked up my next glass and waved her away.

            "Go on. Tell them Santa won't be back today.” I stared at the half-empty glass as it shone in the weak light. “Too tired. Dead tired.”

            “Really?” The girl’s tiny eyes squinted.

            “Yeah.”

            She gave out a haughty little huff and puff. This seemed to perk up the bartender. "Kids say the darnedest things, huh?"

            Both I and the elf girl stared at the idiot. I could have thrown the glass straight at his fat head.

            "The darnedest." I finished my drink. "How about 'I know you ain't real, Santa, cos I killed him last night'? That's pretty darn cute, ain't it?"

            Except that wasn't it exactly. The boy had told me about his daddy's service revolver, how Santa's inside red wasn't as bright as his outside red. The devil is in the details, I suppose.

            "Sounded like a dream to me," the elf girl spoke up. "You know how kids can get. Too many Westerns and War movies. It probably seemed real for him."

            "It sure seemed real to me," I said. The service revolver especially. My daddy kept one around the house too. Until it went off.

            The elf girl sighed. “The kid’s gone now. Long gone.”

            She caught my eye. I could tell she wasn't about to let up anytime soon so I forced my ass off the bar stool.

            "Come on," I told her. "Santa will tell the kids and their parents that he’s done himself. Otherwise they might not believe it."

            I left behind a deserving tip to the bartender though I'm sure he would have thought a lump of coal would be better.

            The elf girl crinkled her nose as she opened the door for me. "Your breath. The parents will smell booze."

            "I'll probably smell the same on their's.” The girl turned away in disgust but I shrugged my shoulders. “After all, it's the most wonderful time of the year, ain't it?"

SNOWCRACKER (a.k.a. An Abominable Way to Break the Ice)

Tough time of year, Christmas. For the kill. The fastest roads to your destination are all clogged, there are no quiet corners in public places and sometimes there is even snow.

            As a kid I loved a clean bed of pure white snow, untouched and shining with possibility. As a man I dread it, knowing that I will leave tracks no matter how careful I try to be. Still you won’t last long in this line of work if you just hold on to your anxieties. So today I take back control.

            I wear size 14 boots. My feet are size 9 but, with two layers of thick cotton socks, they fit just fine. Not only are these boots huge, they have two-prong toes. That and the wide curved heel make my tracks look almost hoof-like. Think of a reindeer but the biggest bastard you ever saw. I swear the authorities will look at the tracks from my target’s house and think: Don’t wanna mess with that. Don’t wanna even pursue that. And they’d do right.

            Still I feel awful silly, stretching my legs out as I move. If I lose my balance even once, I’ll give the game away; an undeniable snow angel flailing to get back up. Even so I stomp like a heavy four-legged beast all the way downhill.

            It’s morning but you can’t tell from the sky, thick angry grey slowly lightening to a stiff white. This snow must have fallen only hours ago: it’s crisp and not even the real country critters have been on it yet. As I search for tiny paw prints to dwarf with my own, I take in a deep lungful of frosty air. Goes straight to my goddamn head. My jaw begins to feel like it’s freezing up and there’s a wetness to the tip of my nose.

            I should feel lousy but I’m actually kinda great. I have a clean kill behind me and I’ve handled an issue in a damn smart way. In fact, I feel better than great. You can get complacent in the death business, take your skill for granted, get lazy. But not anymore. Now I’m back to enjoying my work.

            I let out this roar, primal. Stupid of me, in fact: I might wake the neighbours from their rustic little cottages, alert them to my slow lumbering presence. Still it feels good, you know? Right.

            Glancing down, I see cracks running back behind my left boot heel. They progress beyond it, spreading some distance behind. I take one look at that damage and think ‘abominable’. Ain’t a word I use lightly. Ain’t a word I normally use at all.

            Still it’s right there in my mind. Abominable, like the Snowman. Perhaps that’s how the story started; a tall man in the cold, dragging heavy feet along, tearing up the snow.

            Even so this Abominable Snowman isn’t far from his car. He has chains to put on his tyres before he disappears into the next flurry. A snowflake touches my nose, tickling it. I slip and crack the snow again. I didn’t know my own strength. I should know by now.

            Still, let it creep them out, I say. Let them believe it was a monster, not a man. Yessir, if there ever was an Abominable Snowman, I’ll be him.

A SEASONAL LYRIC CRITIQUE (a.k.a. Wizzard's I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday is Snow Joke)

When the snowman brings the snow…

Let us unpack this. Sort of reverse engineer the snowball, as it were.

            A snowman is traditionally a humanoid depiction made from fresh snow. Therefore the snowman is snow. The only snow that the snowman can technically 'bring' is the snow of which he is composed.

            However, the snowman also tends to be immobile. So no act of bringing is in fact possible, at least not in the physical sense.

            He might, for the sake of argument, 'summon' the snow. By this I mean will the very substance of life, his life at least, into being. In this particular scenario, the snowman is more of a 'snow sage' or a 'winter wizard' if you will. Suffice to say I have yet to come across such a powerful snowman.

            That leaves us with a conceptual meaning. The snowman’s mere existence brings the thought of snow into the mind of the observer. This is by far the most straightforward explanation. That being said, it is still specious: unless the observer’s view is somehow limited to only the snowman and not the probably large bed of snow underneath. This would require a 'Plato’s Cave' level of logic.

            Nevertheless, I highly doubt that the lyricist strove for that particular degree of realism. Still one would expect more of Roy Wood. If a Christmas song is worth writing then it is worth writing with proper and thoroughgoing attention to detail.

            Incidentally, Merry Christmas Everyday, I suppose…