(This is a cheeky little tale inspired by an evening in the pub playing with plasticine. When the whole thing is written I'll put up some pictures for reference purposes. Enjoy...)
It would be nice to say that our story began on a dark and stormy night. It would be nice to say that lighting raked the skies, rain tore into the ground and the thunder boomed like Brian Blessed stepping on a landmine. Regrettably, such dramatic beginnings are reserved only for stories which are of great significance, and not our tale, which is rather small and silly.
It was a muggy Christmas Eve afternoon.
"Damnit!" Said Santa as coffee flowed over the list in front of him. "Why do I have to check this thing twice?"
His assistant, Duane, piped up. "Because, dude..." he began, then broke off, staring at the room around them. "Wait, what?"
Santa sighed. It was looking to be a busy Christmas. Things weren't getting easier, oh no, especially not when parents worldwide had assumed that the credit crunch didn't apply to their favourite overweight delivery man. Did these people have no conception of the manufacturing overheads he had to bear? But he had to grin and bear it, because it was Christmas. Never mind that, since he'd got that drink-flying conviction, the insurance on his sleigh had...
Santa stopped himself there. That kind of thinking could lead a man to hit the brandy far too early in the day, although it looked like his assistant (who was currently giggling and trying to get a toy train and a wooden doll into the doggystyle position) had already worked his way through most of a bottle. He called for one of his elves.
"Yes, your magnificence?" Said the tree in the corner.
"Bloody hell!" Shouted Santa, before looking closer and realising the tree was, in fact, Urgoth the Elf. Urgoth was a transfer boy, one of a number of employees who had previously worked for the Dark Lord Sauron (now thought to be at large in Paraguay). He had made the switch fairly easily, the only lingering effects being a tendancy to address Santa by various honourifics and an unhealthy passion for Dungeons and Dragons, but he still made the rest of the crew fairly nervous.
"How can I help, my lord?" Said Urgoth.
"Errmm...how are we doing with the schedule?"
"All present and correct, your worship. The hobbits will be eliminated by..." he stopped and checked himself. "I mean, the presents will be loaded onto the sleigh at the correct hour."
"Yes, good. Well...err, thank you. Anything else I should know?"
"I believe that is all." His earpiece suddenly started chattering. "Oh, perhaps not, your excellency. It seems that you have a visitor. Trixie..." he sighed briefly, presumably imagining all the things he would do to Trixie if she was willing. Or found him remotely attractive. Or even noticed his existence. "Trixie will be up to explain in about...now."
Trixie glittered into the room. There was no other word for it. She was the Senior Elf on reception and moved like she was dropping stars in her wake. It was just a piercing shame that Santa was married, because he would...then Trixie spoke, and any thoughts of intimacy were immediately snuffed.
"Oh HI Santy, how are you? I'm just super! That darling man down in the mocha shoppa gave me FREE whipped cream today, isn't he just the sweetest? Anyway, I have news."
Santa waited for a moment, then remembered Trixie's train of thought was more of a tin box on wheels, and sometimes needed a jump-start. "What is this news?" He asked.
"Oh, right, of course! Yes you'd need to hear it, wouldn't you? Silly me!" She giggled. "There's a lady who wants to see you."
"Hey Trixster, look at this!" Duane had suddenly noticed the elf's existence and was drawing her attention to the unsavoury diorama he'd made of the doll and train (who were now attempting a position that could only be called the Jackhammer.) Anyone normal would have smiled, nodded, and immediately erased the image from their mind. Trixie burst out laughing.
"Oh my GOD, Duane! That's so rude!"
"I know," said the drunken assistant with a wink.
"Trixie," Said Santa, tapping his finger on the table.
"Oh right, yes. There's a lady wants to see you. She's got red hair, she keeps saying strange things and asking if I recognise them. She seemed sort of upset when I didn't know what 'how very dare you' meant."
"Just...just send her up. And Duane, make sure that train is using protection."
Lady Catherine Tate had come a long way since her early days on television. The General Organisation Department had given her a company car, expenses paid (in any situation) and the right to turn up on Santa's grounds completely unannounced. Santa hated it when people talked without giving him warning, so it was inevitable that Lady Catherine would do exactly that.
"It's the second coming." She said. Santa's mind strayed to the cheap porn he'd enjoyed that morning.
"I didn't know you'd seen the first one," he said. There was a pause.
"What?"
"Never mind. What second coming?"
"Jesus." Another pause.
"Who?"
Lady Catherine stared at him, not so much in the manner of a man staring at a wall, but of a wall staring at a man.
"You don't KNOW?" She suddenly screamed. "Who do you think you've been standing in for?"
"I know who he WAS," said Santa. "But isn't he gone now? Isn't that kind of the whole deal?"
"Obviously you're behind on your theology, Santa. Look, listen closely..."
And with that, she told him. It was all real. All of it. Not just Jesus, but every religion that had ever had any amount of belief put into it. Christianity, Islam, Hindu, you name it. Apparantly there was even a religion where the sacrifice of fat, bearded brandy-drinkers was encouraged. That was enough to make Santa very nervous indeed.
"Ok," he said. "I get it. Belief into reality and all that noise. Why are you telling me?"
"Because he isn't there, you dunce. The most important event in years, and he isn't there."
Santa was, by now, completely lost. "Who...in the what where how in the why now?" He said. Lady Catherine tapped her foot.
"Don't make me spout a catchphrase at you," she said. "I'm in no mood for games."
Suddenly, faced with the prospect of a full-bore 'am I bovvered' to the face, Santa was all concentration. "No, Lady, you have my full focus, I promise."
"I thought that would work. Now, as I said, he's not there."
"Who isn't?"
"Jesus! Who do you think? It's the second coming and he's not there!"
"Can't he just...pop out at the last minute? He's being born, isn't he?"
"Do you really think, given who we're talking about here, that he can even lie in a womb without distorting the reality around him? No wonder they only let you work one night a year! He's been taken, prematurely, and we don't know where! You have to go and find him!"
Santa looked around, needing some inspiration. Trixie had gone, and Urgoth was engrossed in something complicated involving dice. That only left Duane, who had stopped paying attention.
"Duane," he said. "Any thoughts on the situation?"
"Uhh...buy low, sell high?"
"Any others?"
"We are all born mad, some remain so?"
"Anything else?
"There is no fucking drummer better than Neil Peart?"
Santa sighed, again, and turned back to Lady Catherine. "Ok," he said, "what am I meant to be doing?"
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The afternoon before Christmas-PART ONE blog
