It was the night before Christmas Eve, a generally busy time around the North Pole. Santa’s workshop was in full swing – the air fragrant with the sweet smells of fresh wrapping paper and packing tape – numerous elves scurried about making last checks and preparations for the big day.
Everything going well, ahead of schedule, only the elder elves noticed the tension in the air. The executive elves were quiet, not their rambunctious selves, but wore stiff smiles, an act to prevent the spread of infectious worry.
Inside the tactical room Senior Elf Sickle paced, listening to the reports as they came in, peering over the shoulders of radar watching elves. The increased Soviet naval activity the past two weeks caused concern. But 18 hours earlier reconnaissance reported what they though were multiple troop and vehicle landings. 11 hours earlier the report were confirmed. And 9 hours earlier came the reports that the Soviets were moving inland.
There was debate among the executives, but Santa spread his usual cheer, keeping the elves confident they were seeing a simple exercise or some kind of expeditionary force. And Santa’s words seemed to prove wise. Around 2200 hours the fresh reports showed the forces consolidated into multiple main groups, none currently inbound to the workshop.
Mrs. Claus had insisted Santa get to bed. “It will probably just blow over,” she said, “if those motherless atheists don’t even believe in Santa what are the chances they’ll stumble onto the workshop?”
But the senior elves knew better. The advancements in Russian aerial mapping had, with little doubt by now, showed the layout of the workshop. And to the KGB trained eye, the shop could easily be assumed a military facility of many types.
234 hours Christmas Eve, Santa awoke abruptly. Letting out an indiscernible slur of profanity in at least three different languages – he found a concerned looking elf shaking him awake. “Santa, the report just got in. One of the outfits has headed down our fork. Troop carriers, ah, caterpillars, they’re estimating 40 vehicles – maybe 500 infantry, maybe more.”
“Slow down Stripe,” Santa said, collecting him self, “now tell me what the hell’s going on.”
“Santa! For the love of Christmas cheer, they’re coming! One of those outfits turned our way. The Russians are finally coming to kill us all!” Stripe stopped himself. He didn’t mean to let the last part out.
Santa mumbled some more profanity, this time in Portuguese, one of his favorite swearing languages, as he struggled on his pants and boots. He sat back down and fumbled on his spectacles, found his pipe, tapped it on his boot, began filling it, struck a match. “Santa!” Stripe cried exasperatedly, “Frost me sideways! We have to get you to tactical now!”
“Rain deer shit.” Santa said clearly, his first audible words, “You elves – everything a big damn hurry.” He pause a moment and looked closely at Stripe. “Do you mind if I take a piss first? Would it be alright with you, Stripe, if I take a moment for myself to relieve my bladder?”
Stripe didn’t hesitate, not even to absorb the embarrassment: “Of course Santa. Sorry Santa.”
Santa barged into the tactical room still half asleep – lacking his usual jolly attitude until his first scotch. “Ok you chipper little pecks, what’d I miss? We making Christmas today or going to war?”
“Santa, we have recon units observing a column directly inbound 24 miles.” It was Peanut, Sec. Def., “It appears to be three separate mechanized units. Light arctic vehicles. So far all troop carriers but they’re pulling some light artillery as well. Some field guns, some AAA, and at least a couple rocket batteries. And we haven’t contacted a screen – their just driving right through.”
“That doesn’t sound like a seal hunting trips does it?” Santa said cheerfully, his freshly pored scotch already kicking in. “No aerial contact?”
Sprinkle, Sr. Radar Operator, chimed in. “No Santa. No contacts yet. But the weather is still a bit rough. I doubt they’ll fly their clumsy tin birds in this. We’re keeping a close eye though – the weather should be clearing the cost soon. Maybe an hour before the worst of it passes us here – still won’t be pretty.”
“Ok then. 24 miles ah? What does that give us? Four hours, maybe five?”
“I’d say less.” Peanut answered, “Once they’re around that ice pack they have open ground. Worst case we might only have two hours.”
“Better probe them now then. Who’s out there near the tail of the column?”
Peanut glanced at Butter, the radio operator who until then was busily chatting and updating reports. “I’m sorry sir, what do you need?”
“Is it RR5, the unit we have at the coast, near the tail of that column Butter?”
“Yes sir, I mean no.” Butter collected him self with a quick clear of the throat. “RR5 is still at the coast observing the beach-head activity. The column passed them hours ago. RR19, they’re following the tail.”
“Ah…” Peanut replied. “That’s Gumdrop’s unit correct?”
“Yes sir.”
“Gumdrop?” Santa exclaimed. “Tell Gumdrop I want him and his boys to take out the last vehicle. And don’t screw around. Take it out and move off.”
Butter got to it. “HQ to RR19, HQ to RR5, come in RR19, over.”
“This is RR19, go ahead HQ, over.”
“RR19, you are instructed to take out the trailing vehicle. Do not linger. Over.”
“Roger that HQ. Hit and run. Last vehicle… Over.”
They waited. Santa leisurely pored another scotch, this one less generous than the last, but this time he kept the bottle. A squawk from the radio – everyone flinched – but nothing, just static. A long wait.
Finally it came: “RR19 to HQ. Come in HQ.”
Butter answered right away. “RR19 repot – over.”
Butter waited. Static. The channel opened, gun fire in the background, distant. “Roger HQ, target is burning. Not much armor on those cats – over.”
A relieved breath came out of the entire room. Butter took it upon himself: “Gumdrop – how are you guys? Any casualties?”
“Yeah Butter, a few. But they’re all six-foot-tall and smell like cabbage. Ho-ho!?”
Butter laughed. “Roger that RR19, ho ho – over.”
The muster hall was filled with elves, heavily armed, falling into rank, preparing for inspection.
Santa entered: “My good – good hard working elves.” His voice boomed throughout the hall. “Today will be a good day. I know you’re all prepared to lay down your lives for this workshop. Not for the posts and beams that make it’s structure. Not for the billions of dollars in toys. But for the idea – the idea that boys and girls of all shapes and sizes – as long as they’re good and live in North America or England – can look forward each year to a gift Christmas morning!”
The hall erupted in elven cheers. Short little arms pumped fists in the air, little boots pounded the floor, and several random profane laden personal oaths could be heard.
Santa continued: “Every elf lives. But not every elf has the opportunity to send a fresh commy soul to Hell!!!”
The cheering hit a deafening level. The pounding rhythm resonated throughout the workshop. Santa cracked a smile, hearing an elf close by scream a prediction about crying Russian mothers.
Santa raised an open hand, taking in their dedication. Sharply, he closed his hand into a tight fist – and just as instantly the solid wall of sound stopped. It stopped so dead, so fast, the echoes were audible for a long moment.
Crisp commands ordered the elves. Bright colored clothing disappeared under white cloaks – unit by unit – as they streamed in perfect order up the stairs and out into the night snow, invisibly moving out to perimeter defense locations.
They were going to meet two units of Soviet mobile infantry moving in on the workshop. The third Soviet unit was being held an hour behind by brazen hit-and-run strikes from the Reindeer Recon units. Reports still had the other two Soviet outfits moving further down the coast, mercifully not toward the workshop. Santa was sending the majority of his best elves out to stop them before they could reach artillery rang – a force of little over 200 against a full-grown contingent of more than 500 of Stalin’s finest.
As Santa lumbered his way back up to the tactical, his elves scurried about outside, small feet light upon the surface of the snow, splitting into teams, finding their spots, ranging their rifles.
Santa entered the room. “Santa, we have Tinsel on deck.” It was Peanut with his usual fountain of information. “The new reindeer team is tacked-up to your old sleigh. I figured it would be wise to have him on the training rig ready to provide air cover if need be. Your sleigh has also been prepared, the new one, with your trusty eight.”
“Very good.” Santa replied as he stiffly sat down again with the scotch. As if rest were a sin, just then, Santa was startled forward by the sharp and over exuberant voice of Sprinkle. “Contact! Contact! Inbound contact – 600 miles – closing. Good deer-shit they’re fast – they must be 15s.” Sprinkle turned his head. “Santa they must be 15s!”
“How many?” Santa replied.
“oh – ah… I’ve only got a blip so far Santa. But at this range – hell – at this range there’s got to be a quite a few to show up already. 550 miles!
Peanut interrupted. “Santa, I suggest we launch Tinsel, and get you up as well.”
Santa hesitated.
“Santa. Shall I order up Tinsel. He’s at the ready. Perhaps he can gain a height advantage.”
Santa gripped the bridge of his nose, mumbled to his beard: “Damn ground-birds…” He looked at Peanut. “Switch him to my trusty eight. I’ll take the new team.”
Santa made it to the stable just as Tinsel and his rear gunner, Balls, were preparing for launch. Gravy, Santa’s rear gunner, was checking and rechecking the guns on Santa’s old sleigh. Both reindeer teams were antsy, sensing the battle ahead.
As he threw on his characteristic flight suit, complements of Coca-Cola, Santa stepped into the sleigh, and before even finishing the buttons he was off with a shout – muttering profanity as he struggled to remember all 10 of the new reindeer names. Tinsel followed his lead, side by side rocketing forward though the hanger door and into a shallow climb.
With the growing North American population, and after a particularly problematic Christmas the year before, Santa had decided to take on an apprentice to help with the deliveries. They had started him on the old sleigh, the one Santa had retired years before, and decided to train a larger new team – now comprising ten very strong, but equally inexperienced young deer.
Tinsel had the old team and the new sleigh, which offered much better stamina than the young team but not the overall thrust or acceleration of young muscle. But the combination of the new sleigh’s heavy armor and ejection system, with the sure and steady temperament of the trusty eight, made it by far the safest and easiest flying rig.
The Mig-15 could beat both sleighs in a dive, had a better rate of climb, a higher ceiling, and was better armed. But both sleighs were more controllable in a dive – the Mig’s infamous problem with losing control at near sonic speeds – and were far more maneuverable.
The two sleighs headed toward the peaking sun. Santa let off a burst from his forward mounted Browning 50 calibers – testing. Gravy, Tinsel, and Balls all did the same. Sprinkle cracked though on the radio: “Santa, it looks like a squadron, 20,000 feet, inbound 200 miles, barring 203.”
“Roger Sprinkle.” Santa replied. “Tinsel, you got your ears on?”
“Roger Santa.”
“We’re staying low while we close the distance. I want to come up out of the glare off the snow, into their blind spot, right under their bellies. You stay right on my flank. Remember, easy on the ammo, short accurate bursts. Take what targets you can but stay on my flank. I want to take out that flight leader right away.”
“Roger Santa, I’ll be on you like frost on shit.”
Santa ran an oblique course toward the Migs until their shinny metal skin reflected the low winter sun revealing their double ‘V’ formation. Santa pulled up into a steep climb perpendicular to the Migs course, but hidden from their eyes.
“It looks like we’ve got 18 birds to kill Tinsel.”
“Roger.” Tinsel’s high pitch voice gave away his excitement.
They climber hard and fast, approaching the Migs from their right side and underneath. Santa lined up for a strafing run, bearing in on the starboard belly of the aircraft holding the end position on the right side of the formation. He placed his mittened hand on the well-worn trigger handle, and his sight on the Mig. He waited until the last possible moment. With a good snap of the reins he kicked the deer into top speed and fired a short but effective burst into the first jet. Without assessing the damage, and all in one long second, Santa kept his course up through the formation – firing a stingy number of rounds into each Mig – until the lead plane was in his sights – the tip of the chevron. For this Mig Santa let loose until a fire ball appeared, tumbling the craft into pieces.
The element of surprise gave Santa and Tinsel a 1.5 second advantage. That was up now. Instinctively the Migs had broken off into groups, some turning around and coming up the rear, others climbing away. Santa had managed to damage half the formation – four planes in all now streaming black smoke and loosing altitude – in addition to the burning wing leader.
Santa climbed after the flight leader of the second formation, with Tinsel and the trusty-8 struggling to keep up with the young deer Santa was now whipping with all his might – encouraging them to climb after the Mig. They were vertical, passing 40,000 feet. The rear gunners did their best to harass and damage several Migs now following. The deer struggled for oxygen. It was no use. Santa knew not to match his weaknesses to his opponent’s strength.
“Breaking left into a dive.” Santa shouted to Tinsel, as he pulled the reins and slung the sleight around, Tinsel followed, both now pointing straight down at a long line of oncoming Migs. Both sleighs fired for the quarter second it took to dive past them.
Santa let the deer rest in freefall and put on the wind breaks. He watched. Then he came. The wing leader dove down coming up Santa’s rear. But Santa was anticipating this. He rolled, pulling the sleigh into a different angle, cutting across the Mig’s gun sights, offering him only a sudden and impossible shot.
The Mig rolled to regain the firing position, but it was too late, his speed to great, he overshot. Santa smiled with satisfaction as he rolled into position, anticipating the Mig’s zoom-clime, a maneuver to recover altitude using momentum from a dive.
Santa sent a long generous parade of hot tracers right into the Mig’s path – a collision of lead and tin – snapping the fighter in half and producing a ball of fire and black smoke.
Tracers flew past. Santa peered over his shoulder, five Migs chasing them through the still steep dive. Balls and Gravy tattered away. A cheer. Gravy got one. The Mig spun and struggled out of the dive, bleeding black smoke and airplane parts.
“Ok Tinsel. We’re going to buzz the deck at top speed. Just let Dasher know. He’ll take care of it.”
“Roger Santa.”
Santa whipped the young deer. Their freefall became a power dive. The Migs easily kept up, dumping tracers past. The sleighs punched through the low cloud cover, now in site of the white earth closing in on them at a terrifying rate. Santa struggled with the half-panicked deer, holding their deadly course as a sonic shockwave moved up the team.
At the last possible moment, Santa planted both feet on the dash and heaved on the reins – cussing and swearing – pulling the sleigh into a devastating positive-G dive. Santa grunted and flexed, fighting to keep the blood in his brain. Suddenly, he shouted as a painful and particularly voluminous instance of flatulence occurred.
The sleigh leveled out and ripped across the landscape. Santa pulled up into a climb, recovering precious altitude. To his left appeared trusty Dasher who had lead Tinsel’s rig out of the dive – Tinsel sitting terrified at the reins. Santa twisted himself around to see the Migs, all four having failed to recover, now smoking holes in the ice.
More tracers flew by – the battle long from over. The 7 remaining Migs had taken the role of high-cover and were now diving on the sleighs from a wheel formation. This was an old WWI tactic. The squadron would circle at high altitude and dive on the enemy, fire, then climb back up using the momentum from the dive, to wait in line back in the circle formation.
Santa’s only option was to climb up to meet them, dodging attacks all the way, lumbering upwards against gravity with exhausted deer. The young team huffed and wheezed, never having experienced such a demanding sleigh ride. “Tinsel, climb ahead. These deer don’t have the stamina.”
Tinsel climbed accelerated forward, out of the angle of the next attackers, leaving Santa to take the brunt. The traces came whizzing by again. Santa felt impacts reverberate through the sleigh – then suddenly he was blind, something in his eyes, loss of power, loss of control.
Santa wiped his eyes, blood. It covered the sleigh. No. 9 deer, port and furthest aft, Freckles, was gone. Numbers 7 and 8, Bony and Jacks, were now blood streaming carcasses. No. 10 deer, Spanky, was unharmed, but motionless – in total shock, eyes wide open, the three halters surrounding him now empty of holding a dead deer. No. 7 carcass came loose, tumbling against the bottom of the sleigh. The rest of the team was frantic. They pulled wildly upwards, desperate to get away.
Santa swiveled his head, struggling to get a perception of the situation. The formation still circled above, one diving at him for a new attack, hoping to finish him off. His mind struggled. His only option was to dive again, hope for a lucky shot, but that would leave Tinsel alone to fight the formation.
What’s this? Santa thought. The Mig was aborting the attack on Santa – pulling away. It was Tinsel, Tinsel and the trusty 8. They were diving after the Mig – a bad move but a brave one. Santa watch as Tinsel rolled in behind the Mig and unloaded at least 1000 round, trimming off one of its wing and sending it down.
But the brazen move had attracted three of the remaining six Migs. They followed Tinsel as he crossed Santa’s wake. Santa looped around behind the Migs – a difficult maneuver now with an underpowered and barely responsive team of shell-shocked reindeer. The move required Santa to take out his pistol and fire a warning shot past the lead deer’s head – “Russian bullets or mine shit-eaters!!!!”
He came in close to the trailing Mig, fired. Only one gun operated but it was enough, a few accurate rounds, one less Russian made English Rolls-Royce Nene centrifugal compressor turbojet beauty of a power plant.
Tinsel rolled and banked, just as he was trained, now with an apparently cooler style – fear of death replaced with lust for valor – barely staying a step ahead of the Migs. Santa came in behind the second one in line, fired, only a few rounds, a hit, not enough. The Mig still flew while Santa’s guns remained silent.
The starboard gun had visible damage, good now only as a boat anchor. The port gun has to be empty, Santa though. “Gravy, get on the port 50, she needs some ammo for the love of Christmas!”
But the com stayed silent. Santa turned around, a bearded mouth full of angry profanity. But there was no head to receive it – only a small lifeless body still strapped into the rear-facing chair, little arms thrashing in the harsh cold wind.
“For the love of Christmas cheer,” Santa exclaimed, “as usual I have to do everything my self!”
Santa stood. With the reins in one had and one eye on the Migs he walked to the rear mount and slung it around – forward. The reins barely reached. Santa gripped the trigger and fired a line of bullets along the Mig’s fuselage, blasting it to pieces.
Still standing, Santa rolled – then rolled again, placing himself in firing position behind Tinsel’s Mig. Santa fired. But Tinsel broke right, leading the Mig out of Santa’s precarious line of fire. So Santa simply switched hands on the reins, ducted under the gun mount, essentially reversing his line of fire, and blasted the Mig.
Santa returned to his seat, gasping to regain his breath. The things I have to do, he though. Just then, No. 4 deer fell limp, exhausted – possibly dead. “Tinsel, pull up along side me. We’re trading rigs. I want you to take this one home – rearm and rest.”
“But Santa, I can’t leave you up here with 12 Mig’s!”
“Tinsel, get your ass back home. These deer are useless anyway. They’re dropping…. Twelve?!?!?! Did you say twelve Migs?”
“Yes Santa. I couldn’t raise you. Sprinkle notified us of another incoming contact. Neither of us could raise you. I saw them flying at 50,000 feet – nine of them.”
“Well let’s make this snappy then damn it!”
Santa looks for the antenna – still intact. They must have gotten the wire – he though.
Tinsel reduced speed and drifted back along side Santa. They both leapt across. Santa found a slightly damaged sleigh, but fully operational. Four forward mounts on this one, but only around 300 rounds left to each gun. Prancer was nursing a good gash to his ribs, and Blitzen was missing a leg but still fully committed.
Balls was another story. He sat strapped into his seat with a white-knuckle grip on the ejection handle. His double mount was empty, the ammo obviously panicked away. His eyes were wide open and shifting sporadically, searching for incoming death. Santa motioned for him to go with Tinsel. He did so without pause.
As Tinsel dove for home Santa climbed away and began to raise Butter and Sprinkle to be guided to the Migs, but there was no need. Three Migs were already in sight, leisurely working their way into position. Santa continued to gain altitude, searching the sky for the other nine Migs.
Soon they appeared and joined together, now a 12 fighter formation coming up Santa’s rear. They were flying staggered, grouped in threes. The lead group accelerated and moved in – Santa rolled and they overshot, falling into Santa’s gun site. He fired, damaging one aircraft, the rest speeding away.
Another group immediately came into firing position. Santa faked a loop, which bleed speed, causing them to overshoot as well. Santa was now below his maneuvering speed, 220 knots – now he could get creative. As the third group came in he rolled. The Migs rolled in after him. He began to roll again, but this time he pulled a well practiced but tricky maneuver. As he rolled he slung the sleigh around so that it was flying backward – a move that requires both an expert driver and a steady team.
As the lead Mig of the group rolled into firing position, he found Santa looking straight at him with 4 .50 inch barrels – not to mention 8 angry deer. Santa fired a careful burst, flaming out the Mig’s engine. He then quickly tagged the other two Migs, one short burst each, by gingerly tapping the rudder pedals, yawing the sleight left, then right.
The fancy move had bleed off so much speed Santa was now below the Mig-15’s stall speed, causing the fourth group to fly by. The first group, now a pair, had made its way back around and was diving after him as he struggled to pick up speed.
“Climb straight at’m Dasher old boy!” Santa yelled. He then detached 10 rounds of the ammo supply to on of the forward guns and loaded it into the rear mount. After a good pull to the cocking lever, Santa took careful aim. It was a long shot, a great distance, getting lesser by the second. He went ahead and used up a Christmas miracle and managed to lob the ten rounds at the three diving jets, damaging them each well enough to break them off the attack and limp away bleeding smoke or fuel.
The second group didn’t see Santa reach their altitude level until Santa cut through their formation firing his guns, including his side arm. Santa’s marksmanship made short work of all three Migs.
This left Santa totally out of ammunition and in a fight with three healthy Migs. He searched for them. There – damn. As usual, high, a 10,000 foot advantage, already diving in for the kill.
Santa kept his altitude and sped toward the Migs, forcing them into a vertical dive. He then looped into a dive, causing the Migs to fly in corkscrews in order to not overshoot. Santa did the same until he was matching the lead Mig, both swirling down face to face.
Within an eighth of a second, Santa assessed his opponent’s situation. No doubt, the Soviet pilot had observed the strength and weaknesses of his sleigh. The Mig couldn’t beat Santa in this game. Eventually Santa would slow behind the Mig and slide into firing position. Of course Santa had no ammo – but the Mig didn’t know that. So, he will try to speed away into a climb.
Before the Mig had a chance, Santa pulled a desperate move: “Dasher, show him you’re business end!”
Dasher reared up and slammed his antlers into the Mig’s canopy, goring the communist savagely enough to break off his fall antlers. Santa then pulled a sharp turn forcing the other two Migs to fly on by.
Santa put the sleigh into a climb while the Migs pulled up and came after him. With the deer exhausted, Santa began unlatching the guns to drop weight – which gave him an idea. He pointed the sleight at a cloud and continued unlatching guns.
The sleight plunged into the cloud, the Migs followed. When they came out Santa was flying between them standing in his sleigh with an arm load of guns. He threw them out in the path of one jet, causing one unlucky gun to enter the Mig’s intake. The aircraft instantly lost power, becoming a gliding rock.
The other Mig pulled away, but Santa followed closely, singeing some hair off the lead deer. Santa snapped his whip, wrapping it around the Mig’s horizontal stabilizer and tied the handle end to the sleigh. He then dove, tearing off the Mig’s stabilizer and leaving it barely controllable. Taking the advantage, Santa pulled up along side and emptied a clip of 45 ACP into the cockpit.
Santa could finally take a second to breathe and assess the condition of the sleigh – it was flying funny. The guns were gone, a few loose shells were rolling about, and the odd hole could be seen here and there. He scanned the gauges – no electricity. His eye caught on the stardust gauge – very low. He tapped on it, hoping it was jammed. Nope. He turned looked over the side – could see it – a thin stream of dust was venting out of the stardust tank. Damn.
Santa brought the sleigh down under the cloud cover and headed home. Blitzen was getting woozy – half asleep. But Santa spotted more aircraft – bombers this time. The fighters must have been a screen – he thought.
Flying at top speed and at low level, Santa approached the formation. He could see now they were three Tu-16s, a large jet powered bomber. It was bristled with guns, but Santa figured the gunners would be searching the sky – not the 500 feet below them.
Quickly and quietly, he maneuvered the sleigh in under a bomber’s wing. He search around in the sleigh for some loose items – a box of tools. Santa opened it and took out a wrench organizer – shrugged – and pitched in into the bomber’s air intake – killing that engine.
Before the formation could determine the source of the problem, Santa had fed more tools to the other engine and moved onto the next bomber – throwing the actual box into that one’s intake. The first bomber didn’t even have time to deploy landing gear before it crashed hard into the ground. The second one was pulled to the left as it struggled to maintain vital altitude.
Santa positioned himself under the third and last bomber just as trouble hit. The sleigh shimmied and shook – then let out a loud cough. It was suddenly a rock pulling the reindeer team down – into the arc of the bomber’s dorsal machineguns. The sleigh was out of stardust.
Santa leapt from the sleigh onto the center beam of the harness between the deer, turned around and detached the sleigh – leaving it crash mightily in the snow. The deer struggled to climb back up to the bomber. Santa’s weight without the aid of the sleigh was abusive.
“One last push my beauties! Just get me close to that wing!” Santa cried. The deer could not refuse and push with their last bit of strength. Showing serious pain one and all, their legs kicked furiously – chasing the bomber as it tried to climb away.
Santa saw his chance. With a running jump, skillfully dancing down the center of the gear, he threw himself into the air and grabbed the leading edge of the wing. After working his way to the engine, Santa nearly threw his knife in – but changed his mind. He hadn’t fought hand to hand in months. So instead he crawled to the fuselage and cut his way in.
Hastily, Santa made his way to the cockpit where he killed both men with his bare hands. He then made his way to the rear, and to tired for any more fanciness – just shot them all with his side arm.
Santa was surprised by how easy the bomber was to land on the ice. Once he got out the reindeer landed next to him and all fell to the ground desperate for rest. They panted and heaved – now on the ground, the still air no longer hid the deer’s profanity laden gasps, which echoed across the ice and snow.
A reindeer recon unit found them a couple hours later and helped them home where Santa was met by numerous elated elves. They had been victorious against the ground forces but had assumed Santa was killed fighting the aircraft.
Also, Santa found that Tinsel had badly damaged the old sleigh landing it, and had evidently shot several of the deer on the way back, and was now in the infirmary where he was screaming and crying hysterically. Santa decided to go visit him, but on the way the head elf posted a question aloud over the mutter of adulation: “But Santa, what about Christmas? Without a sleigh how will we deliver presents to all the boys and girls?
We – my ass. Santa thought. But then it came out. He just couldn’t help it: “Fuck them!”
The hanger fell quiet. Even the reindeer stopped chewing. “You heard me. Fuck. Them. Seriously. With all the trouble we go through – all the hassle. I mean – seriously! I mean, look what’s happened so far this year – and – compared to the average year how stressful has this one been?”
The elves looked at each other – shrugged admittedly.
“Yeah, it’s been pretty peaceful. I mean, relatively speaking, this year is going pretty smooth. Seriously. Like, it’s not like we need to find a damn reindeer with a birth defect necessary to guide my sleigh to night, or anything serious like that.
And shit – when was the last thank you letter we got from any of these little fuckers? Hu? Yeah, all we get are these multi-page wish lists of garbage – garbage we don’t even make!
Isn’t that some shit? Seriously! No one asks for a doll any more, or a simply train set. No. It’s this specific doll from this specific manufacturer. Who do they think I am for fuck’s sake? Mattel can eat shit for all I care! CHRISTMAS IS CANCELLED!!!”
Mrs. Clause guided Santa to a chair, pored him a quintuple scotch, and shooed the elves away with an assuring nod. “Now you relax old boy. This happens to you every year. Don’t get these worried. They’ve worked all year for this.”
Santa took a deep breath. “Well, all right. I’m going to give the Whitehouse a call really quick – see if the world’s at war. If not we’ll rig something up sleigh wise.”
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Raging Kitty