by John Minx
Santa Goes Bananas
John Minx
Santa Goes Bananas Copyright © John Minx. All Rights Reserved.
This book was produced using Pressbooks.com.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
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Chapter One
Santa was in bed by 8.30, making an early night of it as usual, resting up for the main event with Christmas Eve looming and December upon him once more.
The rest of 2017 seemed to have passed in the blink of an eye, just like all the years before it, which helped explain how Santa had somehow reached his fifty-fourth year. A personal milestone that still had the power to shock the seasonal heavyweight whenever he stopped to think about it. But for all the magic he could sometimes lay claim to, there was no arguing with time’s snowball effect.
It was while rehashing these thoughts that Santa looked up from the duvet and turned his attention back to the television at the foot of the bed. It was tuned to Channel 34 and a cheesy reality show that he’d been following off and on for the last half hour. Now he gave it his full attention again and immersed himself in the world of feuding Malibu housewives with money to burn and enough time on their hands to engage in some heavy-duty warfare. It was pretty mindless entertainment, but that was OK, because Santa liked his TV forgettable. It had long been his favourite method of switching off – or trying to – at the end of the day.
Tonight, the storyline revolved around the seating plan for an elaborate dinner party, and how it had been designed to snub one of the hostess’s main rivals. With the grand event underway, the camera moved to the far end of the table and focused in on the snubbed guest. She was an elegant woman decked out in dazzling jewellery, but clearly furious at being kept from the limelight. Unable to contain her displeasure for long, she’d barely been seated before she was up and out of her chair. Then, jabbing a manicured finger in the direction of her enemy, she let out a stream of foul mouthed abuse.
As her hostess returned fire, and the two bitter enemies went at it, the volume of their hostilities inevitably grew. In response, Santa turned cautiously and looked over at his wife to check the conflict wasn’t disturbing her any. But as usual, Jissika was away with the fairies and kept on sleeping the sleep of the blessed. This Santa knew because she was facing his way and there was a slight smile on her face to confirm the fact for him as usual. She was clearly in a good place, hiding behind the padded eye-mask and heavy duty ear plugs that she tended to screw in. Two basic precautions that pretty much guaranteed her an excellent night’s sleep.
The sight of his wife’s contented slumber always pleased Santa a great deal. Firstly, because he loved her immensely and her happiness was truly important to him. Secondly, because his reliance on her was beyond doubt, and so he understood himself to be a major beneficiary of her seven hour rest. In contrast, Santa slept fitfully at the best of times and woke at intervals throughout the night. These intervals becoming more lengthy and troubled the closer that Christmas got, so that it was all he could do to cobble together three or four hours of shut eye. At the same time, his fleeting dreams took on an increasingly uneasy aspect. As such, they were full of clerical oversights and tended to revolve around important tasks that needed doing but which he’d somehow forgotten to carry out.
Waking from them, Santa would lurch for the bedside table and the pen and paper stationed on top of it: scrawling out feverish notes in the darkness. But however many reminders he scribbled down, he was always left with the sense that other issues still eluded him, hidden from plain sight.
Chapter Two
As the credits rolled down the screen, calling time on the fabulous backstabbing, Santa could feel his eyelids start to droop. It wasn’t an unwelcome sensation and suggested that sleep – some sleep at least – was not far off. But then the channel cut to a commercial break, and the very first advert had the effect of snapping him wide awake.
It was far from unusual for Santa to encounter portraits of himself in the media this time of year. This being one of several occupational hazards that grew more frequent and alarming as Christmas drew ever closer. Simply by switching on the TV, or opening a magazine, he was pretty much guaranteed to find a likeness waiting for him. And although one or two of these images did bear some small resemblance to the flesh and blood Santa Claus, for the most part the portrayals were stunningly wrong-headed, if not flat-out insulting. Without a doubt, this TV advert belonged to the second category. In fact, no sooner had it started than Santa was confronted with just about the ugliest impression of himself he’d ever had the misfortune to see.
No stranger to being thought of as grossly overweight – the popular imagination seemed to demand it – never had anyone pictured him as so spectacularly obese before. A close up of this fictional Santa’s face revealed it to be sunk beneath several folds of thick fat, making it appear dull and lifelesss. Meanwhile the man’s beard was knotted and dirty and clotted with several types of foodstuffs – containing all those stray morsels and crumbs he’d failed to stuff into his mouth.
If the man’s greediness wasn’t obvious enough by this point, the advert provided yet more proof of it. Lifting his right hand, the gluttonous figure started devouring a gigantic barbecued rib with wild abandon; only pausing to take a huge swig of Absolut vodka that drained the litre bottle by a third (on top of everything else, this sorry version of Santa Claus had the bright red nose of an alcoholic).
As the monstrous caricature let out an epic burp, the camera zoomed out and provided more context. The huge man was sunk back against the faded upholstery of an old wooden sleigh, weighing the carriage down something terrible, and taking up the whole seat with his enormous backside. As a result of the heavy burden, those sacks of presents stashed away behind him were tilting downwards at a precarious angle and spilling any number of gift-wrapped parcels out the back.
Now focus turned to the front end of the festive vehicle. Here, a full retinue of reindeer were shackled to the fat man by way of taut harnesses, struggling heroically to keep the whole enterprise afloat. Little wonder then that the animals looked so miserable or that a low grumble of resentment was doing the rounds.
Rudolph himself was at the forefront of this dissent. His own red nose pale and rather pathetic-looking, he turned to his nearest colleague and started up with a tired complaint:
“Santa with your nose so bright . . .I mean since when was that a thing?”
“I know. It’s totally ridiculous. The same with the jolly fat man routine. He’s taken it way, way too far this year.”
Rudolph nodded in reply. “Nobody begrudges him the odd mince pie, but when you go raiding people’s fridges and making off with whole cuts of meat? That’s just not right. That’s just not ethical. That’s just not Christmas.”
As the two beasts shook their heads mournfully, the convers
ation was interrupted by something bright and flashy that went speeding by. Stunned by the zip of it, both animals swivelled their heads and tried followed its lightning-quick passage. Not a bird, plane, or superhero, but a self-driving sled that was tearing across the sky, one of a multi-coloured fleet of them, all of them outpacing the reindeer and sleigh.
Now their undercarriages opened and scores of small drones began to drop through the sky, shooting down the chimneys of the town away below them, sprinkling their brand of tech-driven magic. Delivering gifts of every size and description to the clearly delighted children – fulfilling every last wish of little Bobby, Amka, Curtis and Marie-Jo.
Watching this unfold from the depths of his sleigh, the seriously overweight Santa let his mouth hang open, the barbecue sauce from a turkey drumstick dripping down his front. Then, as the self-driving sleds flashed by again, performing a victory lap, he waved an angry fist at them and let rip with a string of bleeped out curses like the foul mouthed disgrace he was.
Finally, the advert’s tagline was splashed across the screen.
Bzaah – Beating Santa to the Punch since 2013!
Chapter Three
For several long moments, after the advert had ended, Santa up in bed, trembling with rage. Knowing where the insult had come from only added fuel to the fire. On the surface of it the guilty party was Bzaah, the big online retailer. But more specifically than that, Santa blamed the man whose company it was and whose personality influenced the whole enterprise.
Jon Moran.
Nor was this the first hurtful jibe Moran had thrown his way. For the last few years, in the press and through his website, there’d been a whole host of dismissive comments about Christmas in general, and Santa in particular, dismissing him as old hat, all washed up, yesterday’s No.1 gift-giver. As a shameless self-publicist, Jon Moran was always happy to go on record and kick up a stir if it only sent more web traffic in his direction. And going on record to badmouth the festive season, and question what it stood for, certainly had that effect. And although it was true that Moran did all this with a tongue-in-cheek quality, it was no less clear to Santa that he meant every last word of it and that his contempt for all things Christmas-y was absolutely sincere.
This long list of snarky comments had already turned Jon Moran into Santa’s personal bugbear. Now, with this latest outrageous attack, his loathing reached new heights and pushed him over the edge.
As the red mist kept on descending, Santa lunged for the remote control and launched it impulsively at the large flat screen television. It was only his lack of focus that prevented a direct hit. But after the device had overshot its mark, it sped towards the wide mantelpiece up against the far wall. And on reaching the packed ledge, it crashed into a small snow globe perched on one end of it. A finely wrought creation built by an elf more than two centuries ago.
Knocked off its perch, the glass ornament fell to the floor and smashed into pieces. Its lovingly constructed diorama dribbling out onto the hardwood, drained of all the magic it had formerly possessed. Not the best of omens with Christmas around the corner, it has to be said.
The loud commotion was enough to wake Jissika with a start, and within seconds of Santa’s tantrum she was sat bolt upright, lifting up her eye mask, and looking about her in a daze.
“What is it? What’s happened?”
Seeing the worry on her face made her husband feel guilty, but still he felt compelled to file his complaint.
“So now I’m not only a morbidly obese drunkard, but also a shameless thief to boot! Tell me, in all the years I’ve been doing this job have I ever accepted so much as a single pie or pastry? Never mind raiding the larder and making off with prime cuts!”
Santa’s continuing outrage had the effect of calming his wife down.
“You’re talking about Bzaah,” she said.
“You’re telling me you’ve seen that advert already?”
“Once or twice,” she answered, diplomatically.
“Great, so this thing is on constant rotation or something?”
“Well, they’re a pretty big company with a lot of money to throw around,” Jissika reasoned.
“And you didn’t think to tell me?” There was more than a hint of accusation to the comment.
“Why? So you could trash our whole bedroom?” In defence of her argument, Jissika nodded at the sorry heap of smithereens on the floor.
“Now you’re exaggerating . . .”
But deep down, Santa was not so sure. There could be no doubting his tendency to fly off the handle, nor just how bad it could get. And although he’d never inflicted physical harm on another human being, or animal for that matter, inanimate objects were nowhere near as lucky. Doors, fence-posts, tables, bicycles, snow globes, you name it. All, at one time or another, had become the object of his wrath. Afterwards, shame-faced, Santa would patch these things up to the very best of his ability. But for all his leisurely repentance, he was a long way from putting an end to these destructive routines.
“You need to be the bigger man,” Jissika continued, “and just plain ignore it if you’re not able to let it go. How many times do I need to tell you?”
“The bigger man! But I’m already topping out at three hundred kilos if that advert serves as any kind of guide!”
At this his wife laughed, and Santa mustered a smile of his own at the joke’s success. Something of his foul mood lifting, although he still wasn’t done arguing the toss.
“I mean look at me, I’m totally ripped!” he continued, lifting up his nightshirt and nodding down – not for the first time – at his washboards abs.
By the standards of mid life crises, Santa’s was fairly mild and mostly beneficial. He had overhauled his exercise routine and diet six months earlier. Now, after hours of training and any number of sensible meals, he was in the best shape of his life. The bathroom mirror confirmed this for him daily and he was not above stealing admiring glances at himself for a minute or two.
Following Santa’s lead, Jissika looked down at his abdominals, although she wasn’t inclined to admire them anywhere near as much.
“OK, admittedly they’re way off with your waist size, but in other respects?” At this, she raised her fist comically, like the obese Santa in the advert, suggesting that the bad tempered portrait had not been completely wide of the mark.
Santa opened his mouth to defend himself again, but realised that he didn’t have a leg to stand on. It was the twinkle in his wife’s eyes that told him as much. The same twinkle he’d first fallen for and whose wisdom he’d never doubted. The one that helped him open up, admit his personal failings, and even address the odd one. Something Jissika had been doing successfully for decades now: bringing out the best in an essentially good-natured man.
And Santa – as he now realized – had never had greater need of his finer qualities, things being what they were.
Chapter Four
After calming down to the best of his ability, Santa tried to sleep, and repeatedly snatched at it, but by 4:30 in the morning he accepted defeat.
Aware that his day had started already, he rose stealthily in the dark and padded his way out into the corridor and the bathroom at the far end of it. There, after disrobing, he climbed into the bath, stood under the shower head, and turned the cold tap on. Suddenly, a blast of icy water rained down on him and Santa was in his element. As always, it was a sensation he welcomed and relied on to kick-start his day. But even a full five minutes of this bracing downpour failed to wash away his troubles this morning and he couldn’t help but replay the advert from last night. Compulsively, he brought back the infuriating images, reserving special attention for his grotesque stunt double and the provocative claim right at the end.
Bzaah – Beating Santa to the Punch since 2013!
A direct challenge to his festive authority, if ever there was one.
“Beating me to the punch, is it?” he muttered. “Well we’ll just have to see about that.”
After dressing in denim work wear, a sheepskin overcoat, and an old beanie hat, Santa headed downstairs and out of the two storey log cabin he called home. There, stood on the Welcome mat, he took a few moments out to admire his immediate surroundings. As with the morning shower, the sub-zero landscape had a positive effect on him and he always made a point of admiring the world on his doorstep; considering the silence and stillness that settled on everything in the depths of mid-winter as if the monumental cold amounted to a sacred law.
Away to his right stood those outwardly drab buildings that made up the small compound. None of them much to look at and easy enough to mistake for a small hobby farm. As such, it was a far cry from the manic splendor of days gone by when earlier Santas had overseen a huge workforce of elves and other faery folk, all of them free to prep for Christmas out in the open, ready to spread untold joy. Back when the underlying magic was stronger and invasive technologies a whole lot less advanced. But now, in order to preserve what he could of the glorious heritage, stealth was the order of the day.
Crossing the gritted yard – thankful there’d been no fresh snowfall in the night – Santa passed the stables away to his left.
“Morning all,” he called out loudly and in answer there came a succession of snorts from the twenty four animals housed inside the rugged shelter. It pleased him to pick out the greetings of the old guard one by one, but Santa was a lot less sure when it came to identifying their offspring. All of whom responded with a breezy grunt, the reindeer equivalent of a “Yo!”