Gift-Wrapped & Toe-Tagged: A Melee of Misc. Holiday Anthology

by Dr. Freud Funkenstein, ed.

  'Bloody hell,' I whispered. I put my arms protectively around her. 'There's going to be trouble,' I said. 'Get ready to run.'

  But as we stood there, tensing, something astonishing happened. I blinked, and out of nowhere had come a young man in a long white robe. Before anyone could stop him he was between the ranks of the Red and White Bloc and the police.

  'He's mad!' someone shouted, but all the hundreds and hundreds of people were beginning to hush.

  The man was singing.

  The police bore down on him, the R&Ws made as if to shove him away, but his voice soared, and both sides hesitated. I had never seen anyone so beautiful.

  He sang a single note, of unearthly purity. He made it last, for long seconds, and then continued.

  'Oh little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie.'

  He paused, until we were straining.

  'Above thy deep and dreamless sleep, the silent stars go by.'

  The R&W Bloc were still. Everyone was still.

  'Yet in thy dark streets shineth the everlasting light...'

  And now the police were stopping. They were putting their truncheons down. One by one they set aside their shields.

  'The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight.'

  More white-clad figures were appearing. They walked calmly to join their friend. With a start, I realised I was shielding my eyes. There was an implacable authority to these astonishing figures who had come from nowhere, these tall, stunning, uncanny young men. The white of their robes seemed impossibly bright. I could not breathe.

  Now all of them were singing. 'How silently, how silently, the wondrous gift is giv'n. So God imparts to human hearts the blessings of His Heav'n.'

  One by one, the police removed their helmets and listened. I could hear the frantic squawking of their superiors from the earpieces they removed.

  'No ear may hear His coming, but in this world of sin...' The singers paused, until I ached to have the melody conclude. 'Where meek souls will receive Him still, the dear Christ enters in.'

  The police were smiling and tearful amid a litter of body armour and nightsticks. The first singer raised his hand. He looked down at all the discarded weaponry. He declaimed to the Red and White Bloc.

  'You should not have tried to fight,' he said, and they looked ashamed. He waited.

  'You would have been trounced. Whereas now,' he continued, 'these idiots have disarmed. Now's the time to fight...' And he swivelled, and en masse, he and his fellow singers launched themselves at the police, their robes flapping.

  The helpless cops gaped, turned, ran, and the crowd roared, and began to follow them.

  'We are the Gay Men's Radical Singing Caucus!' the lead singer yelled in his exquisite tenor. 'Proud to be fighting for a People's Christmas!'

  He and his comrades began to chant: 'We're here! We're choir! Get used to it!'

  'It's a Christmas miracle!' said Annie. I just hugged her until she muttered 'Alright Dad, easy.'

  Behind me the crowd were shouting, taking over the streets.

  'That's the trouble with the Red and White Bloc,' muttered Annie. 'Bloody "strategy of tension" my arse. Bunch of anarchist adventurists.'

  'Yeah,' said a boy next to her. 'Anyway, half of them are police agents. It's the first principle, isn't it? Whoever's arguing fiercest for violence is the cop.'

  I was gaping, my head swinging between the two of them as if I was a moron watching tennis.

  'What...?' I said finally.

  'Come on Dad,' said Annie. She kissed me on the cheek. 'You'd never have let me go otherwise. I had to get you to walk here or we'd have been too early. Trapped like them.' She pointed at the still-staring prize-winners in Hamley's top floors. 'And then I had to run off or you'd never have let me join in. Come on.' She took my hand. 'Now that we bust through the police lines, we can reroute the march past Downing Street.'

  'Well then, it's the perfect opportunity to get out of here...'

  'Dad,' she said. She looked at me sternly. 'I couldn't believe it when you won that prize. I never thought I'd have a chance to be down this way today.'

  'Someone grabbed you,' I said.

  'That was Marwan.' She indicated the young man who had spoken. 'Dad, this is Marwan. Marwan, this is my dad.'

  Marwan smiled and shook my hand politely, shifting his placard. MUSLIMS FOR CHRISTMAS, it said. He saw me reading it.

  'It's not that much of a big deal for me,' he said, 'but we all remember how this lot came out for us when Umma plc tried to privatise Eid. That meant a lot, you know. Anyway...' he looked away shyly. 'I know it's important to Annie.' She gazed at him. Ah, I thought.

  'Marwan's handfulofflowers, Dad,' she was saying to me. 'Off the internet.'

  'Look, I have to tell you I'm pretty annoyed about all this,' I said. We were getting close to Downing Street now. Marwan had said goodbye at Trafalgar Square, so it was just the two of us again, along with 10,000 others. 'I bought you, I, I've lost a lot of, there's a big present in that party...'

  'To be honest with you, Dad, I don't really need a new console.'

  'How did you know...?' I said, but she was continuing.

  'The one I've got is fine. I mostly use it for strategy games anyway, and they're not so power-hungry. Besides, I've got all the pinkopatches in my machine. It would be a pain in the arse to transfer them, and downloading them again is too risky.'

  'What patches?'

  'Stuff like Red3.6. It converts a bunch of games. Turns SimuCityState into RedOctober. Stuff like that. I'm already up to level 4. The end of level baddy's a Tsar. As soon as I can work out how to get past him I'll have got to Dual Power.'

  I gave up even trying to follow.

  At the entrance to the prime minister's residence was a huge Christmas Tree™, in white and silver. Everyone began to jeer as we approached. The army were guarding it, so people made sure the booing was good humoured. Someone threw Christmas pudding, but everyone sorted him out sharpish.

  'That's not what Christmas looks like!' we all shouted as we went past. 'This is what Christmas looks like!'

  As the skies darkened, the crowd was beginning to thin a bit, before the police could regroup. We went through a contingent all in red bandanas, and joined in with their singing. 'Deck the halls with boughs of holly, tra la la la laaa, la la la la. Tis the Season for the Internationale, tra la la la laaaa...'

  'Still,' I said, 'I'm a bit sorry you didn't get to see the party.'

  'Dad,' said Annie, and shook me. 'This was the best Christmas ever. Ever. OK? And it was so lovely to have it with you.'

  She looked at me sideways.

  'Have you guessed yet?' she said. 'What your present is?'

  She was staring at me, very seriously, very intensely. It made me quite emotional.

  I thought of everything that had happened that day, and of my reactions. Everything I'd been through and seen-been a part of. I realised how different I felt now than I had that morning. It was an astonishing revelation.

  'Yes...' I said, hesitantly. 'Yes, I think I have. Thank you, my love.'

  'What?' she said. 'You've guessed? Shit.'

  She was holding out a little wrapped package. It was a tie.

  Jesse Bradley

  1 SAMUEL 17

  "YOU’RE NOT STRONG enough to load a crossbow, James."

  "Bullshit, look at these guns." I flex, my biceps barely pitching a canopy.

  "Those guns got nothin but blanks. Why do you do this every year to yourself?"

  Ever since I caught mommy kissing Santa Claus when I was nine, I wanted to reclaim her honor. I thought if I was good all year, I could ask for things that would help take him out the next year. The AirSoft rifle came as a ten-speed, the slingshot, a pair of Hulk hands. This year, I joined up with the FCA chapter at school; being tight with football and Jesus is like finding a magic lamp, except John the Baptist comes out and grants you one wish and that one wish has to be made in America, the product not the wish itself.<
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  "James, there's no Santa Claus, and there's no crossbow under the tree. Look."

  "Ben, there's a Santa Claus, and he's gonna to give me a crossbow this year. I'm gonna wound him, kill one of his reindeer, feed it to him. I'll eat the pieces he salts with his tears." Ben punches me in the arm.

  "What the fuck!"

  "I hope that's your crossbow loading arm, you dumb shit."

  I realized Santa's not dumb enough to give you weapons you might use against him when he left me sweaters, jeans, a black leather wallet last Christmas. Four stockings filled with candy canes and stale Christmas tree cookies slap against my back as I climb the oak tree facing my roof. Hanging out with the FCA taught me you kill legends with faith.

  I settle myself on a branch, twirl the first stocking until the shrapnel eats its way through, spilling everywhere. The second stocking smacks the gutter. My mom looks through the window, doesn't see me through the branches. The third stocking hits the roof, shatters. I sit and wait, imagine myself twirling the stocking, slivers of candy cane puncturing his lungs, the glitter of the stale Christmas tree cookies choking him; I made sure it matched the same lipstick my mother left on his mouth.

  Ty Schwamberger

  HUNG WITH CARE

  THE NEWLY FALLEN snow crunched under his black boots as he walked towards the next house. This one wasn’t quite as nice looking as the previous residence he had visited, but he was sure there would still be some nice little boys, or maybe even girls, that had been good enough all year to deserve a bountiful helping of Christmas presents. He disappeared for a moment behind a large pine tree nestled beside the house and paused. He looked through the pointy, green needles of the tree and out into the street.

  Not a creature is stirring… He smiled and then continued on his way.

  Ducking into a deep shadow by the side of the house, he rose up on his tiptoes and looked through the snow covered window. No, it wasn’t real snow. He could tell that easily enough. It had come from one of those aerosol spray cans that contained that fake, white sticky stuff that clung to windows during the season of ever-lasting joy. At first it was hard for him to see in, so he took one mitted-hand off the big, red sack he was carrying on his back and gently placed it upon the window. He slid his hand back and forth a few times until the condensation on the outside of the window disappeared and he was able to gaze inside.

  The stockings are hung by the chimney with care… He then repeated the next line, silently this time, deep inside his soul, then smiled. God, did he love this time of year.

  As he pushed the window up into its frame, smiled, and wondered if it was a Christmas miracle that this particular house’s window hadn’t been secured as all the others. Not that it really mattered; by chimney, by magic key through the front door, or climbing through an unlocked window he had never been denied getting into a house on the Eve of the most wondrous day of the year.

  He flung the heavy sack off his back and tossed it through the open window.

  He then pushed himself up and onto the window sill, then followed the sack full of goodies into the nice, warm house.

  * * *

  After struggling to pick his rotund self up off the floor, he huffed a few times, and went to the open window and dropped it back into place. He wasn’t sure why he did it, but then reached up and slid the lock into place. He then turned around and took a nice, long look around the cozy living room.

  The first thing he noticed was that the fireplace still had some glowing embers. He slowly walked over, bent down, and stuck his still-mitted hands under the hearth. Even though the fire wasn’t roaring anymore with hot delight, it still provided enough warmth to seep through the heavy, black gloves and reach his almost-frostbit hands.

  After all, it had been a hell of a long night already and just the thought that he was really just getting started made him feel exhausted. But, this was his chosen profession, one he had made many, many years ago, so he felt like cold or no cold, it was his duty to carry out what he promised himself oh so long ago.

  After crouching by the almost-dead fire for a few minutes, he slowly stood up and stretched his red, fur covered arms over his stocking-covered head. He then turned around and took a long look at the rest of the room. The decorations included: snowmen, igloos, polar bears, angels, and even a figurine of himself. Santa. His belly shook like a bowl full of jelly, but he didn’t make a sound. He couldn’t. Oh, no.

  Not with the children nestled all snug in their beds…

  He smiled, again. Then hoped against hope his hunch was right.

  Leaving his already full sack on the floor, he proceeded out of the living room, towards the staircase leading upstairs to the family’s bedrooms, but not before picking up a gingerbread cookie from a Christmas tree plate, and biting the little man’s head off.

  He wanted to laugh through his cookie filled teeth, but knew he couldn’t.

  He didn’t want to wake anyone, especially the parents…

  Who had just settled their brains for a long winter’s nap.

  The word ‘nap’ made him laugh, again, but this time he couldn’t keep it in.

  As pieces of cookie flew out of his snapping jaws and hit his boots, he started up the stairs.

  He paused for a moment at the top, pulling out a long, curved knife from the sheath buckled to his wide, black belt and then started down the dark hallway.

  His first stop was the parent’s room.

  Then, no matter if they had been good or bad, it was off to the kid’s room to slice and dice them and make himself all glad.

  * * *

  “Jerry…Jerry. Wake up. I think I heard something.”

  The balding father rolled over onto his back, stifled a last snore and mumbled, “Huh. What. What did you say, dear?”

  “I said, I think I heard something, or someone, downstairs.”

  “Ah geez, Helen. It’s probably just the long limbs of the pine hitting the side of the house. I promise, first thing tomorrow morning after the kids have opened their presents that I’ll bundle up and finally go out there and cut a few limbs back, okay? Now, please, let me get some more sleep. You know as well as I do that the kids will be up at the ass-crack of dawn and running in here to jump on the bed to wake us up.” Then, still half asleep, the husband and father rolled back onto his side and started snoring again.

  The wife and mother mumbled, “But…” then stopped from saying anything else. Sure, her husband was a kind and loving man but even he had his limits. Especially if she woke him in the middle of the night, like she often did, for a noise that she ‘heard’ downstairs or outside the house. Each and every time in the past that she had nagged until he had gotten out of bed and went downstairs or out into the cold to investigate—it turned up nothing. So, this time, since it was Christmas Eve and all, she decided to keep her mouth shut.

  After deciding not to bother her husband any longer, she lay back down onto her pillow and closed her eyes. She was about to drift off when she heard something, again, closer this time than before. For the life of her it had sounded like it was coming from the hallway outside their bedroom door. Helen knew she if she didn’t have her husband take a look, pissed as he might get, she would never be able to fall back asleep and it would ruin her chances of being rested enough for a day full of opening presents, the kids running this way and that around the house while playing with their multitude of new toys, or cooking their annual Christmas Day feast. Finally, after thinking about it for another minute or two, and ‘hearing’ another sound out in the hallway, she rolled onto her left side, placed a hand on her husband’s shoulder and gave it a soft shake.

  He rustled in his sleep but didn’t wake.

  She leaned over, knowing one sure fire way to stir him whether he was sleeping or just acting dead, and started to nibble on his ear. Just as she expected, he let out a soft, low moan.

  “Hummm… Well, now. I think I can be persuaded to get up for something like this, dear.” He then rolled onto his
back again and reached for Helen’s…

  He heard the creaking of the bedroom door being opened.

  “Damn kids,” he mumbled, giving his wife a quick kiss and then quickly sitting up in bed. Through the dark, he said in a deep voice, “I told you kids to stay in bed, if nothing else, until the sun is above the horizon.” He paused, looking at the clock on his nightstand and seeing it wasn’t even 3:00 am, yet. He then turned back to the fully-opened door and shouted, “Hey! What did I tell you damn kids, huh? I told you to…”

  His words were cut short as a sharp blade was quickly and precisely drawn across his neck. Blood spurted onto his attacker and his wife.

  Helen began to scream, but it was only for a moment, as a giant shadow suddenly leapt through the air, smashing on top of her, making the air in her lungs burst out.

  Helen lay under the rotund man and thrashed this way and that. She felt something poke in between her legs, but the thoughts of being raped quickly dissipated as she felt something cold and sharp against the side of her neck. She wanted to scream, again, but the large man had already placed a large, smothering glove over her mouth. Finally, not that she wanted to, but knowing she had to, she opened her eyes…

  And said to herself, Oh my God, it must be St. Nick!

  Helen started to repeat a line in the famous poem over and over again to herself, Now dash away! Dash away!

  Above, she saw Santa start laughing. Then he said, “Dash away all!”

  Then he slashed Helen’s throat and her fright was never more.

  He then sawed off both the husband and wife’s hands, stuffed them into the deep pockets of his big, red coat and walked out of the room, gently shutting the door behind him.

  * * *

  Walking down the hall towards the sleeping girls’ room, his eyes twinkled with delight and he could feel his dimples, his cheeks full with merry. And, yes, his cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry, but that was from the blood that had splattered upon his face from Helen and Jerry (not that he knew or even cared to know their names). As he wiped the dripping knife blade off on his fur covered right leg, he brought up his other arm and mopped up his face. He smiled, again, knowing he had just done the world some justice—teaching people, especially the ones that acted like good model citizens, with their expensive cars and homes (not that this particular family had either of those luxuries, but that really didn’t matter in his faltering mind at this point), when they were anything but. Besides, he was St. Nick, Santa Claus, goddammit, and it was his job to check off on his list who was naughty or nice.