Invasion of the Christmas Puddings

by Jeremy Strong

  ‘Raargh! Raargh!’ went Boo-Boo.

  TV Director Elf’s lower lip wobbled a moment and he threw down his clipboard. ‘Right, that’s it! I will not be threatened by a beanie monkey or told how to make a TV broadcast. This is my moment. I’ve been planning this for weeks and you’ve ruined it with your silly strutting. You’re a nightmare to direct. I resign!’ The distraught elf stamped into a corner, where he was quietly comforted by a friend.

  Bad Christmas looked daggers at him, sat down, composed himself and turned back to the camera with a broad smile.

  ‘Dearest people, I shall shortly appear before you to receive all my lovely presents. You are so kind, so thoughtful, and I thank you from the heart of my bottom. I command you to form an orderly queue and in two hours’ time I shall appear, seated upon my Christmas throne, and you may bring your gifts and come and worship me. Thank you so much, and goodnight.’

  ‘It’s daytime,’ muttered one of the elves.

  ‘Look out there,’ said Bad Christmas. ‘Can you see the sun? No. Is it dark? Yes. SO IT MUST BE NIGHT TIME, THEN, YOU STUPID IDIOT. STOP CORRECTING ME OR I’LL SHOVE YOU ON TOP OF THE CHRISTMAS TREE!’

  Bad Christmas took a deep breath, smoothed his hair and beamed at the other elves. ‘Was I good? Was I wonderful?’

  ‘Yes, Chief of Chiefs. Very good, very wonderful.’

  An elf sitting at Mission Control swung round. ‘Control reporting in. Father Christmas has now docked in Bay One and Big Chief Elf has docked the sleigh in Bay Two. Big Chief reports the capture of two further prisoners.’

  Bad Christmas gave a happy sigh. ‘Oh, goody,’ he murmured. ‘Such power. Such glory. Throw the whole lot in the laboratory. I must go and gloat over them. I do so like gloating.’

  In the laboratory Father Christmas had been isolated in one cage while the others were herded into a larger cell. Mrs Christmas gazed sadly at her husband.

  ‘He’s just not himself,’ she murmured. ‘It’s like he’s been hypnotized or something. Eek!’ She leaped back as Boo-Boo appeared right in front of her face, closely followed by Bad Christmas.

  ‘My dear woman, the word you’re looking for is “puddified”. He has been contaminated with Sticky Matter – the same Sticky Matter that I have used to make every Christmas pudding in the world.’

  ‘So that’s what happened to the others!’ Lewis cried. ‘They ate the puddings and got puddified.’

  Bad Christmas rolled his eyes. ‘Oh, hooray, you’ve put two and two together at last. It’s only taken you three days. And to think humans are supposed to be the brainiest creatures on the planet. A goldfish could have told you it was the puddings.’

  Here is our chief science explainerifier, Professor Bump-Pumbitt:

  ‘No, no, no! This is just silly now. A goldfish certainly could not explain anything because it does not have the right kind of vocal chords. As for humans being the brainiest creatures on the planet – well, I sometimes wonder. You quite wear me out with your constant questioning. I’m not going to explain anything else. In fact, I’m going home. Goodbye!’

  Amy gripped the bars of the cage. ‘Everyone eats Christmas pudding on Christmas Day,’ she squeaked.

  ‘I don’t,’ muttered Lewis, but Bad Christmas wasn’t listening. He was far too busy being pleased with himself.

  ‘Exactly, and now almost everyone on Earth has been puddified and they are all in my control – millions, billions, trillions. Isn’t it wonderful!’

  ‘You’re a maniac!’ shouted Miss Comet.

  ‘I do like it when you tell me off,’ chortled Bad Christmas. ‘Isn’t it fun being naughty, Boo-Boo?’

  ‘Are you going to leave the whole world zombified forever?’ demanded Mrs Christmas.

  ‘Let me think. Boo-Boo says YES! I say NO. Boo-Boo says YES! I say NO! So the answer is… YES!’

  ‘But you must have an antidote that removes the effects.’

  ‘Of course,’ repeated Bad Christmas.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Lewis.

  Bad Christmas raised his eyebrows. ‘Goodness me, you’re almost quite bright. Fortunately I am certainly not stupid; shan’t tell. Now then, must get on. Bring me Father Christmas’s lovely coat. It will soon be time for me to take his place and I shall collect all my prezzies. Oh, sweet victory! As for this lot,’ he added, gazing fondly at Miss Comet and her companions, ‘prepare to puddify them! Ho ho ho ho ho!’

  Will the whole world be puddified? Read on, before it’s too late!

  The elves had left the sleigh. They were definitely in the mood for food and were determined not to miss out. ‘I know what will happen,’ grumbled Big Chief. ‘The others will get there first and wolf it all. They’re pigs, that’s what.’

  ‘Yes, Chief, pigs,’ echoed three of the team. The fourth scratched his head.

  ‘’Scuse me, Chief,’ he began, ‘but if they’re wolfing it down then surely they must be wolves? If they’re pigs they’d be pigging it, but you said –’

  ‘Shut up!’ yelled Big Chief Elf. ‘Just for that you can stay on guard here!’

  ‘I was only saying. I mean, wolves and pigs, they’re different creatures.’

  ‘SHUT UP!’ bellowed Big Chief. ‘You stand right there and don’t move until I send further orders. Understood?’ The elf sighed and stood beside the sleigh, while the others went off singing and laughing.

  Inside his sack, Rufus heard the door slide shut. He waited and listened, but all he could hear was the shuffling of a reindeer’s hoof and the elf-guard grumbling about bossy Big Chiefs who couldn’t tell a pig from an elephant. This was useful because the mutterings gave Rufus a rough idea of the elf’s position.

  ‘Keep still and quiet,’ he whispered to Dylan and Freya, hoping they could hear him.

  Rufus slowly opened his sack and climbed out. He raised his head until he could see over the high front seat. The guard had his back to Rufus and was still mumbling to himself.

  Rufus grinned. All he had to do was climb over the seat, throw himself at the guard and overpower him. He lifted one long leg over the seat and then the other. Rufus moved forward, getting into a crouching position, ready to hurl himself upon the guard.

  ‘Anyway,’ the guard muttered, ‘they can’t just leave me here to starve. I bet there’s food on that sleigh somewhere.’ AND HE TURNED ROUND! In an instant Rufus found a Blatter-Splatter pointing straight at him.

  ‘Oh my, I’ve caught a big one!’ cried the delighted elf. ‘Hold it right there, mister, or I’ll puddify you. Big Chief is going to love me. Whoopee! An’ I don’t have to stand here no more cos I shall now have to deliver you to the big boss. Keep your hands in the air and climb down. Take it easy and don’t try anything. Now, quick march!’

  The elf prodded a crestfallen Rufus in the back and began to march him towards the door. The elf was only halfway there when a thunderbolt ploughed into his back, sending him plunging to the floor, desperately trying to fight off a mad Dylan, who was pummelling him. The Sticky Matter gun let off a blast and a stream of gunge shot across the chamber and hit one of the reindeer.

  Rufus threw himself into the struggle and between them Dylan and his father overpowered the elf. Rufus seized the weapon and, smiling broadly, he and Dylan high-fived each other. Freya stood on the sleigh and clapped them both.

  ‘It’s like being in a film!’ she cried excitedly, jumping down. ‘Can we tie him up?’

  Rufus shook his head. ‘He’s going to show us round the Death Pudding.’

  Freya suddenly let out a sad ‘Oh!’. She had noticed the reindeer that had been bombarded with Sticky Matter. ‘Look, she’s – weird. She’s alive but sort of not alive.’

  The elf sneered. ‘She’s been puddified,’ and he explained about Sticky Matter.

  ‘Surely there’s a way of depuddifying her?’ suggested Rufus, and again the elf sneered.

  ‘Only the big boss knows that and you’re going to have problems even getting to see him because there’s loads of us elves on board and
there’s only three of you and two of you’s little kids and it only takes one tiny drop of Sticky Matter and you’ll be puddified yourselves. I’d give up now if I were you.’

  ‘Well, you’re not us,’ snapped Freya. ‘So you can be quiet or we’ll puddify you!’

  ‘What do we do now?’ Dylan asked, glancing at his father.

  ‘I guess the elves have taken Miss Comet to Bad Christmas and he’ll be at the controls of this space pudding, or whatever it is.’

  Freya bit her nails anxiously. ‘What do we do?’ It was a question Rufus had been asking himself ever since the sleigh had been captured.

  ‘We must find Miss Comet and rescue her.’

  ‘What about the others?’ asked Dylan, and his father blushed.

  ‘Yes, them as well, of course.’

  Freya nudged Dylan and raised her eyebrows.

  ‘What?’ he answered and she rolled her eyes.

  ‘Nothing,’ she murmured, giving him an innocent smile.

  The elf began to laugh and shake his head. ‘You’re mad! Don’t you understand? This ship is crawling with armed elves. You’ll be puddified in seconds.’

  Rufus waved the gun at him. ‘We’ve got one too. Now, tell us, what do you use to stop Sticky Matter from sticking to you?’

  ‘We don’t shoot each other! What would be the point in that? There isn’t anything. I told you, once it sticks to you, you’re done for.’

  ‘We need non-stick armour,’ Dylan murmured half-heartedly, and his father’s jaw dropped.

  ‘What? Non-stick armour? What a brilliant idea! You’re a brainbox, Dyl!’

  ‘Dad, it was a joke. There’s no such thing.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ Rufus grinned. ‘You have given me a good idea, but first we must rescue Miss Comet.’

  ‘And the others,’ added Freya, nudging Dylan again.

  ‘Of course,’ muttered Rufus. He turned to the elf-guard. ‘Take us to the laboratory,’ he ordered.

  ‘You fools! You’re all going to die!’ hissed the elf.

  ‘Then you’ll be the first to go, won’t you?’ Rufus pointed out. ‘Go on – move!’

  Bad Christmas was almost delirious with happiness. He had taken an armed platoon with him down to Earth, but it was quite unnecessary. The world had done exactly as it had been ordered and there they stood – a long, endless line of silent zombies, holding their gifts as they patiently waited for Father Christmas to appear. And there he was! At least, Bad Christmas was there, wearing his brother’s red coat. He even had Boo-Boo dressed in a little red cap. He walked solemnly to the throne that had been specially built for this grand moment and admired it from every angle. He stroked its polished wooden arms. He caressed the plush back of the red leather seat, set between mahogany pillars, each one topped off with a carved Christmas pudding. Finally he sat down and looked at the snaking queue.

  ‘Dear, dear people,’ he crooned. ‘You are so wonderful. You may approach and bestow your gifts. Come, I am ready to receive.’

  One by one they came, each with a gift. Of course the gift had originally been for them. The presents still had labels saying things like:

  Happy Christmas to Jenny, from Uncle Bill

  For little Sam, with love from Mum and Dad

  This is for Alice, from her adoring hubbie, Jack

  Bad Christmas didn’t bother with the labels. He tore at the wrapping paper and pulled out the presents one by one. ‘A Barbie doll! Lovely! Thank you. Next!’ He threw the doll over his shoulder. ‘A train set! Whoo whooo! Thank you. Next!’ The train flew over his shoulder. ‘Ooh, Boo-Boo, look here – a red bra and pants. Just my size, hee hee! Next!’

  And so it went on. And on and on and on. You might have thought that Bad Christmas would soon tire of it all, but he didn’t. He sat on the throne, giggling with delight, opening present after present. This could go on for days.

  On their way to the laboratory the Rescue Team managed to overpower two armed elves, and trebled their own firepower. Freya held a Sticky Matter gun in both hands, gazing at it in disbelief.

  ‘Wow! This is amazing!’

  Dylan handled his weapon rather more gingerly. ‘I don’t like it,’ he muttered.

  ‘Pow! Pow!’ went Freya, pointing and pretending. Rufus looked from Dylan to Freya and back to his son.

  ‘You’d better watch out, Dyl, she’s dangerous. OK. Here we are. Ready? There could be a lot of guards in here, so watch out. Elf-friend here can lead the charge.’

  ‘But they’ll puddify me!’ protested the elf.

  ‘Then you’d better make sure they don’t,’ Rufus suggested. ‘Three, two, one – let’s go!’

  The team burst into the lab. Four startled guards leaped away from their desks and ran for their weapons but they were too slow. Zip! Zap! Zop! Sticky Matter criss-crossed the room and zombified them in their tracks.

  Rufus raced across to the cage and smashed it open. Mrs Christmas, the children and Miss Comet tumbled out. Rufus caught Miss Comet in his arms.

  ‘Oh!’ she gasped.

  ‘Goodness me, you took your time,’ complained Mrs Christmas. ‘Honestly, I have never had to play so many games of I-spy in my whole life. And Miss Comet wouldn’t stop asking about… Miss Comet, what are you doing? Ah. Yes, I see. Children, turn away at once. I think Rufus and Miss Comet are having A Moment.’

  ‘A moment?’ Lewis rolled his eyes and went to Dylan. ‘Huh. She’s done nothing but talk about your dad all the time we’ve been locked up.’

  Meanwhile Mrs Christmas had set her husband free, not that it did much good. His eyes were glassy and lifeless and he simply stood there in T-shirt and boxer shorts.

  ‘Don’t just stand there, jellybean. Do something! Hello? Is anybody in? Ooh, you always were an exasperating old walrus. Go on, then, you can stay there for all I care.’ But of course Mrs Christmas did care and she was already muttering to herself about finding an antidote. ‘Maybe it’s on the computer. Let’s have a look.’ She whizzed through files. ‘There must be an antidote.’

  ‘Nobody knows the antidote,’ sneered the elf-guard.

  ‘Oh, stop carping, misery guts!’ Mrs Christmas cried, spinning round in her chair and jabbing him with a knitting needle.

  ‘Aaargh!’ He leaped into the air, clutching his behind, and then ran whimpering into a corner.

  The others stared at her in astonishment. She shrugged. ‘He was getting on my nerves, quarrelling with everything I said. Honestly. Oh, look, here’s the recipe for Sticky Matter.’

  They gathered round and studied the list. ‘Molasses, raisins, flour, eggs, sugar, peel and, last of all, sprouts. Sprouts? And look, down here, underlined, it says, “DON’T FORGET SPROUTS, JUST IN CASE”. You don’t put sprouts in Christmas pudding.’

  ‘Huh, it always tastes like sprouts,’ said Lewis. ‘Revolting.’

  ‘There are boxes and boxes of sprouts over there,’ Miss Comet said. ‘I thought they were for feeding the animals.’

  ‘They can’t be feeding animals with them,’ said Amy. ‘These are all unopened.’

  Mrs Christmas tore open the top box and pulled out a sprout. ‘Time for a little experiment,’ she declared. ‘Now then, jellybean, I want you to eat this. It might do you some good. It certainly won’t do any harm. I’m sorry I don’t have time

  to cook it. You’ll have to eat it raw. Open your mouth. There. Stand back, everyone. Who knows what might happen!’

  Father Christmas chewed the raw vegetable. He blinked. He shook his head. He stretched. He stretched his body and yawned, as if he had just woken from a deep sleep. He noticed Mrs Christmas for the first time.

  ‘What are you staring at me like that for?’ he grunted. ‘Where am I? What’s going on? Who are all these people? What are these animals doing here? Why is that elf dressed like a tartan monkey? What are those children doing with guns?’

  ‘Stop!’ cried Mrs Christmas, almost crying with laughter. ‘Come here, you big bumbling bumblebag.’ And she gave him a huge
hug. ‘Do you know what the antidote to Sticky Matter is? Sprouts. You ate a raw sprout.’

  ‘I can’t have. I don’t like sprouts. I don’t like cooked sprouts, let alone raw ones.’

  It took a few minutes to put Father Christmas in the picture and he slowly grew more and more angry. ‘Right,’ he declared, ‘what we need is a plan.’

  ‘We already have one,’ Rufus announced.

  ‘Oh. Is it any good?’

  ‘It’s the best we can come up with. We’re going to have to storm the Command Centre and take over the Death Pudding. But before we do that we must visit the kitchen.’

  ‘Oh, good, I’m hungry. I’ve only eaten a sprout all day,’ grumbled Father Christmas, still finding shreds in his mouth. ‘It tastes horrible.’

  They slipped along the corridor. Carefully peering through the kitchen door, Rufus could see that the only elves in sight were three washer-uppers, busy at a sink. He sneaked inside and before they knew it they had a Sticky Matter gun pointing at them.

  ‘Hello!’ smiled Rufus. ‘Yes, do please put your hands in the air. Rescue Team, collect up every bit of non-stick stuff you can find: pots, pans, baking trays – the lot. Mr and Mrs Christmas, perhaps you could tie up this clutch of elves.’

  While the others hunted for non-stick cookware, Mrs Christmas finally gave up trying to stop her cardigan unravelling and used ALL her wool to tie up the elves – and very pretty they looked too.

  The children and Rufus got to work on converting kitchen equipment into armour. They taped baking tins across their chests and strapped frying pans to their arms and legs. They put saucepans on their heads. Father Christmas’s head was so big he had to use a stew pot.

  Rufus surveyed his strange army. ‘It’s time to take control. Follow me, troops.’

  It didn’t take long to reach the seat of power. As they gathered outside the Command Centre Miss Comet slipped a hand into Rufus’s. ‘Be careful, won’t you?’ she said. Behind them Lewis was pretending to be sick.