The Christmas of .44
I wake with a start, heart pounding in my chest
At a rat-tat-tapping on the roof
A heavy hammer slapping of boot
And the clatter-clopping drop of hoof.
It’s 2 ‘o clock in the morning
On this wintry Christmas eve.
Outside, a malevolence is stirring
That inside, I’m waiting to receive.
As my wife lay sleeping beside me
The children tucked into bed next door,
I reach up under my pillow
To grab my Magnum 44.
I stealthily make my way
Towards the downstairs family room
My trigger finger at the ready
Eyes adjusting against the gloom.
Dead in my sights, I come upon
A vision to give me pause
Bent over near the Christmas tree
The hulking figure of Santa Claus.
“Freeze, fat man,” the order I command,
His response the hollow timbre of a church bell,
“Son, the place I come from,
Is colder than the depths of Hell.”
With a speed and a grace
Defying his tremendous size
He twists, turns and blows
Pixie dust in my eyes.
Head spinning, vision blurring
My lungs heavy and compressed,
Blinded, delirious, I attempt to aim
When he lands a boot square in my chest.
Knocked to the floor, flat on my back
Defenseless and prostrate
My weapon is missing, trigger finger
Separate from its mate.
The icy gust of fetid breath
Engulfs me like a locker full of meat
His clammy paws around my throat
He pulls me off my feet.
A rumbling in his belly
Fuses into laughter
As a “Ho ho ho ha ha ha ha!”
Trembles up through creaking rafters.
“Little boys shouldn’t play with grown-up toys.
You deserve a spanking,”
He bellows, my airway constricting,
Body shaking with violent shaking.
He then produces from the mystic air
A combat-sized candy cane
My head a hockey puck, he goes for the goal
Once, then twice again.
My vision of the world through blood
And stars has gone all red and white
When from behind, a clumsy fumbling
Prepares to answer my plight.
“Put Daddy down,” comes the plea
Of my pajama’d three-year-old son.
Santa starts giggling against
The report of my trusted gun.
A single round between the eyes,
Not a bad shot at all,
Spreads good holiday cheer
All over the family room wall.
For how does one kill Santa Claus,
That unspeakable, evil force?
Why, a silver bullet through the brain,
Hollow-point, of course.
I pick up my child
And tell him, “Good shot, son.”
Hug him, set him down
And take back my gun.
I rummage through Santa’s bag
To see what I can give to the boys.
I find hand grenades, laser mines,
And a whole load of plush beanbag toys.
My kid cuddles one named Daisy the Cow.
Well, maybe it’s just a phase.
I’ll let him keep them.
What the Hell? It’s the holidays.
02/15/06