Lil' Fink's Christmas, Chapter 2

Santa must be destroyed

Mommy and Daddy still fast asleep. Silence throughout the house. No terrible creatures stir and especially not the mouse. Almost time for Santa to squeeze down into our chimney like a rat digested in a brick python. The Ol’ Jolly Wretch squirming and flailing right down into our ash filled fireplace to fill our living room with an embarrassment of gifts and candy. 

Ridiculous.

This year’s jam packed Lil’ Fink’s Christmas list¹ includes the most lovely and fanciful items: Red marine signal rocket flares, a sling shot, an Alice Cooper action figurine, a vintage book of white phosphorus matches, a 500 piece batman puzzle, a kid’s beginner chrome microscope kit, large candy canes, an inflatable Jesus…also nails, fire extinguisher, A.I. powered writing assistant software approved by the lazy writers association, a Ouija board, Hershey kisses, the original Ars Goetia manuscript, gasoline-filled-whoopee-cushions, a pet chupacabra, antique coffee mugs, camel wool socks, dollar bills from an alternate universe with Paul Reuben's face instead of Washington’s, a flamethrower for the overly festive Christmas trees, Reeses pieces and a copy of Mr. Palahniuk’s newest book “Shock Induction.”

Each year Santa provides me with every item I’ve scrawled onto my Christmas list no matter how naughty I am. While I can count on Santa to shower me with gifts of every type, my soft-spoken, school buddy, Lil’ Billy is not so fortunate for some reason. Each year Santa passes right over my ol’ pal Billy’s house without fail. Billy never gets anything from Santa. It seems to be a sort of twisted tradition. Santa doesn’t understand how Billy’s ripped and faded blue jeans just nearly match his black eye on the days he shows up for our class. Billy often times doesn’t have lunch because he says he’s not very hungry. I always make sure to pack extra tea and cucumber with veal sandwiches for Billy to munch on just in case he shows up. When I do see him, Billy always manages to eat something I share with him because it makes me happy. Santa-the-wretch never seems to get what I truly hold dear.

I just hate Santa so much. His is ruining my Christmas experience and he’s going to pay dearly. 

Nearly midnight. Where is the Santa-Jerk-Face? How does the rhyme go? “Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, I have yet to hear the sound of Santa’s clomping, fat, feet. Was there even a mouse?” Is that a scuffle and slap in the chimney I hear? Oh Golly, it’s time! Santa-the-jolly-wretch is here! 

Hidden behind the decoration-smothered staircase I listen as Santa flails as he squeezes himself down through the chimney like a plump, squeezed rat. Finally, Santa slams down into the bottom of our fireplace ash and wallows around for quite some time as he attempts to get to his feet. He eventually rocks back onto his heels like an overgrown toddler as he pulls himself up as the ash continues to billow around him After a pause Santa yanks his massive green bag from the chimney shaft. Heave ho, heave ho, ho, ho, ho.

What a horror show.

The only Christmas miracle witnessed so far is Santa miraculously and gracelessly jamming himself down into our dirty fireplace floor, face first. What a loser. I stare in wonder as Santa waddles towards our kitchen in order to nibble on the delightful laxative-laced cookies I personally baked for him. Nibble, nibble, nibble he does. After Santa makes quick work of the powdered cookies, he goes right to work underneath our majestic Christmas tree. Santa shuffles through his enormous, felted, green, bag and pulls out each and every one of my glittered and ribboned presents and places them under the tree. The pet chupacabra was a bit much for Santa to wrangle as my new pet attempted to bite off Santa’s hand through the cage. 

So cool.

Once he is done Santa wipes his brow and coughs out black ash. With a pause and huff Santa slowly ascends back up into the bowels of our chimney. I have to work quickly. I make a mad dash for my newly gifted flares, gasoline-filled-whoopee-cushions and flamethrower. As quietly and quickly as a bunny, I ready the flame thrower,  pad the bottom of our fireplace floor with gasoline-filled-whoopee-cushions, and break off the end of one of my new giant flares. Lit like a Christmas candle I hold the red flare up into the dark chamber of the fire place right below Santa’s butt.

Three, two, one. With enormous flash and ghastly bang, the rocket flare shoots right up. I drop the flare and dash back to my Christmas flamethrower to the beat of muffled-Santa-screams. I  grab Chewie the chupacabra and  I drop my dear pet behind me as I  quickly ready,  aim, and fire my flamethrower toward the gasoline-filled-whoopee-cushions nestled in the floor of the fireplace. With a pull of the tigger, fire, smoke and ash billow and swirl around and up the fireplace as Santa shoots out from the top of our chimney like a dusty, screaming, rag doll. Ol’ Chewie and I gawk with pride as we watch through our window as a fiery and glowing Santa ascends through the sky like the star of Bethlehem. 

Merry Christmas and Hail Satan!

1. Sling shot —@BornOfChaos13

An Alice Cooper Figurine —@NineteenSixty60

A vintage book of white phosphorus matches—@Animalfortstudio

Large candy canes — Birty Ditch

Inflatable Jesus…also nails— @killbyrobots

A.I. Powered Writing Assistant Software (approved by the Lazy Writers Association) —@TMMackz

Ouija board —@Amlere1

Hershey Kisses—@LoriDyann

The original Ars Goetia manuscript—@Amlere1

Gasoline filled whoopee cushions—@SatanicCrosses

Antique coffee mugs and a camel wool socks—@SergeyYurievich

Dollar bill from an alternate universe with Paul Reuben's face instead of Washington’s.—@cazouillette

Pet chupacabra—@stegowhite

A flamethrower for the overly festive Christmas trees—@lilmissoddball