Chapter Six - Big Wheel Keep on Turnin'

A cold wind started to roar in from the north as Cupid and Prancer stared down at the lifeless body of Santa Claus.

“What do you mean ‘dead’, Prancer?” Cupid asked.

“What do you mean what do I mean?” Prancer responded. “I mean no pulse, no heart beat, no breathing, no nothing. The big guy is kaput. No more. He is an ex-Santa Claus.”

Blitzen had walked up and heard the two reindeer talking. “Maybe he’s pining,” Blitzen said.

“Pining?” Cupid said.

“Yeah, you know, pining for the fjords. Santa’s Norwegian or something, isn’t he?”

“He’s not pining,” Prancer said. “He’s dead.”

“Isn’t there something you can do?” Fear had crept into Cupid’s voice and made it shrill. He gave Prancer a hopeful look. “Don’t you know CPR?”

Prancer thought for a moment. “Well, I know all the words to ‘Proud Mary’ and there was that one time the Elf Band and I performed ‘Born on the Bayou’ at the Mardi Gras party. Remember that? Man, that was great.”

“That’s CCR, you moron, not CPR!” Cupid shouted at Prancer. The fear in his voice had been replaced by anger. “You told me you were a trained medic.”

Prancer shrugged and backed away a few steps from the obviously agitated Cupid. “I am, sort of,” Prancer told him. “Last month I binge watched ‘E.R.’ and I’ve seen every episode of ‘Grey’s Anatomy’. That Patrick Dempsey really is dreamy.”

“Watching TV does not make you a trained medic!” Cupid’s voice was even angrier now. “Oh, dear God, we are so fu...”

“All right, settle down, dumb asses.” The voice came from behind them. It was Vixen and she was carrying a box marked with a red heart on its lid. “This is a defibrillator. We’re going to save Santa’s life.”

Vixen shoved the box into Cupid’s hooves and told him to hold on to it until she needed it. Then she went to the sleigh. She pulled out a large pair of scissors that had been tucked in her harness and proceeded to cut open Santa’s coat.

“Whoa! Whoa!” Prancer screamed. “Santa will kill you when he finds out you cut up his coat like that.”

Vixen looked over her shoulder. “It’s no big deal. He’s got like twelve of these or something.”

“But they must cost a fortune,” Cupid said.

“He can afford it,” Vixen said. “I heard that Santa is one of the richest men in the world, possibly the richest. He invested early on in Amazon and Apple, he’s got oil deals with Putin, and you know what else? Trump owes him money. That’s why Santa wanted to kill him.” Vixen turned to back to concentrate on cutting away Santa’s coat. When she was done the pasty white torso of Santa Claus was revealed.

“Is that a tattoo of Mrs. Claus on his chest?” Cupid asked.

“Sure looks like her,” Vixen said.

“She doesn’t seem to be wearing any clothes,” Prancer said. “And is that a whip in her hand?”

Vixen shuddered and said, “Let’s concentrate on the matter at hoof. Cupid, give me that box.”

Vixen opened the box, removed the defibrillator, then set it down on the floor of the sleigh. She grabbed defibrillator pads in her hooves and said softly, “I hope this works.” She placed a self-adhesive pad on the upper right chest of Santa, then the other pad on his left side, just below the breast.

“Clear!” Vixen said to the two reindeer.

“What does that mean?” Prancer asked.

“It means get your dumb furry asses away from me and Santa.”

The reindeer backed away. Vixen hit a button on the machine, looked at a reading on its digital display, then hit another button. The force of the shock lifted Santa’s chest temporarily. Then Santa lay still again. His eyes remained closed.

Comet came running up to the three reindeer. He was in charge of communications with the Claus Compound back at the North Pole. Specifically, his job was keeping Mrs. Claus apprised of the big guy’s whereabouts and behavior.

“Mrs. Claus keeps calling,” Comet said. “She’s wondering why we’re so late getting back.”

Prancer and Cupid exchanged glances.

“She doesn’t sound angry so much as worried,” Comet said.

“Tell her we had engine problems and Santa is working on it,” Prancer said.

“You know, she’s not stupid,” Comet said. “How is it that reindeer would have engine problems?”

“Well, then tell her we’re having reindeer problems and Santa can’t talk to her right now.”

Comet looked over at the sleigh. “Is the big guy gonna be all right?”

“I don’t know,” Cupid said. “Vixen is doing what she can.”

The wind stopped roaring, then died down altogether. All the reindeer were quiet. They didn’t move, so the sleigh bells didn’t jingle. It seemed as if the whole world was silent.

Meanwhile, back at the offices of the Pearly Gates…

Horace swiveled in his chair and looked across his desk at Santa Claus, who sat wordlessly looking up at the images on the screen.

“So, Mr. Claus,” Horace said, “do you still think your trusty reindeer have abandoned you?”

Santa shook his head. “I can’t believe Vixen cut that coat. I loved that coat.”

“More than your life itself?”

“Point taken. I can get another one, I guess.”

“You already do have others.” Horace smiled at Santa.

“That’s not true, and all that crap about oil deals and…”

“You do remember that we know everything about you.”

“Oh, yeah. Okay, I have other outfits. And oil deals. You know, Vladimir’s not such a bad guy to do business with. Just stay on his good side, else you end up disappeared. I like the cold, but Siberia is no place to live.”

“And your little lady seemed kinda worried about you,” Elvis said. “Priscilla was like that, too. Shouldn’t have let her slip away, but she had such a suspicious mind. We were caught in a trap…”

“I do hate to interrupt, Mr. Presley,” Horace interrupted, “but I believe Mr. Claus is ready to return to his home.”

Indeed, Santa Claus was standing, looking impatient. “I guess things aren’t as bad as I thought they were. I just get a little down sometimes, that’s all. Seasonal affective disorder, I think.”

“Are you sure it’s not your sugar addiction?” Horace asked. “Refined sugar in the amounts you eat it can affect one’s moods.”

“And let’s not forget all that hooch he drinks,” Elvis said to Horace. “All that white lightning’s not good for a man.”

“Yeah, okay,” Santa said. “When you two busybodies are done telling me how much I suck can you send me back down to Earth?”

“Of course, Mr. Claus,” Horace said. “Mr. Presley, if you would be so kind as to escort Mr. Claus to the transporter.”

“Sure thing,” Elvis said as he got out of his chair. “Let’s went, Santy Claus.”

Elvis brought Santa Claus to a small room. A young woman with short bobbed hair wearing an old fashioned aviator suit, sat in front of a control panel with numerous switches and lighted buttons. Just beyond that was a platform upon which shone a lone spotlight.

“Now, don’t forget what I told you,” Elvis said as he put an arm around Santa’s shoulders. “You’re getting a second chance. So be a little nicer to everybody. Be kind to the reindeer. They work hard for you, and so do all them elves you got down there slaving away. And show Mrs. Claus a little tenderness once in a while. She gets weary you know.”

“Oh, please,” Santa said. “I’m sweeter than honey to all those people. And show Mrs. Claus a little tenderness? She’ll take it as a sign of weakness and try to kill me.”

“Santa, remember what Horace said about us knowing everything about you?”

“Oh, yeah. All right, all right. I’ll be good.”

“A little naughty is okay once in a while,” Elvis said with a wink. “Just stay out of the North Pole Bordello.”

Santa let loose with a roaring “Ho! Ho! Ho!” as he shook hands with Elvis, then stepped into the spotlight on the platform.

“Okay, Amelia,” Elvis said to the woman at the controls. “Let ‘er rip.”

The woman smiled and said, “Okay, Elvis,” then began pushing buttons and flipping switches. Within seconds, there was a whooshing noise that grew louder and louder as the image of Santa standing on the platform grew fainter and fainter until there was nothing more to see. The whooshing noise stopped. Santa was gone.

Back on Earth…

Santa’s eyes shot open. He lifted his head and glared at the reindeer.

Santa tried to scream but found his voice barely came out in a hoarse whisper. “What in the wide, wide world of sports is going on here?” He looked down at his bare torso and his cut open clothing. “My coat? What the hell did you do to my coat? And what are these sticky things on my chest? What the hell have you flea bitten varmints from Hades been doing to me while I sleep?”

“You weren’t asleep, you big, fat ingrate,” Comet said. “You had a cardiac arrest and Vixen saved your life. You’d be dead without us.”

“You’re the ones who are going to be dead.” Santa found his voice was a little stronger now. “Hooking me up to a car battery and making me flop around like a fish out of water. When I get through with you guys, you’ll be nothing more than fresh meat for the timber wolves. Why, when I get the robots to replace you…” Santa stopped shouting because he was hearing a voice singing in his head: “We can’t go on like this…”

“Oh, yeah, you’re right, Elvis,” Santa said in a low voice. “I was going to turn over a new leaf and try to be a little nicer.” He paused. “Okay, okay, a lot nicer.”

Confused, the reindeer all looked around at each other. “Elvis?” Cupid muttered.

“I think the old man’s lost his marbles,” Vixen said.

“I don’t see any leaves,” Prancer said.

“You’re not very bright, are you Prancer?” Cupid asked him. Prancer shrugged.

Vixen pulled the pads off of Santa’s chest. Santa winced but said nothing, only grinned. Prancer and Cupid helped Santa sit up. Then Santa stood on wobbly legs alongside the sleigh.

Santa looked around at the reindeer surrounding him and announced, “I love you guys.”

Donner looked at Dasher, who was standing next to him. “Is he talking to us?”

“Must be drunk again,” Dasher said. “You know he gets mushy when he’s got a few bottles of gluhwein in him.”

“Yeah,” Donner said. “We probably shouldn’t have stopped at the Christkindlmarket in Chicago.”

“Oh, it’s not the gluhwein talking,” Santa said. “I’m a new man now. I promise to treat you all better.”

“You gonna cut loose with some of that oil money?” Donner asked.

“Heh heh, you heard about that, eh?”



“Yeah, we saw the report on CNBC.”

“I thought I cut off the cable television to your stables.”

“You did. So we stole your satellite dish.”

“I was wondering what happened to it.” Santa shrugged. “Oh, well, never mind. You can keep it and you’ll all get raises. I’m going to spread the wealth from now on.”

“Has Santa turned into a Communist?” Dasher whispered.

“Shut up, else he might change his mind,” Donner said.

Vixen helped Santa fasten his jacket for the flight back home. The reindeer got themselves hitched up again to the sleigh as Santa settled into his seat. Santa shouted out “Ho! Ho! Ho! On Dasher! On Dancer! On…well, you know who you are. Let’s do this!”

Reindeer, sleigh and fat man took off from the snow covered ground and into the clear night sky. In what seemed like mere minutes they landed at the North Pole. With ease and dexterity the reindeer pulled the sleigh into their hangar. Mrs. Claus stood off to one side, arms crossed, one foot tapping with great impatience.

Santa jumped out of the sleigh and ran to her. “Ho! Ho! Ho!”

“Don’t call me names,” Mrs. Claus said.

“I heard you were worried about me,” Santa said to his wife.

“You did?” she said as she glared at the reindeer. “Which one of them ratted me out?”

Smiling, Santa embraced Mrs. Claus. “It’s okay to show concern, Mrs.,” he told her. Then he pulled her close and gave her a great, big kiss.

“What has gotten into you, old man?” she asked him.

“Why, I’m filled with the Christmas spirit! On our trip I came to the conclusion that I need to improve myself. I’ll try to be a better person, Mrs. Claus, to you and the reindeer and all the elves as well.”

Mrs. Claus rolled her eyes. “What happened? Did you get visited by three ghosts or something?”

“No, but I did meet Elvis and a nice English fellow in a tweed suit. He had a movie screen behind his desk and we could see what was happening here on Earth.”

“Oooooh-kay.” Mrs. Claus furrowed her brows. “Were you smoking hash again? You know that gives you the craziest dreams.”

“Ho! Ho! Ho! No, Mrs. Claus, no hallucinogens. Well, okay, I had a little peyote, but just a little. Not enough to make me crazy.” Santa grabbed his wife by the shoulders and kissed her again. “Mrs., why don’t you go in the kitchen and start baking those cinnamon crisp cookies I love so much? I’ll be there in a little while.”

Baffled and befuddled, Mrs. Claus could do no more than simply look at her husband and wonder what was happening in that complex mind of his. “Okay, I’ll go start on the cookies. But bear in mind, sooner or later I’ll find out what you’re up to and then there will be hell to pay.” She wheeled around and went off toward the entrance to their house.

Santa smiled. In the corner of his eye he could see Jimmy, the elf union leader, striding toward him from the far side of the hangar. On any other occasion the sight of Jimmy, a rough and tumble elf from Detroit, would cause Santa to stop smiling, but not this time. Santa knew why Jimmy was here: the elves would go on strike now, the busiest time of the year, unless they got a pay raise. The elves had been working hard, and they hadn’t gotten a pay hike in, well, centuries really. Before the union leader could say a word, Santa said, “Jimmy, tell the elves they’ll get more money, and plenty of it. In fact, the pay raise will be retroactive to the first of the year.” Normally Jimmy was a constantly cursing potty mouth, but this news left him speechless. He was so surprised he didn’t even question Santa’s sanity. Jimmy walked away to tell the elves the news, his mouth still hanging open in shock.

Just then, a snowball hit Santa right on his big belly. As the snow fell away, Santa could see, and smell, that what hit him was really a ball of reindeer poop covered in snow. Santa brushed it off his tattered jacket and chuckled. He looked out the large hangar door. The reindeer were running wild in the snow, laughing, throwing snow poop balls at each other, wrestling, and playing all sorts of reindeer games.

The smell of baking cookies wafted over from their house. Santa turned and started walking to the home he had shared with Mrs. Claus for centuries. He thought of the many Christmases they had shared, and the hard work of the elves and the reindeer, and the good times at all the Christmas parties, and all the other joyful moments that filled his life.

“This isn’t a bad life at all,” Santa thought. “Heck, you could even say it’s a wonderful life.”

The End.

Chapter Five - Riding With the King

The man who stood in the doorway was tall, but not too tall. His hair was jet black and his sideburns grew down to his jawline. Oversized aviator sunglasses shielded his eyes.  The man wore a one piece jumpsuit, white, covered with gold sequins on the sleeves, the front of the suit, and up and down the bell bottom pants. The belt accessorizing this ensemble was wide and white and covered with gold eagles. It had a giant belt buckle with the letters ‘TCB’ emblazoned on it.

The man looked at Santa Claus.

Santa Claus looked at the man.

“Last Christmas I gave you my heart,” came from the speaker in the ceiling.

The man’s lip curled. Then the man in the white jumpsuit pulled out an automatic revolver that had been tucked in his giant belt. He fired a volley of bullets at the ceiling speaker. The noise was terrible and dust and bits of ceiling and speaker flew about the room. The song came to an abrupt end.

When the shooting started Santa was so shocked he stumbled backwards, away from the man in the white jumpsuit. Santa stood with his back against a wall, staring at the man with the gun until the firing ceased. Then he continued to stare.

“Bet you hate that song as much as I do,” the man said in a smooth, deep voice with a hint of Southern accent.

“Well, yeah,” Santa said, barely nodding his head because he was afraid to move too much.

“All right, Santy,” the man said as he tucked the pistol back into his belt. “We need to go upstairs.” He paused for a moment as if deep in thought. “Although we don’t really take the stairs. Hell, there ain’t no stairs. No stairway to heaven.” The man paused again. Smiling, he said, “You know, like the song. Get it?” He reached over and slapped Santa on the shoulder.

“Uhhmmm,” said Santa.

“It’s really an elevator. I reckon ‘Elevator to Heaven’ wouldn’t have been such a great song title.”

“Uh huh,” Santa said, just barely nodding again.

As Santa cowered in fear a thought popped into his head.

“You know,” Santa said, “you look a lot like Elvis.”

“Thank you, thank you very much,” the man said. “I get that a lot.”

“You mean because you dress like Elvis?”

“No. Because I am Elvis.”

“Yeah, right. And I’m Santa Claus. Oh, wait, I am Santa Claus.”

“See?” Elvis put a hand on Santa’s shoulder again and leaned in close. “You gotta believe.”

Then Elvis whirled around and said, “We gotta go now.”

“Where are we heading?” Santa asked.

Elvis struck a karate pose with his right hand pointing toward the door. “That way,” he said.

“Okey-dokey.” Santa no longer felt in danger but did think that Elvis’s screws might be a little loose. Still, going somewhere, anywhere with a half-crazed Elvis was better than sitting in an eternal waiting room. “Lead the way, Elvis.”

The pair, one man in a sequined, white jumpsuit, the other in a red velvet outfit with white fur trim, left the room and headed down the corridor. In the distance Santa could see elevator doors. After a brisk walk Santa and Elvis walked up to the plain, unmarked doors and they opened without Elvis pushing a button on the wall. In fact, there were no buttons to push.

They stepped inside the elevator car. A young man in a maroon colored uniform with gold buttons stood to the side, one hand on a lever. “Going up?” the young man inquired.

“That’s right,” Elvis said. “Goin’ all the way, baby.”

“Yes, sir,” the young man said and he thrust the lever down as far as it would go.

The elevator took off with a whoosh. Santa sensed that they were rising and could feel his ears pop. At first, no one said anything. Then Santa ventured a thought. “Seems like a long ride.”

Elvis nodded. “It’s a long way to the top. But that’s where we gotta go to get this straightened out.”

“Get what straightened out?” Santa asked. “Listen, what is all this? What’s going on?”

“What’s going on?” Elvis chuckled. “You were waiting.”

“Yeah, I know I was waiting.” Santa’s cheeks were rosy again. “What was I waiting for? What was that place?”

“Oh, they used to call that purgatory. Now we just call it the Waiting Room.”

Santa’s eyes widened. “Purgatory? I’m not sure I belonged there. Don’t you have to be, you know…”

“Catholic? No, turns out purgatory was for everybody.”

“I meant…”

“Doesn’t matter. You didn’t belong there. We’ll get this squared away right quick.”

Santa was staring at Elvis again. “Listen, Elvis, nothing personal, but you’ve been dead for, like, forty years now. How is it that you came to be here, wherever here is exactly?”

“Gotta be somewhere. So I decided to come here. I work here.”

“You work here? Doing what? Escorting people on elevator rides?”

Elvis shot Santa a sidelong glance and grinned. “You’re funny, man. Yeah, that’s me, an elevator escort. Naw, man, I’m a guardian angel. Matter of fact, I’m your guardian angel.”

“Oh, shit,” Santa thought. “That explains a lot about my life.”

Just then the elevator operator began to hum a familiar tune. Elvis glared at him. Then the operator began to sing in a low, thin voice. “Last Christmas, I gave you my heart…”

Elvis reached for his pistol. Santa put a hand on Elvis’s arm and shook his head. Elvis let go of his gun and shrugged. “Hey, fella,” Elvis said to the operator, “how about a different tune? ‘Blue Christmas’ maybe?”

The operator shook head. “Not familiar with that one.”

“Not…” Elvis spluttered.

“Just messing with you, Elvis,” the operator said and then he began sing. “We’ll have a blue, blue Christmas without you.”

Elvis joined in while Santa stood there appreciating the spectacle of being able to see Elvis Presley sing his hit Christmas song up close and personal. But all the while he was also wondering just what the hell was happening to him.

By the time the song was over the trio had arrived at their destination. The elevator operator pulled the lever to an upright position, then pulled on another, smaller lever. The elevator doors opened to reveal a large, open room with light streaming through a glass paneled ceiling. There were many workstations scattered throughout the room.  All had large computer screens being watched by men and women sitting in comfortable, ergonomic chairs. There was a hum of activity in the air, as well as the sound (and vision) of Christmas music coming from monitors placed throughout the room. It was that time of year and holiday videos played non-stop.

Elvis led Santa Claus through the large room. Many people looked up from their work to shout out a greeting to Elvis and his companion. Elvis would acknowledge them with a wave or a finger point as he swaggered by their desks. Suddenly, he froze so abruptly Santa bumped into his backside.

With a grimace, Elvis turned to stare at a computer monitor standing on a small table. It was a video of a man singing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” on a TV variety show from the 1970s. Without saying a word, and with great speed, Elvis pulled the handgun from his belt and emptied its ammunition clip into the monitor. Sparks flew, as did shards of glass and plastic.

Laughter and applause came from all over the room. “Gets him every time,” one of the workers said to another.

“What the hell was that all about?” Santa asked Elvis.

“It was Robert Goulet,” Elvis replied. “I hate Robert Goulet.”

“You could have just asked them to turn it off.”

“Yeah, right,” Elvis said. He leaned in close. “Everybody likes the fireworks. They like seeing ol’ Elvis lose it once in a while. Gives ‘em a thrill.” He secured the gun in his belt and said, “Okay, fun time is over. We need to find Horace. He’s the angel in charge of new acquisitions. I think his station is over yonder.”

They walked on a little farther until they came to a work station that was a little larger than most others. Here sat Horace Wensleydale. He was a large, balding man who wore a stiffly starched shirt with a bow tie, and a tweed vest and jacket. A silver tea set sat upon his desk. When the pair arrived, Horace stood and nodded at Elvis, shook hands with Santa, then motioned with his hand for them to sit down.

Santa was relieved to find two normal looking chairs, not the ergonomic things many people were perched upon. Even though everybody in the office seemed to enjoy their ergonomic chairs, Santa did not believe himself to have an ergonomic body. He preferred old fashioned sitting devices, with legs and backs and arms and cushions.

The big guy settled into his chair, as did Elvis. They both declined an offer of tea.

“Very well, gentlemen,” Horace said in an upper class British accent, “we shall get right down to brass tacks.” He looked at Santa. “Mr. Claus, we’ve made a bit of a mistake. I do hope you’ll accept our apologies. We can put matters right immediately.”

“Well, that’s very nice of you,” Santa said. “But to be truthful, I’m not really sure what’s going on.” Santa looked around and shrugged. “I don’t even know where we are.”

Horace turned his gaze to Elvis. “Did you not explain things to him, old boy?”

“Not so much, no,” Elvis said. “Got kinda distracted by that Goulet fella.”

“I see.” Horace turned his attention back to Santa. “Mr. Claus, allow me to explain. Where you are is the modern version of the Pearly Gates. Essentially, this is the gateway to heaven. Before entering the promised land everyone has to pass through here first, fill out some paper work, that sort of thing. You know how it is. Bureaucracy is everywhere, not just on Earth.”

“But where’s Gabriel?” Santa looked around. “Shouldn’t Gabriel be blowing his horn or something?”

Horace sat back and chuckled. “Oh, goodness no, Mr. Claus. Gabriel retired centuries ago. Now we use a holographic image of him. As I said, this is the modern version of the Pearly Gates.”

Santa frowned. “Oh. Well, I guess everything has to change with the times. I’ve thought about replacing the reindeer with robots. Mangy devils, those reindeer.” Santa’s cheeks got rosy again as he thought of their drunken antics. “Robots won’t raid my liquor cabinet,” he muttered. “Won’t try to sleep with my wife, either.” Santa shook his head as if to rid himself of bad reindeer memories. “So, Horace, you’re telling me I’m in heaven?”

Horace shook his head. “No, not quite, old chap. As I said, this is the gateway one needs to pass through before entering one’s eternal resting place. To be quite truthful, there are a number of people on the entry committee who aren’t pleased with your credentials. But that’s neither here nor there.”

“What do you mean ‘not pleased’?” Santa’s cheeks were really rosy now. “I’m freakin’ Santa Claus, for cryin’ out loud. I bring joy to millions of boys and girls all over the world every year.”

“Yes,” Horace nodded, “there is that. But there is the other side of the ledger, isn’t there? For example, there was that week you spent at the North Pole Bordello. You didn’t even call home.”

“Yeah, well, I lost my cell phone.”

“Yes, at a craps game in Las Vegas.”

“Vegas, huh?” Elvis said. “You ever see me perform there?”

“Oh, yeah,” Santa said, smiling. “All the time. Great shows. Those were the days, boy. Good times. At least what I remember is good.”

“And then there was that summer you rode with the Hell’s Angels,” Horace continued.

“Yeah, all right, I get the idea,” Santa said. “I’m not perfect. But who is? I’ll bet you there are a lot of people in heaven who spent a summer terrorizing small towns in northern California with a biker gang.”

“No,” Horace said, shaking his head. “There are none. But your heavenly membership status hasn’t been decided as of yet. And as I said before, it turns out you’re not eligible at this time.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You are not yet among the deceased. We do have rules here you know. No admittance to heaven without being 100% dead. Even being dead briefly doesn’t count. You’ve got to be in it for the long haul.”

“Then why am I here?”

“Bit of a mess. Our purveyors of the dead took the wrong Santa Claus. As it happens, there is a chiropractor in Michigan by the name of Santa Claus who was due for arrival here because of a massive heart attack, but our purveyors grabbed you by mistake. Faulty GPS. As I said, we do apologize. Now that we’ve settled that, if you’ll just go with Mr. Presley here, he will escort you to the transporter, which will beam you back down to Earth. You’ll be back amongst the frolicking reindeer and those mischievous elves in no time.”

“Hell no.” Santa crossed his arms over his round belly like an unhappy, obese toddler.

“Pardon me, Mr. Claus?”

“I said, hell no. I’m not going back. No way. Mrs. Claus hates me, the reindeer abandoned me, the elves and their union are nothing but a pain in the ass. Hell no. Not going back. You can’t make me. You try it, pally. I’ll sue.”

“Doubtful, Mr. Claus,” Horace said as he shook his head vehemently. “There are no lawyers here.”

Santa pursed his lips. “Oh, yeah. We’re in heaven.” He shrugged. “Still, not going back.”

“Oh, dear, Mr. Claus, you do seem to have an erroneous vision of your loved ones back on Earth. We can correct that.” Horace pushed a button beneath his desk. A large screen descended behind him.

“You think the reindeer have abandoned you? And Mrs. Claus? And the elves? Why, nothing could be further from the truth.”

Horace swiveled in his chair to look at the screen. Santa and Elvis cast their eyes on the screen as well.

Horace gestured with his hand toward the moving pictures. “Just look what’s happening there as we speak…”

To be continued…

Chapter Four - The Waiting is the Hardest Part

“Next.”

Santa Claus opened his eyes. He lifted a hand and rubbed his cheeks, then his forehead. His face hurt. His skin was cold and clammy but he felt warm, hot even, inside. His head throbbed and his mouth was dry.

“This is the worst hangover I’ve ever had,” Santa thought. “No, no, the day after I spent a night drinking mead with Shakespeare, that was worse. But this is a close second.”

“Next.”

“Who keeps saying that?” Santa wondered. He was in a room dimly lit by a lone fluorescent bulb hanging from a low ceiling. There was a dark wooden counter about 10 feet in front of him. Behind it stood a woman reading a magazine.

“Next,” the woman called out again without looking up from her magazine.

Santa looked around. There was no one else in the room.

“Do you mean me?” Santa asked. The woman didn’t reply or even look at him so he walked up to the counter.

“Name,” she asked, her eyes still focused on the magazine.

“Ho ho ho,” Santa said without sounding jolly at all. “Don’t you know me?”

“Name,” the woman said again.

Santa frowned. “I’m Santa Claus,” he said in a dejected, bewildered tone.

“Take a seat. Someone will call you in a minute.”

“But there’s no where to sit,” Santa said but as he looked to one side he saw that a chair had appeared. “Oh. I guess I could sit there.” When he turned back to face the woman, she was gone, and the counter was too.

Santa grunted. “Never drinking eggnog again. Definitely not with Blitzen.” He walked over and sat in the chair.

The chair was hard and uncomfortable, and hardly big enough for a man with Santa’s girth. He crossed and uncrossed his legs. He sighed. He tried shutting his eyes to sleep for a moment but sleep would not come.

“I wish there was something to read,” he said out loud to an empty room. Santa glanced to his right and saw a magazine rack where the counter had been. “Might as well check that out,” he thought.

The first magazine he picked up was a copy of Guns and Ammo from July, 1948. He put it back down. There was a issue of Time from September, 1964. “Not very timely,” Santa thought. “Ah, now there’s something,” he said as he reached for a tattered copy of Playboy only to find that most of the pages had been torn out. “Maybe I’ll just skip the reading thing.” He cursed the fact that he didn’t have a book with him. He had sworn years ago to always have a paperback in his jacket pocket but he never did start carrying one. He wanted to sit down again but found the chair was missing. “Swell.”

Santa turned around when he heard footsteps behind him. It was a woman in an old time nurses outfit: white peaked hat with a red cross on the front, white dress and clunky white shoes. She had a clipboard tucked under one arm and a fountain pen in her hand. Her lips formed the slightest of frowns and her eyes were a dull grey. They focused on the area all around Santa but not on Santa himself.

“Claus,” she said in a flat voice.

“I’m Santa,” he said.

“Santa Claus?” the nurse asked.

Santa resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Yes, I’m Santa Claus. That’s me.”

“Follow me,” the nurse said as she turned and walked away.

“Where are we going?”

“Follow me,” she repeated.

So Santa followed her.

The two walked down a long, dark hall until they came to a place where light streamed through an open doorway.

The nurse gestured with her clipboard in the direction of the open door. “Take a seat in here and someone will be with you shortly.”

Santa’s cheeks were beginning to get rosy. This happened when he was irked. (It happened for other reasons too but right now he was feeling irked.)

“What’s going on? Why am I here?” Santa’s voice sounded squeaky. “And just where is it that I am?”

“Wait here,” the nurse said, “someone will be with you shortly.”

Santa walked into the room. It was brighter than the places he had been before. There were two chairs and a desk. On the desk was a computer monitor and a keyboard. He sat down and heard the nurse’s footsteps trot down the hall, away from the room.

This chair was no more comfortable than the one in the last room. Santa fidgeted. He crossed and uncrossed his legs. He crossed and uncrossed his arms. He sighed, long and loud and often. Bored, Santa decided to see if he could get on the Internet using the computer on the desk. At the very least maybe he could find some games to play.

He stood in front of the desk and tapped some keys on the keyboard. The keys were just painted on. The keyboard was not real. Santa touched the monitor. It was hollow cardboard. “Okay, this is weird.”

The desk had no drawers so there was nothing for Santa to rummage around in. Other than the fake monitor and keyboard there was nothing else on the desk, no pen, pencils or paper. Santa decided to sit back down while he waited. He pulled the second chair closer and put his feet up on it. “Well, at least now I’m slightly less uncomfortable,” he thought.

Santa crossed his arms over the round mound of his belly and stared off into space. After a few minutes that seemed like hours music began to play through a speaker in the ceiling. The melody, the drums, it all sounded very familiar. It was a very ‘80s pop music sound.

Quickly, Santa recognized the song. “Oh, dear God,” he moaned.

From the speaker came the singing: “Last Christmas I gave you my heart, but the very next day you gave it away”.

“Aaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!” screamed Santa. “Oh no! Anything but that!”

Santa jumped up and tried to reach the speaker, but he couldn’t. He leapt on top of the desk (he was very nimble for such a big man) but still the speaker was out of reach.
“Damn it!” said Santa as he jumped down from the desk.

“Well,” he thought, “the song will be over soon enough.” Santa was right. The song concluded and for a few seconds there was a lovely silence. Then it started over again: “Last Christmas I gave you my heart…”

“Aaaaahhhhhhh!” He ran to the door and shouted, “Somebody help me! I can’t take it in here anymore!”

Santa looked up and down the hallway but there was no one in sight. There didn’t seem to be any other offices or waiting rooms or any other rooms at all.

“Help?” Santa shouted, more of a question than a plea. “Fire! Fire. Help. Anybody?” He looked up and down the hall one more time but saw no one nor did he hear any footsteps running to come save him from listening to Wham for the millionth time in his life.

“Nobody, huh?” Santa shrugged and walked slowly back into the room.

“What am I going to do now?” Santa wondered. “The reindeer have abandoned me, I can’t get in touch with Mrs. Claus, I’m stuck here in this eternal waiting room, waiting for what I don’t know. This is like being in hell.”

Santa’s eyes widened as the realization of where he possibly was sunk in.

“Oh no. Have I died and gone to hell?”

To be continued...

Chapter Three - No Stop Signs, Speed Limits

Santa Claus hung in suspended animation.

Light as bright as a thousand suns surrounded him.

A noise that sounded like massive tidal waves crashing against stone walls pounded his ears.

Gale force winds began to blow. Santa’s red felt hat almost flew off and his long snow white beard swirled about. The wind blew so hard that Santa’s face formed a grimace as his skin was pulled back.

Santa flailed his arms as he tried to grab something, anything to hold on to. But there was nothing.

Then he began to fall.

Down and down and down he went. Arms and legs stretched out, Santa formed a plump, red X as he plummeted through the formless light.

The wind screeched as it rushed past Santa’s ears. Somewhere in the distance, muddled by the roar, he thought he heard voices.

As he descended, Santa Claus began to spin in circles. He spiraled faster and faster, completely out of control. Then he became dizzy and his mind began to spiral as well.

“This is kinda like skydiving,” Santa thought. “Except I don’t have a parachute and I don’t see any ground to land on.” Santa thought back to when Blitzen had talked him into skydiving. When the time came Santa was petrified and Blitzen had to shove the big guy out of the sleigh. At first Santa was angry. Very angry. Livid with rage, you might say. But when Santa noticed the beauty of the land below him, he calmed down. The evergreen trees had a light dusting of snow on them; the mountains stood majestic in the distance; the clearing where he was to land still had green grass. Santa smiled at the sight of it all in his mind.

The voices Santa thought he heard before became clearer. He could tell now it was the reindeer, talking and laughing. He could picture them standing around holding cups of eggnog while enjoying one of the parties they had at the North Pole after all the toys were delivered on Christmas Eve. They began to sing Christmas carols. Mrs. Claus and some of the elves joined in. Santa didn’t like to sing so he just watched and listened. He enjoyed that.

Santa always enjoyed the parties. It was good to relax after a hard year’s work of making toys, and then a very long night of delivering them to boys and girls all over the world.

The downward spiral of Santa Claus continued, but he wasn’t paying attention to his descent. No worries. He gave it no thought at all. He was busy looking at the pictures in his mind.

All those Christmas Eves with the reindeer. Gosh, they worked hard, pulling that sleigh with me in it. I could probably stand to lose a few pounds. Might make their job easier. They had to be so strong, especially flying into the face of hurricane winds or during blizzards. The blizzards were tough on them. The blinding snow. Didn’t matter. We could still land. Good radar. The crawl down the chimneys. The little ones fast asleep by the trees decorated for the holidays. Plates of cookies and glasses of milk. Up the chimney again. Another roof. Another chimney. Ornaments on the trees sparkling in the light from the twinkle in Santa’s eyes. Up the chimneys. Down the chimneys. Rooftops. Snow. Sleet. Rain. Wind. Toys. Cookies. Milk.

Snowsleetrainwindicehailcoldsnowsleetrainwindicehailcoldornamentstoysboysgirls.

Santa smiled at the remembrance of it all. Every last moment of it. Every last moment.

As he fell Santa began to spin so quickly he became a blur.

His mind went blank.

The light was gone.

The noise was gone.

There was now only darkness, a silent darkness.

To be continued...

Chapter Two - Surrender to the Void

Santa Claus was flat on his back, staring up at...nothing. Darkness surrounded him. He knew his eyes were open, yet all he saw was black. No dark blue night sky above, just blackness. He turned his head to the right, then to the left. The same. Just black.

“I must be dreaming,” he thought, yet he felt awake. Sort of. Awake and asleep at the same time. He also felt weightless, which was actually kind of nice. Santa was getting tired of lugging all that weight around.

Without the usual effort and strain Santa sat up. “Hey! I can see myself. Excellent.” It was true. He could see the end of his long white beard which rested upon the mound of his large, round belly. The red of his suit, with its bright white trim, stood in stark, colorful contrast to the black space around him. Only his black boots seemed to get lost in their surroundings.

“What am I sitting on?” Santa wondered. He put a hand down, felt no floor or anything at all beneath him, but there he sat, supported by what?

Santa decided to stand. Again, he didn’t feel the usual strain of lifting his weight.

“Maybe I’m in outer space,” he thought. “Those reindeer really get off course sometimes. But how do we get back? And where are they?”

There was no sign of any reindeer around. No sight of them galloping in the distance, no sound of them bickering about who got them lost.

That’s when Santa noticed there were no sounds at all. Silence. Complete, utter silence. Not something Santa remembered hearing, or not hearing. His compound at the North Pole was always very noisy, what with elves making toys all year, banging their little hammers and talking and laughing as they worked; the clomping of reindeer hooves in their stable; Mrs. Claus swearing at him about something he’d done or said he was going to do but hadn’t.

In the place Santa was now there was nothing. No sound at all. The silence made his head hurt.

He wondered if he would hear his own voice if he said something. So he spoke.

“Hello,” he said to the void. He could hear his voice so he thought if there was someone or something out there, it would respond.

The void did not answer.

“Hello,” he said again in his loudest, boomiest, Santa Claus full of piss and vinegar on Christmas Eve voice.

No response.

“Swell,” Santa said out loud. “I don’t know where those reindeer are, but when I find them, that’s it. This is the last straw. They leave me stranded here in the middle of nowhere. I’m probably in some damn cave in Norway or something. They know I hate spelunking.” Santa looked around. “Who the hell am I talking to?” He sighed.

Santa turned around as slow as molasses in January. If there was something out there he didn’t want to miss it.

But all he saw was a dark void that stretched endlessly in all directions.

Or so Santa thought at first. Then he noticed a pinpoint of light a great distance from him. He also thought he heard a sound, low and faint, like what he would hear as a child when he held a sea shell to his ear on trips to the beach.

“Damn tinnitus,” he said. Then he squinted at the distant speck that seemed to be growing brighter and getting closer. “Is that really a light or am I imagining things?” Santa wondered.

He turned away from the light. “What the hell is happening to me?” he muttered. He rested his chin upon his chest and stared at where the ground should be. “Is this some sort of dream? Or a nightmare? Or maybe a hallucination? Did Blitzen spike my eggnog again? I warned him about that.”

Santa lifted his eyes to where the sky should be. His great white moustache and beard almost hid his frown. “If I’m drunk or high, I’ve got to come down and figure out a way out of here. And I’ve got to find those reindeer. If they’re still around.” He turned his head toward the light. “Maybe that’s them.”

The light was no longer a speck but now was a large round beam like the light at the front of a speeding train. And the sound, the whooshing noise, was getting louder.

“Blitzen and the gang should be here soon.” He nodded but still frowned. “Yep. Then we can go. Uh-hmm. We’ve probably missed Thanksgiving dinner. Vixen will be pissed. Mrs. Claus won’t be too happy with me, either.”

The light and the noise were closing in like a jet coming in for a landing.

“Yep. We’ll be able to go home.” Santa nodded again. “I just want to go home.”

With great speed the darkness that had surrounded Santa was replaced by the light. It was so bright that Santa had to squint at first, then hold up a hand to cover his eyes. The noise was no longer the gentle sound of the surf coming. It was now an ear splitting thunder like a thousand rockets exploding.

“I don’t think it’s the reindeer,” Santa said but he could no longer hear his voice. He tried to move, but found he was frozen in place.

“Damn it,” he thought. “What do they say? Get away from the light? Or go to the light?”

It didn’t matter.

The light came to Santa Claus.

To be continued...

Chapter One - Santa Claus Down

It was the dead of night and most rooms in the White House were dark. Santa Claus stood still in a corridor and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. He had brought his night vision goggles with him, but they had fallen out of the sleigh when his reindeer had to perform an evasive maneuver to avoid colliding with a flock of geese. Santa’s goggles were now in the depths of an ice cold lake somewhere in Newfoundland.

Satisfied that he could once again see, Santa moved with great stealth toward the President’s bedroom. With a gentleness that belied his great size, Santa placed a red gloved hand on the doorknob. It turned with ease and Santa pushed the door open.

The bright golden glow of the president’s bedroom stopped Santa in his tracks. For a split second, he thought all the lights were on. Then it dawned on him that this was not the case. The room was as bright as the sun because of the way it was decorated. The walls were covered in paper with a gold leaf design, the lamp shades were gold, the chairs had gold upholstery. Even the blankets and sheets on the bed were golden. And then there was the president’s hair. It was an odd shade of yellow not found in nature, yet there it was on top of the president’s head.

Slack-jawed and wide-eyed, Santa spent precious seconds taking it all in before he shook his head and snapped to attention. He turned his gaze to the president. The leader of the free world lay sprawled across the king size bed, a cell phone in a gold case gripped tightly in one of his small hands. He was sound asleep, snoring, with a light blocking mask covering his eyes.

Santa grinned. “This should be easy,” he thought. The big guy stepped to the edge of the bed and picked up one of the overstuffed pillows that was strewn about the bed. Gripping the pillow tightly at its ends, Santa moved closer to the head of the bed as well as the head of the president. He held the pillow above the president’s face. “Geez, he really does have orange skin,” Santa thought. He began to lower the pillow when there was a noise from behind him. Santa froze in place.

“Santa, what the hell are you doing?” It was Donner, speaking in a harsh whisper.

“Nothing.” Santa turned to face his reindeer. “I was just going to snuff this guy, then we can go.”

“Really?” Donner asked in a sarcastic tone. Reindeer were surprisingly good at sarcastic tones. “You’re going to kill the president? That’s brilliant.”

“Thank you,” Santa said as he turned back to the bed and raised the pillow.

Donner walked over and poked Santa in his big, round behind with the point of one of his antlers.

“Hey! Quit it!” Santa said.

Just then Blitzen walked into the room. “What’s going on in here? I thought we were going to get going.”

“Santa’s attempting to kill the president,” Donner said.

“It’s not an attempt if I actually kill him,” Santa said, “which I will do if you just leave me alone for a minute.” Santa’s cheeks were rosy; they always got rosy when he was flustered.

“No way,” Donner said.

“I thought we were just having a trial run for Christmas Eve,” Blitzen said. “No one mentioned political assassination. Listen, I just want to get back to the North Pole for Thanksgiving dinner.”

“Yeah, and I just want to kill this guy, so could you both shove off and let me do this?”

“No one move! Everyone keep your hands where I can see them.”

It was a voice unfamiliar to Santa and the reindeer, and emanated from a man standing in the doorway. He was dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and a dark tie. Oddly for a man inside a house, he was wearing dark glasses. In his right hand was a pistol, and it was aimed at Santa.

“Who the hell are you?” Santa asked. His cheeks were really rosy now.

“Secret Service.” The agent took a quick glance around the room. “How did you get in here? And how did you get these farm animals in the president’s bedroom?”

Donner and Blitzen looked at each other. “Who is he calling a farm animal?”

“All right fat man,” the Secret Service agent said to Santa, “drop the pillow, turn around, put your hands on your head, and walk backwards toward me.”

“Those are a lot of instructions,” Donner said. “He’s never going to remember them.”

“Yeah, he’s lost a lot of brain cells over the years,” Blitzen said.

“I’m not fat,” Santa told the agent. “I’m just merry. Very merry.”

“If by ‘merry’ you mean fat and drunk,” Blitzen said.

Santa glared at the reindeer. “When we get out of here,” he snarled, “I’m going to turn you into venison jerky.”

“Uh huh, I’ve heard that one before,” Blitzen replied while rolling his eyes.

“All of you be quiet,” the agent said. He seemed unfazed that the reindeer could speak. “I need to call for back…” Before he could finish his sentence, the Secret Service agent collapsed in a heap on the floor.

Astonished, Santa and the reindeer looked just beyond the unconscious agent to see Vixen standing there.

Santa’s cheeks were extra special rosy now. “Sure, Vixen gets to kill somebody, but Santa has to be good and behave himself. Phooey.”

“I didn’t kill him,” Vixen said. “I just rendered him unconscious with a Vulcan Death Grip, which, contrary to its name, does not kill, but merely incapacitates. I think. Well, whatever.” She looked around the room. “So, what’s going on here? Shouldn’t we get back for Thanksgiving dinner? The mashed potatoes will get cold if we’re late. You know I hate cold mashed potatoes.”

“I know,” Santa said, “just settle down.”

“Fat boy here was going to kill the president,” Blitzen said, gesturing with a hoof towards Santa.

“What?” Vixen cried. “No one’s killing anybody. We’re going back to the North Pole and we’re going now.”

“But…” Santa said.

“Now,” Vixen said in her mommy voice. She was the only person other than Mrs. Claus who could speak to Santa in that manner and get away with it. “Now, I said. Santa…”

Vixen didn’t need to finish her sentence before Santa began to move. Vixen stepped to one side as Santa walked past her, Donner and Blitzen following behind.

“Santa, you’re not stealing that pillow are you?” Vixen asked.

“I thought I would keep it for a souvenir,” he replied. “It’s not every day you get to visit the White House.”

“Fine, whatever. Just keep moving.”

The group swiftly and silently ascended a semi-secret stairway to the roof where the rest of the reindeer sat waiting with Santa’s sleigh.

“Hey, where you been?” Dasher asked. “Isn’t it time for us to dash away, dash away, dash away all?”

“You know,” Dancer said to him, “you don’t need to keep using the word ‘dash’ just because your name is Dasher.”

“Yeah, well, dash you,” Dasher responded.

“Everybody shut up,” Santa shouted, “or I’ll replace the lot of you with robots.” The big guy threw the White House pillow on the seat of the sleigh and lowered his sizable keester down upon it. With a hand he swept the air in front of his face. “Have you varmints been eating beans again? I told you about that. Yecch. Idiots.”

Santa grabbed the reins in his hands. “Are we ready?” his voice boomed at his reindeer.

“Yes!” was the collective cry.

“All right then! Hi ho Silver, away!” The reindeer didn’t move. “No, that’s not right. Up, up and away in my beautiful balloon!” The reindeer turned to look at Santa. He stared back at them. “Can we just get going please?”

All the reindeer shrugged, took a few quick steps forward, then lifted off from the roof of the White House into the clear night sky.

Faster than the fastest jet, Santa and the reindeer sped toward the North Pole. While reindeer in general are a mischievous bunch, while working they tended to concentrate on the task at hand. While flying they would block any interfering sights or sounds. The only sound they could never block out though was that of Santa’s snoring. He usually fell asleep on long stretches of their flights, and his gasps of air were loud enough to be heard half way around the world, even from the great heights at which they flew.

This time though, there was no snoring. Santa was unusually quiet. Comet said as much to Cupid. “Yeah, normally his snoring makes the sleigh bells ring,” Cupid said.

Comet turned his head to see what the old man was up to, but instead saw an empty seat. “Maybe he’s lying down in the back,” he said.

“He’s never done that before,” Cupid said. “Perhaps we should land and make sure he’s okay. We don’t want the fat guy falling out of the sleigh. He never uses his seat belt.”

Cupid called out for an emergency landing and they set down in a field of hard packed snow somewhere in the Yukon Territory.

Cupid unhitched himself and walked back to the shiny red sled he and the other reindeer pulled through the sky. He peered in and saw Santa Claus sprawled across the floor of his sleigh. Assuming the big guy had taken way too many nips from his flask filled with ‘water’, Cupid proceeded to poke Santa in his big, round belly while shouting, “Hey, rummy! No sleeping on the job!”
Despite this, Santa Claus did not stir. Nor did he make a sound. Nor did he even seem to be breathing.

Knowing Prancer was a trained medic, Cupid called him to the sleigh. Gazing down at his boss, Prancer’s brow furrowed and his mouth formed a grim, straight line. He reached out and placed a hoof on the side of Santa’s neck. Prancer let out a barely audible grunt, then picked up one of Santa’s arms, and pressed his hoof on his wrist. After a few moments he let the arm drop.

“Uh, Cupid,” Prancer said as he turned to face his fellow reindeer.

“Yes?”

“Promise me you won’t freak out.”

“Uhm, okay.”

“I think Santa Claus is dead.”

To be continued...