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...
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...
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