Thank God for Reindeer

(c) 2012 Casey Peterson

Thank God for Reindeer

 Casey Peterson

Dick is really zonked. He’s sprawled on a beanbag chair as the room swivels with the pulse of the space heater. To counter the heat, he wills himself someplace cold, where his testicles retract and refuse to come back out until he gets warm.

Suddenly Dick’s outside of a half-buried Quonset in the North Pole. He’s spread eagle in the snow, a fallen angel stripped of his wings.

And who’s this? Ho ho ho! It’s Santa Claus! Dick’s Father Christmas, however, is no festive elf. This Papa Noel is a gnarled troll. The grey beard cannot hide his rotten, broken teeth. His eye (yep, eye singular) is an angry yellow. The cavity of his missing eye is not covered, but weeps a steady drip of green pus. Saint Nick is in full costume: a red leather coat and hat lined with matted fur, snakeskin boots, and red, assless chaps.

Dick is ushered into the Quonset. He’s stripped of his clothes by two sallow elves.  Santa watches lewdly as Dick is undressed. Don’t feel so vulnerable Dick: He sees you when you’re sleeping, he knows when you’re awake, suffice to say that Kringle has seen you naked before.

Kringle hobbles deeper into the Quonset. Dick follows, overwhelmed by the stink of stale blood and tears. The building houses table after table of elves chained to elves working on products for this year’s Christmas bounty. Forget the bright-eyed elves who dream of dentistry. These elves are ruddy and meek. Downtrodden.

Dick coughs, tries to cover his mouth, but his hands are too numb and hang heavily at his sides. Don’t look now Dick, but your nose and lips… well they probably aren’t supposed to be that shade of indigo.

Now Santa wields a breadboard, but there’s no bread in this sweatshop, something must be running afoul!

Oh! The breadboard paddles Dick three times, once across the shoulder blades and twice on the ass. Dick reels on the floor, hands nursing the tingling sensation on his body.

The Claus grins his rotten smile. “For the circulation,” he says, “got to keep the blood flo-ho-ho-wing.”

Saint Nick helps Dick to his feet and escorts him to a table. Dick takes a seat. No Dick! Now they’ve got you! Shackles are clamped on his ankles and wrists. A hammer is grafted to his hand and a pile of blocks and pegs appear on the table before him.

Dick freaks out. He pulls at his chains. Neck muscles strain. Ass grows sweaty. It doesn’t look like that’s going to work Dick: you’re all connected to the same chain.

But then Dick is Thor incarnate and that hammer smashes down on the wrists of his fellow elves. Their bones are peanut brittled from malnutrition. They smash loudly and spray bloody pulp across the table.

He’s up from the table, but falls flat on his face. Dick, you idiot, remember the ankles are chained too. So once again he’s got that hammer and he’s crippling each elf. Dick is free and it’s a mad sprint through the Quonset, and he’s leaping over tables and elves with breadboards.

Oh, shit. It’s Not-So-Jolly Nick. He’s not too keen on the crippling of a squad of elves. And that machete he’s brandishing probably ain’t for Little Stevie Arnold of Milwaukee either. Dick’s bounding for the door with Santa on his heels.

He’s a step away from the door when it blows open. A giant, buck reindeer! It scoops Dick under the armpits with its antlers. A quick flick of the head and Dick is straddling the reindeer. It pauses at the door just long enough to piss, but then bounds up into the starry North Pole sky. Dick pats the deer’s neck, thanking him for the big save.

But then Dick is tossed from the reindeer’s back and plunges, ass over teakettle, into a snowdrift. He’s in the middle of the arctic plain, nowhere near Santa’s Quonset of horrors, and up to his nipples in snow. Dick it’s time to head home.

Well, he’s still on that beanbag chair. Only now he’s naked and lying in a pool of his own urine.

And what’s that on his ass? Frostbite?