Reindeer Flames

REINDEER FLAMES

By G Quick

 

If I asked you to name each of Santa’s reindeer

You’d likely name nine, at the most,

But it might be surprising for some folk to hear

That the North Pole is home to a host

Of reindeer reserves, old guard and new,

Some surly, some bold and gregarious,

Others born different, their genes set askew,

With results that are often hilarious.

One particular case, the star buck of this tale,

You’d have to try hard not to notice

When you have the unfortunate luck to inhale

A whiff of this reindeer named Otis.

Otis the Odorous Reindeer, the impossibly strong-smelling stag.

The most minute toot, from his reindeer caboose, would make people tear up and gag.

 

Poor Otis was ostracised by his peers,

They were a constant cause of his woes,

But the worst one of all, self-titled “Head of the Deers” [sic]

Was that jerk with the red glowing nose.

Rudolph bullied Otis at each little chance,

He’d hurt him and make him look weak.

If he caught Otis looking, just a hint of a glance,

He’d shout out “Pee-Eeew! Otis, you REEK!”

So Otis was alone a lot, thanks to his powers,

He’d hide in a dark disused shed.

In order to get through those slow, lonely hours

He’d fart tunes which he wrote in his head.

Otis the Odorous Reindeer, the poor, friendless, foul-smelling buck.

Cursed with the most pollutant of rears, dejected and down on his luck.

 

According to Rudolph, that arrogant lout,

His nose could do more than just glow.

It was also a highly sensitive snout,

So he made sure that Otis would know,

That he could never join the sleigh pulling squad,

‘Cause his stench would disrupt navigation.

Rudolph mocked him, called him a miserable sod

And bemoaned the deer’s fragrant mutation.
Thus Otis was relegated. Last on the list.

The antithesis of the elite.

He’d never be called upon to assist,

And never fly front of the fleet.

Otis the Odorous Reindeer, disowned by all, even his mum.

No deer was willing or foolish enough to stand twenty feet from his bum.​​​

 

One lonesome night, Otis, as he often did,

Was practicing butt bossa nova,

When a curious elf, neither bolted, nor hid,

But, instead, wandered casually over.

He sat beside Otis, listened and smiled,

And Otis kept musically farting,

Despite each note being the opposite of mild

The elf showed no signs of departing.

So they sat together, an unusual pair,

A factory elf and a deer.

Otis was baffled why the elf was still there,

As he parped out a tune with his rear.

Otis the Odorous Reindeer, good natured, sweet and kind-hearted.

A volatile vessel of villainous vapour. When he cut the cheese everyone darted.

 

Otis’ buttocks fell silent, he turned

And insisted the strange elf explain

How he handled having his nostrils burned

Without buckling over in pain?

“It doesn’t bother me that you turn the air sour.

If I believed, I would say it was cosmic,

That our meeting was directed by some higher power.

You see… I’m the only elf here who’s anosmic.

I’d be very grateful if you would allow

Me to run a few tests and take samples.

I’m curious to study the gas you’re endowed

And compare it to other examples.”

Otis the Odorous Reindeer, a miasmic, miraculous creation.

A gaseous spray, passed through his arse, is a mace that could stop a whole nation.

 

So Otis complied with the odd elf’s request.

The elf studied Otis with vigour,

And assembled a harness and rocket-like vest

With a hoof-mounted ignition trigger.

He said “I’ve a fondness for all things flying,

And I’m beginning to suspect that you might

Have a backside with a strong, underlying

Talent for jet propelled flight.

So, please, if you’ll entertain the notion,

And don’t think of me as a dunce,

Take off and, with a gluteal explosion,

Break both wind and sound barrier at once.”

Otis the Odorous Reindeer, with his unique colonic cologne.

When ignited, his bum burned so fiercely that it could melt copper, steel and stone.

 

Otis took to the air. He pulled the trigger,

And let just a tiny one rip,

The force was of something much, much bigger.

And nearly dislocated his hip!

Magnificent flames burst from his booty,

Of searingly bright blue and green.

A truly bizarre vision of beauty,

The most tremendous fart you’ve ever seen!

Otis was FAST. A hypersonic steed,

Thrust forth by his butt’s awesome power.

Coursing through the air, at incredible speed,

Around the planet in under an hour.

Otis the Odorous Reindeer,  a noxious cocktail of flammable gas.

Flaming phenomenal pheromones, ejected with force from his big, furry ass.

 

When Otis landed the elf had left,

What remained was a helmet and note,

As Otis read through it he felt quite bereft,

Choked back tears, a lump in his throat.

“My deer friend, thank you and goodbye,

You’ve filled me with great inspiration,

To follow my dream of learning to fly

And pursuing a life of aviation.

But I have no doubts that we’ll meet once more

And fly side by side through the air,

An avian elf and a reindeer of lore,

Both fuelled by a deer’s derriere.”

Otis the Odorous Reindeer, purveyor of paint-stripping pong.

‘Twould be the ultimate understatement to say that his odour was strong.

 

All of a sudden a calamitous ruckus arose,

Somewhere over at the main stable.

Otis snuck in, not one to impose,

As Santa stood up on a table.

“Listen! Rudolph, that cavalier bragger,

Was trying to impress all the does,

And, SOMEHOW, with his foolhardy swagger,

Got a candy cane stuck up his nose!

So now we’re in one hell of a bind,

And just to add pain to the plight,

We’ve got no time to be running behind,

Because Christmas Eve is tonight!”

Otis the Odorous Reindeer, a stench so severely distinguished.

If only such pooey potpourri could be so acutely extinguished.

 

The crowd of deer murmured, but no one stepped out,

Nobody was keen to replace

Rudolph, with his world renowned snout.

The stag with the luminous face.

That is until Otis pushed through to the front,

Adorned with straps, buckles, and chrome.

He stomped a hoof and let out a grunt,

Custom built helmet perched on his dome.

He leapt into the sky, flames shot from his buns,

The most spectacular sight you ever saw.

Performing barrel rolls and obstacle runs,

He left every reindeer in awe.

Otis the Odorous Reindeer, I’m not sure you fathom the stink.

No matter how awful you might have thought, trust me, it’s worse than you think.

 

Santa said “Right. That’s sorted. Okay,

Tonight Otis is leading the crew.

Now, we just need to develop a way,

To protect us from his putrid brew.

No offense, Otis, but if I’m to be sitting

To the rear of that buttocks, I’d rather

Replace this delicate red and white knitting

With a suit better suited to lava.”

So suit up he did, and noses were plugged,

Otis placed at the front of the line,

To the air, the deer took, with the sleigh they all tugged,

With Kevlar sheaths on each tine.

Otis the Odorous Reindeer, a uniquely resilient and repugnant smell.

An acrid, aromatic aerosol, which no amount of incense could quell.

 

Boosted by Otis’ flaming bouquet,

They checked off each stop at a record rate.

Immeasurably swift, he dragged the old sleigh,

Country to country, state to state.

The longest fart in history,

A trail of light, it left in its wake,

The specific ingredients? A mystery.

A smelly aurora. Through the sky, it did snake.

Some managed to spot him, when he slowed to a glide,

A small few, lucky enough to capture the sight,

Of Otis, the rocketing reindeer, beaming with pride.

Our festively flatulent master of flight.

Otis the Odorous Reindeer, a full-bodied, butt-belching freak.

His effervescent plume of effluvial perfume could knock a man out with a squeak.

 

Otis the Odorous Reindeer, the fastest deer you’ll ever meet.

Tearing up the sky with Santa Clause. Head of the Heard.

 

Front of the fleet.

Low Elf Esteem

Low Elf Esteem

By G Quick (2013)

An elf sat in a factory and worked at his station, in a nation: unknown, its location or zone a mystery to all who sought it out, and brought to doubt those who insisted it existed at any point in history.
His tools laid out; on a stool he went about assembling another of the latest ‘cool’ toys, which would bring joy to some boy or girl out there in the world who would never know how hard he’d toiled.
Wheel to axle, axle to wheel. The work was taxing, his fingers blistered and peeled, yet They insisted he’d feel some sense of satisfaction knowing his actions would yield a preposterous reaction from some spoiled spawn of a prosperous fraction of the earth with little to no understanding of worth.
Dejected, he hunched over and inspected a photograph and reflected upon the picture of a model aircraft around a metre and a half in size. In the plane, eyes wide, sat a young elf, and he recalled, again, his childhood self. How he’d exclaimed whilst riding in the plane that he would grow up and train to be a pilot.
His father had patted him on the head and laughed at what he’d said and proceeded to elucidate that the young elf was destined for the factory. It was his fate, his rite. A fate he shouldn’t try to fight. That he’d never fly. That flight was for reindeer. That, like his father, making toys was his career.
The elf stuffed the photo back in his pants and stole a glance at his colleagues, in the boundless expanse of the workshop. It was vast. Lines upon lines of elves. Each one, more cheerful than the last, busily working and chatting amongst themselves.
How any of them found pleasure in their work was bewildering. How they could leisurely build a thing a million times and keep smiling like jerks? Incomprehensible! It was baffling! Just not sensible! He was grappling with the notion when the whistle blew and, like an elven ocean; out from the factory they spewed.

If there was one thing the elf hated more than his work, it was his spouse. Worn, weary and jaded, he trudged into the house and, like every night, he begrudgingly endured his wife: nagging constantly about balancing work and life. Flagging the issue several times, whilst steadily poking her finger into his chest like the deadly stinger of a wasp.
But… Tonight was not exactly like the others. As his wife slept he extracted himself from the covers and skulked silently down the hall, pulled a small ball of belongings from the laundry hamper and deftly scampered through the bathroom door.
He stood, for a moment, beholding the bowl before him, then boldly stepped into the toilet and swore as the cold water leaked into his shoes and seeped between his toes. He scrunched his nose, took a deep breath, stretched himself into the narrowest possible shape, pressed the handle, and made his daring escape.
Perhaps “daring” is too strong a word, for an elf being flushed down a toilet like a turd, but one had to admire the courage required for him to attempt to retire, since no elf prior – not one – had held such a desire.
Either way, death or liberty, if he ran out of breath he was willing to accept it. Regardless of how septic the suffering. No matter how ripe or disgustingly deranged an expiry. He wouldn’t have any gripes if he came to his end in the dung-ridden pipes. He just wanted change.

A vision of horror, like an alien species, all covered in urine and viscous faeces. His hair caked in crap, paunch plastered in poo. A spectre of scat, as he emerged from the loo. He gasped for air and immediately regretted the choice as he inhaled something fetid. But still he rejoiced and quickly clambered out of the latrine.
He cleaned himself as thoroughly as he could then hurriedly made for the exit, but there stood, in the doorway, the imposing figure of a man, several times the elf’s size. His eyes scanned the elf, assessing his presence. His nose twitching slightly as it detected the essence of the coalescence of the contents of the colons of many, many men.
Despite first impressions the man was really quite relaxed, and once the elf had freshened up and explained all of the facts the man offered the elf a room, rent free, as long as he tried to remain stench free, and on the condition that he sought the counsel of an expert who could help him to exert his skills to fulfil his ambitions.
The next day the elf made good on his promise and visited a careers advisor named Thomas, to whom which he revealed his yearning, his burning desire, to be earning a living as a flier. All this was discussed and, to his disgust, he discovered that despite his ambition his diminutive condition would mean he’d never be an aerialist. Never pilot a plane over an islet in Spain, nor fly in an Air Race, not in a dogfight, nor space.
Any disagreement was met with some platitude about his poor attitude towards a normal occupation. The advisor strongly encouraged an immediate cessation of this flirtation with aviation and to find a vocation more suited to a man of his stature and station
Devastated, the elf wandered home and wondered. He bemoaned his attempts to live out his dreams. He pulled the crumpled old photo from his pocket and screamed. He didn’t care what or where he’d fly, how fast or how high! In fact, if he couldn’t. If it was futile. If it was truly beyond his grasp…
He’d rather die.

Back in his rented room he designed and invented some demented doom-dealing device, spliced together from household objects. A vicious abstraction of a pernicious contraption. A complex blend off stuff from the kitchen and shed, assembled in such a clever, quite frankly genius, way which would certainly render him dead.
The elf sat in the machine, forlorn. He knew that nobody would grieve or mourn. His passing would pass by unnoticed. Children would continue to receive toys on Christmas day, whether or not he had passed away. Some other elf, probably infinitely more cheerful than himself, would take his place. No one would be tearful that he’d taken his own life. Especially not his wife.
He depressed a button and all of a sudden the rig whirred into action. The mechanical motions of the elf’s life extraction. Cascades of blades approached, yet he remained placid, waiting for his corpse to be poached in a deluge of battery acid.
Just moments away from impending doom, the man walked aimlessly into the room and knocked over an integral appliance and brought the whole contrivance to a screeching halt. The elf sat, bolt upright, and stared, stunned, at the man who stared back at him in kind. The man surveyed the room, dismayed. Cleaver blades on poles still swinging with momentum, the monumental structure was insane: curtain rods, ironing boards, chains. Some wicked looking liquid sat bubbling in a vat, troubling the man to no end, wondering what that would have done to his friend.
If anything the man was seriously impressed by the genius engineering skills of his guest. The elf’s years of constructing remote control cars, rockets and other things, from miniature gears, servos, sprockets and springs had imbued him with a talent for all things technical. A mastery of mechanics, construction, design, physics and aerodynamics.
The man insisted the elf allow him the opportunity to find him a worthwhile and productive place in the community. He assured the elf he could find a job he’d enjoy. Not involving toys or games. All he asked was for a month, after which if his claims fell short, then sure, it was up to the elf to decide to keep on living or suicide.

Wheel to axle, axle to wheel. The elf repaired the steel landing gear of a jumbo jet, and yet, although he wasn’t in the cockpit, preparing for ascent, he was relatively content. If flying a jumbo was out of the question at least, thanks to his friend’s suggestion, his work brought him closer to his obsession. And it paid well to boot.
With an acute knowledge of aircraft and their mechanical systems, his puritanical passion for hydraulics and pistons and all things aeronautical kept him well employed. It may not have been his dream, but he had found a job and a life he enjoyed.
A house of his own, with a curiously long driveway. In an industrial zone, positioned below a busy flyway. Certainly, it wasn’t to everyone’s tastes, hearing every flight throughout the night, but for an elf who loved planes it was just great. And if you happen to stay, and manage to creep away from his barrage of avian ardour, you might spot, hidden in the dark of his garage, a tiny tail, wee wings and a miniature fuselage.

The Night Before (Series)

The Night Before Part I: A Facebook Christmas

By G Quick (2009)

‘Twas the Night Before Christmas, and all through facebook,
Not a user was online… except for one sook.
The man sipped his coffee as he ‘Poked’ and ‘Liked’ comments,
While he downloaded South Park from various torrents.
He was staying up late so, his kids, he could trick,
Into thinking they’d been visited by jolly old St. Nick.
He’d just been inspired to update his status,
When he heard a strange noise, out back, on the lattice.
Peering out the window, he was shocked by the sight,
Of a chubby old burglar, scaling his wall in the night.
To be honest, it struck him as somewhat weird,
For the crook to be wearing a red suit and beard,
But he paid little heed and flew into action,
And fell down the stairs when he slipped and lost traction.
He grabbed his old bat, from his baseballing days,
Rushing out the back door and into the haze.
“Ho, ho, ho!” said the crim, as the man swung his bat.
“Merry Christm-Ugh!”… And his fat head went ‘Splat!’
He shook like jelly and fell to the ground,
Where he lay, unmoving, and made not a sound.
The man rolled him over… And went into a fit!
“Oh no! It’s Santa!… I’ve killed him! Oh S**t!”
Dropping the bat, in a whirlwind of panic,
He ran straight to the shed. His mental state; manic.
He rummaged around and pulled out a spade.
Then buried the jolly corpse in the hole that he made.
Donning the suit and grabbing the sack,
He ran to the sleigh, without looking back.
“There’s still hope yet kids. I’ll save Christmas, see.”
“Kris Kringle may be dead, but at least you have me!”
Alright you lot!” he said to the baffled reindeer.
“Let’s get in the air and spread some good cheer.”
“Now, Henry! Now, Harold! Now, Alfred and James!”
“You’ll have to forgive me, I’ve forgotten your names.”
“On, Astro! On, Jensen! Don’t mean to be rude,”
“Take off now or you’ll all be dog food!”
As they took to the air, he let out a shout.
“Merry Christmas to… Crap! I forgot to sign out!”

The Night Before Part II: A Twitter Christmas

By G Quick (2010)

‘Twas the night before Christmas and Santa was dead,
His sleigh; being flown by a stranger instead,
The man whimpered softly as he rubbed on his shirt,
Cleaning his hands of the blood, mud and dirt.
“What will I tell my poor son and daughter?”
“That their father is guilty of jolly, old manslaughter?”
He assured himself, “No! They must never find out.”
“I’ll save Christmas, kids, but you’d better look out!”
“This sleigh doesn’t drive like my trusty old Ford…”
He said, as he stared at the instrument board.
‘Reindeer-Yaw Toggles’ and ‘Sleigh-Pitch Reductions’,
“Surely this thing has a set of instructions…!?”
He fumbled around in Santa’s red jacket,
Finding some milk and an old cookie packet,
When what should fall out and into his lap?
But Santa’s iPhone, with installed Twitter app!
He tied up the reins to a loop at his feet,
And, with frantic thumbs, typed out a rough tweet.
“Does anyone know how to fly this damn sleigh?”
“It’s hard to explain and I don’t have all day…”
“… But due to a somewhat unfortunate blunder,”
“Our friend Santa Claus is, well, six feet under…”
“… So help if you can, but to add to the stress,”
“You’re stuck with one-forty characters or less!”
A reply came through, with hardly a pause,
A curious tweet from TheReal_MrsClaus:
“@BigRed1 Who is this? What’s the matter?”
“I can’t make sense of your irrational chatter.”
He replied “Sorry miss, but you’ll just have to trust,”
“When I tell you that Santa, alas, bit the dust…”
“… It’s my fault. You see, he caught me off-guard,”
“And I killed him and buried his corpse in the yard.”
“Oh, don’t be daft, son. You can’t kill Saint Nick,”
“My fat, jolly husband’s a resilient old prick!”
“@TheReal_MrsClaus, but I saw his life fade,”
“When I caved in his skull with a large metal spade!”
She replied “Ha! Is that all? You thought he was dead?”
“You’d best turn back home and return the man’s sled.”
Astonished, the man picked up the reins,
Made a sharp U-turn and dodged a few planes.
He headed back home at extreme velocity,
To attempt to reverse his festive atrocity.
He had major doubts that upon his arrival,
He would find any signs of Santa’s survival,
But lo and behold when he finally landed,
He found Santa! Living! Buck-naked and stranded.
“I’m so sorry Santa…” He began to explain,
But to his surprise Saint Nick didn’t complain.
“Forget it,” he said, his face covered in grime,
“To tell you the truth, this is not the first time.”
“I’ve been shot ten times in one night alone,”
“My wife is convinced that I’m accident prone.”
“Now let’s get going, or we’ll run out of night!”
“You load up the sleigh, I’ll prepare it for flight.”
“I could do with some help, that’s if you don’t mind,”
“Since your misled heroics have put me behind.”
So they took to the air, to deliver all the presents,
In the dead of the night, to the world’s adolescents.
The man saw on Twitter while the sleigh was ascending,
Worldwide the hashtag #deadsanta was trending.
He tapped out a quick tweet “Santa’s alive!”
“I thought he was dead but it seems he’s revived.”
“We’ve got a sack full of dolls, toys, books and sweaters.”
“Merry Christmas to” “Crap! I’ve run out of letters!”

The Night Before Part III: A Myspace Christmas

By G Quick (2011)

…

The Night Before Part IV: A Viral Christmas

By G Quick (2011)

‘Twas the Night Before Christmas, and almost the day,
When we rejoined our duo, airborne, in the sleigh.
There sat the man, who we’ve grown to know well,
And beside him sat Santa (both starting to smell).
The night had been long and rather chaotic,
The gunk in their armpits was antibiotic.
But they couldn’t stop yet, there was much to be done,
And they had to keep pace, to stay ahead of the Sun.
They’d blasted through Oz then headed up North,
Breezed through Indonesia then, to Asia, set forth.
Checking off China was surprisingly easy,
‘Though the sweet ’n’ sour cookies made Santa feel queasy.
They flew gifts to India, and up to the ‘Stans,
Then doubled back East, since they’d forgotten Japan’s.
While over Russia the two both agreed,
To take a quick break so the Reindeer could feed.
They ran into trouble when exiting Greece,
When the sleigh’s fearsome turbines made a mess of some geese.
They visited all Europe’s young generations,
Then weaved their way down through the African nations.
There was no time to waste or to be too pedantic,
So they jetted off West across the rough South Atlantic.
Peru and Brazil, Argentina and Chile,
The going was tough, the terrain was all hilly.
They’d just passed the border of the United States,
When the pair found themselves in complete dire straits.
The reindeer and sleigh were stuck in a low hover,
Due to an unknown mechanical bother.
Santa leaned out the side and let out a groan,
When he saw the jets… caked in blood, beaks and bone.
“We’ll have to land here and sort out this jam,”
“I’ll get the tools, you setup the webcam.”
You see…
The man had become an unexpected celeb,
From the antics they’d posted all over the web.
They’d blogged over Brussels and Tumblr’d in Turkey,
Their YouTube exploits were always quite quirky.
With outrageous stunts and humorous banter,
And pics of a sandwich-eating “Sad Santa”
Out of control, their net fame did spiral,
Every uploaded vid was instantly viral.
In Cyprus they Skyped with Conan O’Brien,
Who was curious to know how their contraption was flyin’.
They chatted with Leno and Jonathan Ross,
And appeared in a charity ad for Red Cross.
A quick stint on Top Gear, then back on their way,
Just after a lap in a “Reasonably Priced Sleigh”.
By the time they were cruising just North of Zaire,
They had started a popular meme called “LOLdeer”.
The top post on Reddit now featured a photo,
Of Santa Claus, planking, two miles above Kyoto.
But for now their high jinks would be put on pause,
While the man laboured away beside Santa Claus
Re-tweaking turbines, securing struts,
And clearing the intakes of avian guts.
When they finally had the craft fixed and working,
At the horizon the Sun was now lurking.
“We’ll have to break from this comic behaviour,
If we hope to succeed and be Christmas’ saviour,
So let’s hop on board and launch this old sled.
Tonight let’s pwn Christmas, like a noob!” Santa said.
The twosome bumped fists then boarded the sleigh
And secured the gifts in the rear loading bay.
As they shot to the sky they recorded a vid:
“No need to fear, folks! We’re back on the grid!”
“We’re coming your way, but there’s no time to chat.”
“Merry Christmas to-“ “Crap!… The battery’s gone flat…”

The Night Before Part V (Finale): The Claus Identity

By G Quick (2012)

‘Twas the night before Christmas, well, at least in San Fran,
Not wherever Santa was, in a windowless van.
With a sack on his head and his hands bound in cuffs,
And held at gunpoint by four mask-wearing toughs.
Beside him, his companion, regretting that night,
When he’d assaulted Saint Nick in a mad state of fright.
If only he’d hid, and not been courageous,
They wouldn’t have been in a position so outrageous.
On their way to New York to check out the Mets,
They’d been forced to land by eight fierce fighter jets.
When they alighted the sleigh they’d been detained by ten,
Anonymous agents. Some kind of G-men.
He’d been gagged, bagged and bound, and thrown in the back,
Of the van with Saint Nick.
Then everything went black…

Bright lights…

Cold floor…

The man came around,

And saw Santa, sitting. Silent. Profound.
“What the hell’s going on!? How’d we get in this pinch!?”
Santa stared at the ground, and said one word…

“Grinch.”

It was then that the man became aware of the room,
A featureless, concrete, impenetrable tomb,
Where they’d been tossed to rot, for all that he knew
He seriously doubted, this time, they’d pull through.
“The Grinch!? What!? I thought they were feds!?”
“They are. Can’t you see? He’s infected their heads.”
“The most devious mind that the world’s ever known,”
“Every war ever fought, every king overthrown,”
“He’s pulled the strings and sown the seeds of fate.”
“The ultimate architect of sorrow, death, and hate.”
“Freemasons? Black Hand? The Bilderberg Group?”
“All under his spell or part of his troupe.’
“Technically? Yes, we’re detained by The States,”
“But I assure you, it’s the work of The Grinch and his mates.”
“Oh. God! We’re gonna die!” the panicked man sobbed.
“Be cool,” said Saint Nick “it’s all part of the job.”
“Now, follow my lead and we’ll get through this, bud.”
“I just hope you don’t mind the sight of some blood.”
And with that, he was up and onto his feet.
Claus crossed the room, not missing a beat,
And stood by the wall, just out of view,
Of the suits at the door, who were about to walk through.
He winked at the man, then swiftly attacked,
The first of the group, too slow to react.
The man watched, in awe of Santa’s Kung Fu,
As the jolly elf snapped a goon’s arm in two.
He swiped a pen from a young agent named Linus,
Then buried it, firmly, in the poor fellow’s sinus.
Kris Kringle grinned. A red ball of hell,
Gaining momentum as each agent fell.
One pulled out a gun, held tight in his fist,
Which Santa dismantled, with a flick of his wrist!
Within thirty seconds the tussle had ended,
Each well armed thug? Unconscious. Expended.
The man just stood there, dumbstruck by the brawlin’,
As Santa collected some guns from the fallen.
“Arm yourself.” Santa threw him a Glock,
Which he clumsily caught as he flinched from the shock.
“I can’t use a gun! I’m a regular dad!”
“I’m no killing machine! No hero! Are you mad!?”
Santa smiled at him and searched through his suit,
“I forgot! you’ve no knowledge that you’re a recruit.”
He pulled out a small heap of sparkling sand,
Blew it into the face of the man from his hand.
“You’re part of a clandestine sleeper-agent squad,”
“Codename: “Santa’s Lethal Helper”. I know it sounds odd,”
“But the fact that you’re here is no mere coincidence,”
You’ve been secretly coached in case of such incidence.”
“Every Christmas you’re exposed to subliminal training,”
“Pumped full of knowledge you’ve no idea you’re retaining.”
“A survivor, a slayer, a spy and detective.”
“It’s like MK-Ultra, except a little more… Festive?”
“How’d you think you were able to clock me last night?”
“You’ve been engineered to infiltrate and fight.”
The man felt the sand settle inside of his lungs,
And started to prattle, as if speaking in tongues,
Rattling off stats on intel and tradecraft,
And espionage. Santa looked on and laughed.
“Are you done? Don’t forget we’re still in a pickle!”
“Those bullets out there, I assure you, don’t tickle!”
The man cocked his gun. The pair burst out the door,
And quickly disarmed another twelve soldiers or more!
A cloud of jolly justice, they stormed down the hall,
Through each wave of thugs, dispatching them all.
Santa was stunned by the beast he’d begot.
With each wave of bullets, the man dodged the lot!
He closed the gap fast. Fought gracefully. Deft.
Shattering the bones of troops, right and left.
His expression was fixed; measured and cool.
He’d vanish! And then reappear like a ghoul.
They’d almost escaped when he noticed a gate,
“Santa! Get out before it’s too late!”
Santa dashed for the exit as the large gate descended,
But he saw his friend’s struggle had far from ended.
Saint Nick threw his pistol, shouted “Here take my gun!”
“The gate’s almost closed! Come on, damnit! RUN!”
His companion was stuck. Surrounded by men,
He cartwheeled out of the thick fray! And then,
Made a break for the gate. An impossible span!
A total blur! It was the fastest he ever ran!
The gate; almost closed. The gap: so minute.
The man took a chance. His timing: acute.
Firing off rounds, dual guns held akimbo,
He came jetting through the gap in a knee-sliding limbo!
The pair ran for a jeep, while bullets zipped past,
And took off, into the distance. To safety. At last.
Back to the sleigh (which was oddly unguarded),
They launched into the sky, they’re weapons discarded.
They flew home in silence. The two of them weary.
It wasn’t the time to be jovial or cheery.
The man thought it best that they keep things discreet,
So they landed the sleigh in a quiet, empty street.
He gave Santa a nod, and they bumped fists once more.
Their brotherly bond, forged through adventure and war.
He stepped from the sleigh and gave it a pat,
And smiled up to the seat where his pal, Santa, sat.
Saint Nick turned around, just before he took flight.

“Merry Christmas…” but the man had vanished from sight…