War On Christmas: A Narrative
I wrote the following on Twitter yesterday. I may or may not have been under the influence of leftover ham, candied yams, and stuffing.
All around me lay the discarded turkey carcasses, the faint odor of stuffing, and the mental trauma of too much ham. it was time.
A message came in on my communicator. High priority. The big boss was power mad from his second term and out for blood.
The image of the fat man had “target” scrawled across his forehead. Kringle.
An Apache helicopter hovered over the shopping mall. I had a napsack, a loaded gun and lust for blood.
The compound was just as intel had described it. small. surrounded by candy canes, and thick with ELVES.
The little operatives were lined up in thick little snot-nosed packs. Babies were crying. Where was the fat man?
The sign said Santa would be back in five minutes. I stopped over at the Cinnabon depot. “Load me up, this is war.”
I purchased a set of night vision goggles at Sharper Image. Overpriced, but I didnt care. This was Soros’ dime.
I formed a shelter from a pile of Furbys. The eyes weirded me out, but the fur kept me warm. Mall temperature is a beast.
The smell of Auntie Anne’s Pretzels fills the air. I have to focus. The fat man is coming back. And I best be ready.
I turned up the music on my overpriced Bose noise-cancelling headphones. Carrie Underwood was always the best killin’ music.
There he is. The fat man. Kringle. Geronimo. But he was surrounded by kids. That sick SOB. I couldn’t just take the shot.
My trigger finger twitched. Damn that hot chocolate. I was all hopped up on sugar and cocoa and Kringle WASJUSTSITTINGTHERE.
I whispered to myself in my best Sean Hannity voice: “You ARE a great American.” And I squeezed the trigger. This would be the last War On Christmas.
It jammed. My screams of “Festivus” put the ELVES on high alert. My cover’s blown. The fat man is in the wind.
Before I could blink, I’m knee deep in jolly. Elves to the left, on the right they’re prepping reindeer. I look for exits.
My eyes meet Kringle’s. I mouth “next time.” He grins. I run. Crowd in the Apple Store. I can lose them there.
In seconds the genius is out like a light. In two clicks I’ve got my turtleneck on, rebooting iPads and iPods. I’m in deep cover.
An elf walks in, looking for me. I gamble. Dazzle him with the new iPad. RETINA DISPLAY MFer! He reaches for his wallet. I’m gone.
I send a message to 44. The fat man lives. Kringle’s won this round. He assures me I’ll get another shot. I vow it.