Forever After - By David Jester Page 0,63
head, met each of the disappointed stares and then turned a slight shade of red. He hung his head, “That came out wrong,” he admitted. “Just forget I said anything.”
The jolly man in red looked at each of them in turn, spending significantly more time on Chip. An expression of perplexity, without the slightest hint of trepidation, creased his features. “What is this?” he asked.
Chip was the first to reply. “This is where the road ends for you, where your road ends,” he chewed the sentence like a small stick of toffee. “This is where, ah for fuck’s sake,” he spat, exasperated at his efforts.
Michael turned to his friend, “Give it a rest Chip.”
“Fuck you,” Chip spat back, sinking his head into his chest.
“This has to stop,” Michael told Santa Claus, stepping forward. “You can’t keep breaking into people’s houses, it’s not right,” his voice was warm and innocuous.
The big man looked bemused. “But I bring joy to children all over town. There’s something in this sack of mine to please everyone.”
Michael and Naff turned instinctively towards their midget friend, he didn’t meet their gazes; he didn’t speak.
“What’s not right about that?” Santa finished.
“Jacky, look,” Naff offered, moving closer. “You need to stop this.”
“Who’s Jacky?”
“You are. Don’t you remember? Your name is Jacky Sampson, you’re on probation.”
Santa Claus retained a blank expression.
“I’m your intermediary: Naff. No? Nothing? Look,” Naff said, waving a hand. “The point is: you’re not Santa Claus. You’re a mentally ill demon escaped from hell.”
He glared back momentarily, then he turned to Michael, aiming a swift and indicative nod in Naff’s direction. “Is your friend a little…” he twirled his finger around his temple.
“Asks the fat guy in the Santa costume,” Chip noted, returning to the conversation.
“This is not a costume. I am Santa.”
“Of course you are mate, and I’m Gandhi.”
“You look familiar,” the man in red noted. “Didn’t I bring you a present?”
Chip was overcome with a childish sense of bashfulness. “Maybe.”
“That’s right,” the fat man waddled forward, pointing a knowing finger. “You’re Chip,” he dug a hand into his pocket and brought out a list, a myriad of heavy handed names and information formed a visible impression on the back of the sheet. “Some multimedia device it seems,” he recalled with the know-how of a Grandfather seeing his first Xbox, “some state of the art, computer --”
“My wank box,” Chip cut in knowingly. “Yes, that was me, and for that, I thank you.”
The jolly man looked a little less jolly. “Your what?”
“But the point remains,” Chip continued. “This is wrong and downright freaky, you have to stop. I mean I know you gave me a present an’ all, but I have to stick by my friends on this one.” He coughed nonchalantly. “Unless you have something else in that sack for me?”
“Well, no,” Santa replied, even more bemused. “You only get one,”
“OK,” Chip said resolutely. “Then this is wrong, you should stop.”
His eyes lingered on the little man for a moment and then shifted to Michael. A desperation had crept onto his jolly face. “I don’t understand,” he swapped his stare between Michael and Naff, ignoring Chip.
Naff calmly said, “You’re not well.”
“But I feel fine.”
“But you think you’re Santa Claus.”
“I’m not the Santa Claus,” the man in red scoffed with a satirical grin creeping onto his face.
Michael and Naff looked at each other, suddenly wondering if they had made a mistake, if the demon wasn’t really delusional after all. Maybe he really did just want to bring joy to the children and sex perverts of Brittleside.
“You don’t think you’re Santa Claus?” Naff asked suspiciously, not failing to note the red suit and the large toy-filled sack.
He laughed derisively at the outlandish question. “Of course not,” he smirked.
“Oh, well--”
“I’m not the only Santa.”
“What?”
“Well, think about it,” Santa said seriously. “How can one man travel the world delivering presents? Hell, I only deliver to one town and even that takes me all season.”
“You’ve lost me.”
“There are thousands of us,” Santa said with a booming smile.
Naff nodded understandingly. “Ah. Right.”
“Sounds familiar,” Michael muttered softly.
“Can we lock this guy up now?” Chip asked.
Santa seemed taken aback by the comment. The smile dripped off his face and was replaced by a sudden suction of depression that distorted his features like a melancholic stroke.
“You’re going to lock me up?”
Naff sighed, shaking his head at the midget next to him. “We just need to take you...” he paused, “...somewhere,” he said, maintaining a smile. “Just to sort a few things out.”
“Prison?”
“No. No.”