Cookoo Charlie's Animal Alphabet - Reindeer
Reindeer
Although Mrs. Claus resided at the North Pole, she loved her little ventures down to the South Pole. Or more accurately put, going down on Santa’s south pole. Not only had her man been experiencing the usual seasonal stress that went into getting shit all together for Christmas Eve (two days away), but one of his lead reindeer, Donner, had been AWOL for over a week. A solitary beast, he cherished his alone time; however this was out of character, even for him. And the worry showed on the Sleigh King’s face. So she decided to help relieve some of the tension.
A rapid, urgent knock on the office door brought Mrs. Claus’ head up. Faster than Rudolph taking flight, Santa slipped his candy cane-striped prick, with it’s extra-large, purple sugarplum-shaped cockhead, back into his drawers, zipped up and yelled, “What is it?” Mrs. Claus sat on her hubby’s lap and put her arms around his shoulders.
The door opened and in stepped Santa’s number one elf, Yukon Cornelius. Contrary to belief, Cornelius didn’t get his nickname because he liked spending time in that Canadian territory. He was shrewdly sharp and could see through a rigid poker face in seconds. Centuries ago, Santa claimed, “You con, Cornelius, you can con anybody.” Like ice in your beard, it stuck.
“Santa, I’m afraid I’ve received some devastating news,” said the intruding elf. “Donner has been located and…” Yukon Cornelius fought to compose himself. “He’s dead, sir.”
Santa leapt to his feet, along with the Mrs., who had begun to cry.
“What the hell, happened, Cornelius?” The big guy dropped the elf’s nickname, calling him by his given one. He was serious.
“It looks like he was shot by John Welsh, a Montana hunter. You know how he was flirting around with that doe in the Bitterroot Range.”
“Damn it!” exclaimed Santa, smashing his fist onto his oak rolled-top desk. “I knew this was going to lead to trouble. I tried to talk to him. But would he listen? Oh, no.”
Santa plopped back down in his seat, climbing inside himself. Yukon Cornelius and Mrs. Claus, knowing full well they’d never be able to console him in his present state, exited the office.
The normally jolly gift giver really loved children; it’s when they grew up to become asshole adults he had a problem. The only thing he loved more, other than his wife, were animals. He ran with the wolves (Santa was more fit than he appeared), played with foxes and swam with polar bears.
From his frozen home at the top of the world, he watched man’s war on wildlife grow worse as the decades went by. Perhaps thought Santa, who was older than America, it had always been that way. Ever since the white man invaded this land, they’ve killed its creatures for one reason or another. Whether it was slaughtering the buffalo, the Indian’s food source, or to just eliminate them from the land that man had, and still, needed. Can’t have a grizzly, mountain lion or even a damn skunk in the vicinity of our cabins can we? Over four million animals were murdered by the feds in 2010. Did you think the naughty and nice kid list was the only records Santa kept? Hell, no. He’s been keeping a list of all the assholes who have been slaying animals for no justifiable reason.
And now they’ve killed one of his family.
Unfuckingacceptable.
On Christmas morning, the alarm woke Mrs. Welsh at 6:30. She wanted to make a special holiday breakfast for her husband. This would consist of a Denver omelette, country potatoes, four strips of bacon, two sausages and a glass of orange juice, with a splash of rum.
Feeling her husband’s presence wasn’t in the room, she turned her head and confirmed her suspicions. Mr. John Welsh’s side of the bed was empty. Had he gone downstairs ahead of her? Was he making her breakfast? No, he NEVER did that.
She tossed her covers to the side. Being seven months pregnant (their first), she positioned herself to get out of bed. Slipping on her maternity robe, she exited the bedroom, walked to the stairs and descended to the first floor.
“John”, she called out. No response.
She found her husband in the living room. He was sprawled on the floor, wrapped in his robe, in front of the Christmas tree. He was quite dead.
Screaming, Mrs. Welch ran to her fallen husband. With difficulty, she bent down to his side. There was a note pinned to his robe.
It read: Mrs. Welch, the reindeer your husband killed a couple of days ago was part of my family. Donner will be greatly missed. Hunting for trophies, as your husband did, is a crime against nature. Please raise your son to know the difference. Rest assured, I will be watching. Santa.
It was then that Mrs. Welch noticed the dark stain in the groin area of the robe. Flipping open one flap, she saw what had been done to the father of her child.
Slapping her hand to her mouth, Mrs. Welch lifted her head in the direction of the decorated tree. With renewed horror, she saw that Santa had don’ er husband’s nuts directly under the angel.
Which only seemed fitting because it doesn’t take any balls to kill a defenseless animal.
Story note: The ending of this tale was inspired by, and somewhat stolen from, Robert Bloch’s short story, The Night Before Christmas.
