As everyone knows, it is fast approaching Christmas day, the time of year when we celebrate the original biblical terminator, Jesus Christ’s, birthday. These celebrations however, do little more than mask the sheer terror that we are forced to endure every year. It is a terror which many of us reefuse to acknowledge. I am of course referring to the jolly red fear-machine, Santa Clause.
For the majority of the year, I suffer with terrible insomnia, on account of the pending home invasion which I experience every Christmas eve. For the past 37 years, I have woken on Christmas morning to find my home in utter chaos – unidentified, suspicious packages from floor to ceiling; each one potentially a ticking time bomb. Literally. The only clue as to the assailant are the tiny warnings attached to each: “To Rummy, From Santa. P.S. This is a bomb”. The messages rarely, if ever, actually contain the line “P.S. This is a bomb”, but reading between the lines, it is clearly inferred.
So far, I’ve managed to stay one steep ahead of the mediocre assassin, by disposing of the unopened packages at the local orphanage. In previous years, none of the bombs have exploded, as the orphanage is unfortunately still standing. This leads me to believe that they are infact dirty bombs, which means that I have had to burst into the orphanage wearing a full, bright red, anti-radiation suit (readily available at most local charity shops). Simultaneously looking dapper and hiding my identity, the bright red anti-radiation suit is probably the favourite piece in my wardrobe.
The thing that really terrifies me about disposing of the potentially lethal parcels at the orphanage is the way that the children run excitedly towards me, their gleeful little faces revealing rows of razor-sharp teeth, their tiny hands clawing demonically at the protective coccoon of my radiation suit. Their pack-hunting mentality could easily over-power me like a pack of velociraptors; in a similar manner to the popular Attenborough documentary, Jurrassic Park. A couple of well-placed swipes with their crayons are generally enough to ensure that I have to take my anti-radiation suit to the dry-cleaners. If it wasn’t for the danger of revealing my identity, I’d be sending them the bill.
Thankfully, in all previous years, I’ve been too strong for them and a swift roundhouse to the chest of the first couple generally buys me enough time to fling the sack full of “gifts” into the room before making my escape, ensuring that the ellusive “Santa” fails in his murder-mission for another year.
As a side note, every Christmas day, I see those little shits at the orphanage running around with precisely the gifts that I asked my parents for. The lucky little gits’ have all the luck.
Anyway, this year, rather than risking life and limb at the orphanage, I’ve decided to take a more proactive approach to dealing with my would-be assassin “Santa”. Thoughout most of December, I have been setting booby traps in various strategic locations throughout my home, such as bear-traps below the chimney (rumoured to be his preferred method of entry to peoples homes), along with anthrax-laced cookies (rumoured to be his preferred post-assassination snack). Whilst this has been a nightmare for any visitors, I feel that it is worth it, in order to catch my nemesis once and for all.
For the past 4 days I have been super-gluing individual pine needles directly to every inch of my bare skin. While my body is in a great deal of pain due to both continually pricking myself, along with the irritation caused by my allegies to the glue; I have created the perfect Christmas Tree stealth suit. To add to the realism of the suit, I have also attached baubles to each of my fingers, along with tinsel and fairy lights wrapped around my body.
The suit’s effectiveness has been confirmed by my parents, who regularly appear in floods of tears looking for me. Unable to locate me, they have sparked a nationwide missing-person campaign. I’m sure that once I have singlle-handedly apprehended the fear-inducing fat man, all will be forgiven, especially once I recceive the innevitable knighthood.
It’s currently the eighth day of standing perfectly still, awaiting the portly killer’s appearance down the chimney. Once he has been immobilised by the bear trap, I will swiftly move in, armed with some reinforced tinsel, secure him, before calling the police and being heralded as a national hero. My parents had better actually get me some gifts this year if my plan comes off.