That time, at Christmas, when dad shot Santa… By Christopher Moore
Okay, so tis the season and whatnot. And everyone’s always axing me: “Did you have any event in your childhood that might have fucked you up and made you like you are so you write these completely sick stories about zombies and Christmas and stuff?”
Yes, childhood! You’re small, stupid, and totally powerless. It’s like being, I don’t know, Lichtenstein at the United Nations, or, like the Littlest Pope. (Didn’t you love that book when you were a kid, about the littlest Pope, and how he was crowned head of the most powerful church in the world, but all he really wanted was a pony? I loved that. Especially when he has the Irish inquisition torture all the Leprechauns to death because they called him a wee Papist wanker. How about the part where the Dalhi Lhama kicks his ass at Pope school because he knows kung fu? Great book! )
So, as I stated in yesterday’s blog. I had a little problem sleeping when I was a kid. This was largely due to the fact that my parents had been replaced by robots and I always had to be on my guard, but also because I had a bit of an over-active imagination (who would’a thunk it?) and I stayed up all night thinking of new stuff to freak out about. I was actually the first person to have a serious monkey pox scare, and this was back in the 60s, before the disease had even been discovered. I was just thinking, “Monkeys have tiny hands and tiny toes and they look a lot like us, I’ll be they could give us diseases and stuff.” So, five minutes later, I’m in the living room in my feety PJs going, “Mom, I’m afraid I’m going to catch monkey pox and get all crusty and fling my own poo can I have a glass of water?” As it turned out, that after the tests came back, the poo flinging was not caused by monkey pox at all, but by, you know, boredom.
So, Christmas eve was tough on the folks, because it was the one night of the year when they actually helped perpetuate the myth that was keeping me awake. (I’m not counting Tooth Fairy nights, because they weren’t scheduled and I would have caught that bitch if I hadn’t run out of teeth and the rat trap hadn’t kept going off during the night and catching my ear. Yes, it left a mark! )
Did I mention that Dad was a cop? Yeah, Dad was a cop, a highway patrolman, who very often worked until midnight on holidays. That particular Christmas Eve I was very excited for Santa’s arrival, as I’d asked for a real flying reindeer and I wanted to take that bitch out for a test-drive before I dropped off to visions of sugarplums dancing in my head. (Yes, I bought seriously into the Santa myth that year – I drank the koolaid, bought the T-shirt, and shagged the mascot – I know, but I was five.)
When Dad arrived home that night, well after midnight, he looked through the picture window and saw me bouncing on the couch, all jacked-up on candy-canes and egg nog, and made an infamous parenting decision.
Dad drew his service revolver, fired it into the ground, then holstered it, came in the front door and said, “It’s okay, Chris, you can go to bed now, Santa’s not coming. I just shot him off the roof.”
Completely true story.
Well, I’m not saying that had anything to do with me writing a Christmas horror story, or my life-long battle with insomnia, and the fact that I break out into sweats when I see a Santa Hat…