Subject: [OTL]: Holiday Happenings (Wisdom, Santa Claus) 1/1
Date: Sun, 31 Dec 2000 15:40:57 -0800
From: JumpTB@aol.com

Title: Holiday Happenings

Author: Omega

Summary: Couple of curses, lots of sillyfic symptoms, reply to Jen's holiday
challenge - Wisdom vs Santa Claus. (late) Merry Christmas, everyone!

    The loud thunk drove him from his bed to his living room, where he stood
blinking furiously in the pair of running shorts he slept in. Not that he
would ever run, of course, but the shorts had their place.
    There was a man in a terrible red costume in his living room. At first
Wisdom thought he was one of the spandex society, but then his eyes focused
through the alcohol fuzz and he saw that the man could never fit his
gelatinous body into spandex of any kind. The man was old, too, and was
fumbling around under a dead potted tree in the corner of Wisdom's living
room.
    "What are you doing?" was the only logical question that Wisdom could get
out of his mouth.
    The man turned around so quickly that his ridiculous hat almost fell off.
"You're supposed to be asleep," he said, looking a bit miffed.
    "You friggin' woke me up, what do you mean I'm supposed to be asleep?"
    The old man mumbled something that sounded like cursing, which Wisdom
found odd since he had finally figured out who the man was. "You're Santa
Claus. Kris Kringle. Father Christmas. The fat man with presents. What in
bloody hell are you doing here?"
    "Hey, you call me a fat man again and I'm going to be shoving your
presents up your ass, buddy," the man growled, his face turning as red as his
suit.
    "You're the one breaking and entering, trespassing, and breaking a lot of
other rules I can't think of right now because of a lot of whiskey," Wisdom
said. "Get your 'presents' and get out of here. I don't have a stove that
runs on coal."
    "I don't take back presents," Santa spat. "Once it's under a tree, it's
out of my hands. Tough luck."
    "I don't even have a tree!"
    "Au contraire, wise-ass. You have a tree. Just not a Christmas tree. But
what do you think I do for people in the Bahamas? They don't have pine trees.
I leave it under whatever's handy. In your case, the skeleton of what was
once an ornamental flowering tree of a species first used in ancient . . ."
    "Hold it, just shut-up, will you?" Wisdom put his hands up to the sides
of his head, which had begun to ache with a vengeance. Think. What's the
easiest way to get this moron out of my flat? Threats. Threats work. "Get out
before I call the police." No! Wait! Bad threat! "Before I call the police to
pick up your dead body, that is." Better.
    "You can't threaten me," Santa said incredulously. "I'm an international
icon of good cheer."
    "I'm a cranky international icon of British hang-overs. Get out of here."
He wondered where he'd left his cigarettes.
    "Here." Santa offered a pack of Marlboros.
    Wisdom took on and then took the offered light. Then he realized he was
accepting more gifts from the enemy. "Out!" he shouted, exhaling a cloud of
gray smoke.
    "I'm not leaving until I'm done." The man's eyes narrowed. "Don't make me
hurt you."
    "What're you going to do, bop me over the head with a rocking horse?"
Wisdom barked out a laugh. "Get out of here, old man."
    Santa reached into his red bag and pulled out what looked suspiciously
like a rifle. "It isn't a BB gun," he warned, leveling it and looking down
the barrel at the grit-eyed Brit.
    "Bring it on," Wisdom growled, shooting out a well-aimed hot knife that
sliced half of the barrel off.
    Santa let out a bellow, sounding like an aggravated bear, and charged
Wisdom, who ducked out of the way amazingly fast for a drunk man. Pete
received a blow on the back of his head, however, since the international
icon of good cheer was now slinging the rifle around like a club.
    "You bloody looney!" Wisdom yelled from the floor, trying to kick the
pudgy legs out from under his opponent.
    "Me? You're the one trying to kill Santa Claus!" came the loud retort.
There was a banging on the wall, and a neighbor yelled something about it
being three in the morning.
    At last, Santa had Wisdom cornered and was aiming the rifle at him again.
Wisdom was shooting off hot knives erratically, but his head was screaming
bloody murder and his aim wasn't doing too well. Santa fired the gun, hitting
Wisdom in the chest.
    The last thought that Wisdom had before his vision turned black was that
Santa had been right - it wasn't a BB gun. It shot tranquilizer darts, of all
things. Santa had won, and dragged the unconscious Wisdom into his bedroom.
After leaving him snoring on his bed, he took a last look at the living room.
Making a quick adjustment to the pile of gifts (socks, underwear, an ugly
knitted sweater, and a book that would make Wisdom fly into a rage - "How to
be Happy"), Santa Claus grimaced and climbed out of the window onto the fire
escape, going up to the roof where the reindeer were waiting. Next year, he
decided, Wisdom would be on the "Naughty" list.

Escribir es alegria.