Do you know how painful it is to deliver presents to an entire planet? I’ve been doing it for over a thousand years, and I hate exactly 99.9999837984719% of my clientele. My diet’s shit, I haven’t had sex in four decades, and most of my subordinates are addicted to drugs. The missus spends her time knitting cat sweaters or watching Buzzfeed videos. God forbid she gets off her ass and helps me with gift wrap.
Ho fucking ho. 2018 Santa Claus, at your service.
Used to be I could take 364 days off and do a quick coal run. Back in the day, good kids were plentiful and easy to please; I’d put together a shitty wooden trinket, slap a cheap coat of paint on it, and—voila!—Merry Christmas, from your favorite amanita muscaria-inspired gift-god (who’s not creepy at all when you objectively consider the prospect of a ruddy-faced giant breaking into your home in the dead of night and casting silent judgment on you through the use of coal or presents). Bam! How’s THAT for mind games? Yeah—that’s how we roll in the North Pole.
I work ’round the clock now, busting my ass whether’s it’s December or June. Lemme tell ya: if it wasn’t for the adderall, I wouldn’t get out of bed. If it wasn’t for the oxys, I wouldn’t go to sleep. And if it wasn’t for the weed, I would purposefully immolate myself in a live chimney. Yeah—Santa is not a happy camper.
It’s not just the hours; kids these days are asking for crazy-ass bullshit. I’ve resorted to blackmail, sweatshops, corporate espionage, and highly illegal genetic engineering in order to meet the growing demand for cryptocurrency wallets, VR rigs, as well as the latest generation of performance enhancing drugs. Thirty years ago, I could throw a rugrat a piece of shit tricycle and they’d get off my ass. Those days are long gone.
Depending on my mood, I’m either chugging Maalox or chugging Jack. My cardio’s gone to shit, and whatever sperm are left in my old man ballsack are apocalyptically deformed or hentai-porn evil. Fuck you Grinch—you can take my job; I don’t want it anymore.
Anyways, it’s been over a month since Christmas, but this idiot Kent Wayne keeps writing me. The dude’s in his mid-thirties, but he’s asking for robot Voltrons, cyborg velociraptors, and other stupid-ass contraptions that haven’t been invented. One of my drug-addled elves finally spotted something we’d be able to provide: an eReader loaded up with a copy of some jerkoff science fiction novel called “Echo.”
As I touch down near his dingy studio, a jack-n-coke burp shoots past my lips. (Definitely tastes better going down than coming up). I pick the lock on his front door and wander into a dimly lit, pizza box-infested hovel. Gross.
Kent is sleeping on his futon, scratching his nuts and snoring into a large puddle of drool. I’m tempted to leave him a bag of moldy dog biscuits. Whatever. I reach into my sack and withdraw the eReader.
*Santa tosses the eReader to me, opening it to Echo and activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash*
Kent Wayne is instantly slathered in scantily clad soccer moms. He farts himself awake and looks around in dazed wonder, voicing a stupefied “Whazzat?” The soccer moms peel off his booty shorts and begin giving him a tongue bath. He registers my presence and his eyes widen.
“Thank you Santa!” he gasps after a soulful kiss with a lusty AF soccer mom. “This is the best Christmas EVER!”
Tears well in my eyes and I choke back a sob. I give him a solemn nod, then get back on my sleigh. After taking to the skies, I swear to myself that I will continue being Santa for as long as I am able.
The look of joy in Kent’s Man Whore eyes makes it all worth it.
Are you an embittered holiday spirit that needs to get back in touch with your sense of purpose? Never fear! Get Echo Vol. 1 on Kindle here: Vol. 1 on Kindle. Vol. 2 on Kindle here: Vol.2 on Kindle Vol. 3 on Kindle here: Vol. 3 on Kindle Echo Vol. 1 & 2 Combined Edition here: Combined Edition #kindle #kindleunlimited #sciencefiction #scifi #books #novel #book