Santa And The Shotgun Festival by Roy Berger FICTION (not for the kiddies) DEC 18, 2014

Santa And The Shotgun Festival by Roy Berger  FICTION (not for the kiddies) DEC 18, 2014

Santa Bishop McDonell2CFN is proud of the written word and occasionally publishes short stories and poems.    Tis being the season we are sharing a work by former Cornwall Resident and Author Roy Berger.  Sadly another artist left our community leaving in us with barely much talent and for some weird reason too many haiku writers.

Thanks for the submission Mr. Berger.  Cornwall hasn’t been the same since you left.

Editor’s note.  This tale is not for the kiddies and is full of violence and surely what must be a drug infused write of strangeness to counterbalance the politically correct drivel that has become our Christmas Season. Certain profanities have been edited.

 

I missed Santa but I managed to lay out an elf. My shots were otherwise lost in the half frozen carcass of a reindeer protecting Kris.   “You mother{Can’t use that word on CFN”}!” I heard him scream and felt the impact of another tear gas grenade.

I rolled over, grabbed it and lobbed it back at him. I was flattened out behind a small mountain of mail sacks piled up by this lone mailbox.   I saw a shadow move from within the toy shop. I shot two rounds through the window blowing glass everywhere. I heard another yell. There was a swoosh of snow and I looked to see three Teddy Bears coming towards my drift. They each had smoking cigarettes in their paws and their waists were strapped with bags of gasoline.

I flicked my Zippo, lit it and threw it at the bears. “I’ll never give up their names,” I shouted.

“I must have them for my list. Give me the names,” Santa shouted.

“Never,” I said, “Never you red commie elf.”

I went silent and began to make my way around to the back. I could see that Gingerbread Man was guarding the rear door. It opened a crack. I heard a woman’s voice.

It was Mrs. Claus. “Do you see him?”

“Shut up you bloody whore. You’ll tip him off. Get me a mug of {Can’t use that word on CFN”} coco, ” the Gingerbread Man said.

The house was Christmas card perfect. The Northern Lights were bright blue and yellow with fingers glowing overhead. I made it to the barn and peaked through a crack.; They were still there. I could see them. I moved closer to hear. George Bush and Henry Kissinger were facing a TV screen.

“Adolph, you are a genius,” said Bush.   “We can send you another fifty thousand missing kids by this time next year.”

Kissinger spoke into a microphone. They were both wearing aluminum foil hats. A young boy in a dress sat between them. There were posters on the barn wall of Cardinal Spellman, J.Edgar Hoover,Rock Hudson and Michael Jackson.

I moved back and to the left. I got to the side of Gingerbread Man and gave his head a quick snap. I picked up his M-16 rifle and gave the door knob a turn.   Mr. Merryweather was crouched behind the shattered kitchen window. He was turning a silencer onto a handgun and muttering to himself. I backed out slowly.

I needed to buy some time. Reinforcements were on the way.   Shotgun Susy and the Provisional Sisters of Freedom were supposedly being drawn up by sled. Their bloody adventure on Donkey Island still gave me the shudders. The children, which ever ones were left, were liberated. Susy and the other nuns brought them back to safety in France.

I spit out a tooth where that fat bastard had sucker punched me earlier. I crept around the side of the toy shop and looked in. The elves were busy all right. They were filthy and emaciated. While I was watching one got his hand caught in a sewing machine and was fired on the spot.

Santa had moved over to his sleigh. He was keeping an eye out and rummaging around. Likely looking for his Thompson. It did four hundred rounds per drum. Like I was going to count while dodging bullets.

“Where are those bitches?   I could hear Myra Breckinridge cracking the whip in the toy shop shrieking, “Everything is fine, get back to work.”

That snitch Bambi bolted right out beside me bleating, “There he is Santa. There he is.”

The snow was dragging down my ankles while I ran.

“You’ve been naughty,” Santa said. His rapid fire ate up the path behind me as I turned the corner. Once around the corner I tore a smoke canister and a nice combo pepper spray/tear gas mixture off my belt and ditched it behind me.

I watched out for Merryweather by the front window and zig-zagged towards some peppermint bushes.
There was a brutal gang of work shop elves combing the acreage for me. Most of the reindeer were already dead, thank God. They’d been either cut down early or caught by surprise. Santa was on his knees rubbing snow into his eyes. Frosty, some stupid snowman was atop the house swinging a searchlight back and forth.

 

I heard the air behind me swoosh. There were three Gyrocopters coming out of the sky. Finally, yes. The gyros were fitted with skis and slid to a stop near me. Two nuns with triple ammunition belts and crossbows on their backs marched towards me. The belts were filled with shotgun shells to go with the rotary rapid fire models in their hands. Shotgun Susy herself was packing one sawed off shotgun in each fist. Her Wonder Woman get up clashed with the nun’s habits. We worked our way across the field giving the elves no mercy and fired a few rounds of tear gas into the house. This proved to be a mistake as many of the workers were chained to their benches.

Santa had retreated behind the house. A small fire had broken out by the front door. Mrs. Claus, Frosty on the right, and a couple of elves at each window were giving us grief. We had little cover although it was always night. A wind had picked up and was blowing the smoke from the canisters. We gave cover fire for each other in teams until we finally made it to the wall. One of the Sisters of Freedom whipped her rosary around the window ledge and snagged a prize. She yanked a struggling elf out by the neck, leaned on his back and garroted him. After, she kissed the cross.

“Satanic heathen cow,” shrilled Mrs. Claus as she got a shot into Susy’s shoulder.

“As if that hurt,” said Susy. She reached into the snow, plugged the wound with it and jumped through the shattered window. One Sister went through the front door. The other went around the other side of the house towards the barn.

The house was pretty much clean except for Susy and Mrs. C. They were trading shots up and down the hallway. Sister Betty Anne kicked Kissinger in the balls. When he bent over in pain she drove a three inch crucifix into the back of his skull. George Bush was using the boy as a shield and was firing a Colt 45. The good sister fired a bolt from her cross bow dead center into George’s head. She shook a can of gasoline into the straw. The two bodies on the floor shape shifted into lizards. Flames licked forward.

 

“Vile Papist Witch,” shouted Santa as he drove an axe into Sister Betty’s chest.

The blow knocked her into the wall and left her breathless. An ugly bruise started to form under her Kevlar vest. I threw myself onto Santa’s back. Sister Thelma and Shotgun Susy came running up.

We held him down and stared into his red face. His beard was matted in snow and hay bits.   I gave him a wink, he smiled back. Me and Santa and Shotgun Susy and the Provisional Sisters of Freedom, we all looked at you and sang out, “Merry Christmas to all and to all get tight!”

     —end—



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