Stayc's Play: A story in three parts
“This traffic is ri-donkey-lous,” Doug muttered. Cars crept bumper to bumper along Route 95.
“Roll down the window,” Jeff said, squinting into the bright sun before them. “I think I hear sirens.”
“Me too,” Brian said, leaning forward from the back seat of the Mustang. They were his first words in so much time. “Quite a few, in fact.”
Doug pressed two buttons and dropped the windows a few inches. The faint din of an eminent emergency filled the air. Sirens pulsed and popped, and the surrounding traffic gradually parked.
“We’re never going to make it to the show on time if we sit in this.” Doug hammered the wheel with the butt of his hand. “I’m taking the shoulder.”
The red Mustang bounced over the guardian strip.
“The sirens are getting louder. I can see a fire truck, it c-no, there are several fire trucks. There’s a convoy, or something,” Jeff sighed in awe. The string of emergency vehicles motoring across the on-ramp was astounding: fire engine followed after fire engine, with police vehicles and an ambulance or two dotting the assembly.
The red Mustang pulled to a stop as it reached the end of the shoulder and the beginning of the on-ramp. A series of antique ambulances whizzed past, dragging behind them a small flag.
“They all seem to be marked with similar insignia.”
“Of course, they’re emergency vehicles. You have to spot them easily,” Doug said.
“No, no, I mean they have little signs for a radio show toy drive. Or something. I guess it’s a convoy, or someth-”
“It’s a parade,” Brian spat.
“How can you tell?” Jeff asked, craning in his seat to study the vehicles.
“There’s Santa.”
The jolly fat man himself sat, boorishly gesturing at those whom he passed, perched atop a fire engine, drinking out of a paper bag, and holding a small weeping girl on his lap. His festive, bloodshot eyes picked the red coupe out instantly, and his arm shot into the air.
“That engine had to be going 80 miles an hour,” Jeff said, taking into account wind resistance and Doppler shift.
“I noticed that too OH SHI-” Doug screamed, scrambling in vain for the clutch. Too late he found it, and the bottle, clad in brown paper, smashed into the hood and windshield of the Mustang. Glass and Wild Irish Rose cascaded to the pavement and into the car. Shards of glass ripped through the material of Jeff’s blazer and jeans. Yuletide laughter stung through the clamor of sirens.
And then, for only a moment, the world went silent.
“Did Santa just SMASH HIS HOOCH ON THE HOOD OF MY CAR?” Doug screamed. “THAT JOLLY SHIT OWES ME A NEW WINDSHIELD.”
“I am not, ordinarily, a man of violence,” Brian said, pulling himself forward so that he could be heard over the hissing of Doug’s choked breathing, “but I cannot allow this to pass.”
“He’s right.” The broken bottleneck from Santa’s party-fuel had embedded itself in Jeff’s leg, and he removed it deftly, tearing muscle and denim. “I have something to return to Mr. Kringle.”
To say that the Mustang drove into the parade would be a great understatement. The accelerator dropped like a hammer, the engine wide open and growling, and Doug maneuvered the coupe into the configuration with inches to spare. The horn blasts from surrounding emergency vehicles paled in comparison to the sirens, and went wholly unnoticed, as the red car slipped past the police barricade.
Doug’s course murmur was almost barely heard over the screaming of his engine as he whipped out of the convoy and onto the open highway.
“It’s just us, and them.”
It took only a moment to spot Santa, still perched high in his ivory tower on the back of the engine. His beard curled into a malevolent grin of black, rotted teeth as he spotted the trio in hot pursuit. He clapped his hands once in mock anticipation before unhinging his jaw and eating the young girl on his lap.
“By the Grace of God,” Brian stammered. His calm demeanor had finally been cracked by the monstrous man-elf. “He just ate that little girl.”
“Get up close, Doug. He’s not going to like this,” Jeff said as he opened the passenger’s side door.
The coupe accelerated to put Santa behind them, and once again Doug pulled into the parade. In one deft leap, Jeff pulled himself onto the top of the car and slammed the door shut behind him. As he gained a good footing on the plastic ceiling, Brian moved into the passenger’s seat.
“Ok, drop back!” Jeff shouted down, fighting the wind on his back as he sized the jump from the car to the fire engine behind him. The driver eyed him hungrily from behind the wheel. “I don’t want these crazy sons of bitches swerving at the last second!”
It was at that moment that a ten-speed Huffy bicycle sailed over the windshield of the fire engine and smashed Jeff square in the shoulders, sending him pitching backwards onto the hood of the Mustang. His head hung inches from the pavement, which ground past him at a-hundred-and-change miles per hour. It took Brian only one uppercut, sending the remainder of the windshield flying out of its casing, and only one pull to bring Jeff back to his knees on the searing hot hood of the car.
“Santa’s throwing bikes!” Jeff screamed.
“Then do not be there when they hit,” Brian said, pointing to the fire truck.
A pink trainer with streamers hit the Mustang, where it lodged itself between the car and the spoiler.
Jeff stood, one foot firmly planted on the hood, the other high upon the roof.
“Brakes!” Jeff yelled. Before the word had finished leaving his lips, Doug was stomping the alternate pedal. Jeff ran backwards, leaping over the bike wedged in the spoiler and onto the incoming fire engine. The driver, who read lips well enough to know that an ambush was eminent, swerved.
Had Santa chosen any other vehicle as his chariot of destruction, Jeff would have been killed by the trick. The course change, however minimal, swung the truck out of the way. However, the vehicle was long, and since the driver was presumably under command not to leave the convoy unless it was an emergency, the transport was still close enough to grab onto, and Jeff found himself once again struggling to stay afloat on a deadly ocean of pavement.
“Damn you, Jeff, Damn you!” Doug growled, peering into the rearview mirror. “If he were any less coordinated...”
“He’s fine,” Brian reassured him. “He’s half arachnid. Let’s give him a hand.”
Still clutching the ladder, Jeff watched as the Mustang disappeared to the other side of the engine. Grabbing some minimal footing on the wall of the truck, Jeff collected his strength and swung himself up. His feet landed squarely on the roof of the engine, his hands grasping the rack of fire hose.
As expected, Saint Nick was thoroughly prepared for the onslaught, and had armed himself accordingly. The ax he held in his hands was of considerable heft, certainly not one issued for civil fire combat, and it was aimed precariously.
“You better be ready to use that, Gordo.” Jeff spoke softly, and was barely heard over the whistling of the wind. Santa deflated, but only for a second; within moments, the spark of ire burned furiously in his eyes.
“You don’t believe? You honestly don’t believe that I have the gumption or the courage to use this weapon? Consider this.
“Every year I take one night, span the globe and deliver packages of stolen electronics and poorly crafted sweaters to infants and insipid ingrates alike. They wait at their fireplaces for hours in hopes of detaining me, of stealing my wares and hoarding them for themselves. But do they catch me? Never. They always fall asleep.
“I enter silently, I eat their cookies, I fill their stockings. Do you know what I do then? When I know I’ve succeeded without being spotted, I cut them open from sternum to scrotum. I flay them, because they have broken the rules. I demand full worship from my followers for only one night, and I demand that it be in solitude.
“My orders are simple. The retribution for failure is great: do you know how many ‘Yuletide suicides’ can be attributed to my presence alone, much less my assisted hand?
“Do not be so grim. I know that you and your ilk have spent the eve of my corporeality in the dull glow of pixilated violence, spilling beer on tree and self alike, yearning to foil me. You dreamed of thwarting a sad, obese old man; you pined to beat a poor, noble elf to within an inch of his life. Know that I am none of those things, and know that violence is not a final resort, but a way of survival that I have singly adopted. I had, for centuries, accepted that I would be hunted for one night every year, and that it was my lot to stand for it.
“Until I was offered an opportunity.
“The latest release of gaming systems in the name of seasonal consumerism opened a chrono-loophole. I wouldn’t trust you to understand the physics behind it, but suffice it to say that a certain Jolly Old Elf came early this year. It was a matter of coincidence that I learned that I must devour man-veal to maintain corporeality.
“This was to be the end.
“In a guise of jovial, and, above all, holiday-themed fun, I opted to lead this parade to the toy-donation center. Because each of these trucks is filled with toys, and Santa is the harbinger of yuletide joy. Yes?
“Think again. These trucks, which number in the hundreds, are filled with children. The little princess I ate earlier is-forgive me. The little princess I ate earlier WAS just one of thousands. These trucks are PACKED with man-veal. And I am ushering them into Hell itself.
“Imagine planning a reception for a blood-thirsty cannibal, even if you did expect him to bring you an X-Box. No one would demand my appearance. The holiday would die. I would be free. Imagine it: freedom.
“Dispatching you to the netherworld will be a joy, Jeff. Surprised? Of course I know your name. I know many of things. They’re all written down in my book. And now, I encourage you to fight back. I encourage you to fear me.
I encourage you, above all, to believe.”
“Believe in deus ex machina, you cankerous, fur-lined freak,” Brian yelled, swinging a pink trainer above his head.
The handlebars caught Santa in the back of the skull. Jeff immediately seized the opportunity to unravel the fire hose and wrap it around the vulgar elf’s neck.
“YHAAARG!” Santa broiled, his face as red as his suit as his neck muscles strained against the hose. The backhand caught Brian off guard, who sailed toward the front of the engine. Brian turned around, and Santa was quite confused to find a grin on his face.
“You better not pout,” Brian screamed.
“You better not cry,” Jeff whispered.
The axe caught Santa high on his spine, and the blade stuck. The howl was beyond human, and with pitiful swings of his beefy arms, Santa struggled to dislodge the weapon. Jeff dove around him to Brian.
“Shove him off the back, count of three,” Jeff said.
“Three,” Brian responded, and the two of them forced the hatemonger over the rear of the fire engine, still tethered by the hose.
“Where’s Doug?” Jeff asked, wiping Santa’s blood and spinal fluid off his ripped and tattered blazer.
“Here, no thanks to you,” Doug called as he climbed the fire hose dangling off the back of the truck. He pulled himself up.
“This truck is full of children that Santa was going to eat,” Jeff said, motioning to a hatch in the roof. “I presume he’s keeping them in there.”
Brian lifted the lid.
“Shit. It’s toys,” Brian said.
“HEY GUYS,” Santa yelled. His hands gripped tightly around the rear railing, despite the blood that noticeably trailed and pooled on the roof of the truck. “MISS ME?”
In a flash of speed, Jeff reached into his pocket and lunged forward. A geyser erupted from the broken bottleneck planted in Kris Kringle’s chest. Doug’s kick caught Santa in the throat, where he staggered back and landed, once again, onto the roof of Doug’s Mustang.
“How the hell did that happen?” Jeff asked, peaking over the ledge.
“I have a chain in the glove box,” pointing to where the two bumpers were attached, “for situations such as this.”
“That’s for thinking you know more about physics than me, Santa,” Jeff said, spitting.
“Guys,” Brian hollered. The three looked to the front of the fire engine.
There was much to see. Once the truck had plowed through the cement barrier and the four lanes of oncoming traffic, there was only one more cement barrier to rend before the trio, clinging desperately to the engine, went sailing off the highway and down five stories to the streets below. The colors raced by them like music, until everything moved too quickly to feel or sense, and then there was darkness. The sound dissolved into vapid nothingness for what seemed to be forever, until a gentle female voice murmured there names.
“Did you guys hear that?” Jeff asked, stretching his neck and finding it pleasantly unbroken.
“I did,” Doug responded from very far away. He reached down, touching limbs and bits that he could have sworn, moments ago, were fusing with rock, metal, and plastic.
Brian simply nodded, his eyes closed.
“Boys,” the voice spoke.
“It’s so beautiful,” Jeff said dumbly.
“Boys,” came the voice again. The darkness around them rippled, and beyond them, brightness gathered. “I have to admit, I am not thrilled to see you.”
“You’re… but You can’t be.”
“But I am, Jeff. I am God.”
“You look like Grace Kelly,” Jeff stammered at the figure bathed in light.
“I am also Grace Kelly,” she spoke. She blinked, and it seemed as an eternity.
“Err. Then, You know about the, uh.”
“Yes. It is filthy, and the fact that you look at my picture makes it even worse. But I can look past such perversion.”
“That’s good,” Jeff said. “I mean, thank You.”
“Look,” Grace Kelly spoke solemnly and stoically, as is appropriate of One who is the Lord. “You guys messed up. Santa was bad, but you were not supposed to have been killed by one of his cronies.”
“What did we do wrong, Your Grace?” Doug humbled himself to one knee.
“Nothing. All is as it should be. Consider this… a spiritual pit stop.”
“You desire our meager services?” Brian spoke. His eyes remained closed.
“It has been written so, in a book that is many pages long, and one of My own devising. You will return. I need you for one more task.”
“Anything, Your Grace,” the three spoke in unison.
“If there is nothing else, I will return you,” She addressed.
“One thing,” Jeff mumbled.
“Jeff-”
“It is alright, Brian. I already know what he is about to ask. The answer is this: would I not be greedy if I had received 2 Academy Awards for Best Actress?”
“Oh. Duh.”
“Yes, Jeff. Duh. Goodbye, and may My will be done.”
For a long while, there was only darkness.
Out of the darkness, a star appeared.
It was, truly, a Christmas miracle.
Now, read PART 2 and PART 3!