Forty-Fifth Paradox Writing

The gun cocked as he raised it toward her. “Give me your money.” His eyes stared at her own eyes firmly, holding an empty sack in his hands.

The room stood empty, everyone else had fled the moment the gun came out. Unfortunately, the barista had to earn her wages, and so she stayed. “No.” She drummed one set of fingers on the counter, while she hid the other set from view.

“Don’t make me shoot.” His eyes narrowed, as sweat began to trickle down his left temple.

“Don’t make me.” Her hidden hand pulled out her own gun, which she used to mirror his actions.

His gun thudded to the floor as his feet swept through the door as fast as they could take him.

She set down the gun and picked up the phone, dialing the police. With a unshaken voice she told the dispatcher the details of her latest adventure. “You might want to arrest this guy before I have to use my Christmas present on him. I’d hate to have to waste this ammo.”

“I think we should’ve turned right three palm trees ago.” The sand rustled along the hooves, and two of the riders tightened the cloths covering their mouths.

“Three, huh.”

“Yeah, three. That one by that mountain.”

“You call that a mountain? That was more like a foothill!”

“Um…I think my cammel needs to pee.”

The others glanced at him, their turbans billowing in the dessert wind. Still, they didn’t stop just yet.

One sighed, the narrow band of gold circling his turban glinting in the moonlight. “I suppose he didn’t need to when we were at that oasis not to long ago.”

“Not at all.” The second answered, scrutinizing his robes of fine scarlet while his skin tried to match their hue.

“Hm, well, we could always try the next one.” The third added optimistically, trying to juggle his star chart and his looking glass.

“I’m sure there won’t be one for another few days. You should’ve checked your camel while you had the chance.”

“I did! I swear, no signs at all of any… potential leakage.”

“You sure we couldn’t just take a break? I’m feeling a little tired myself.”

“We can’t. That camel will be doing its business until the moon wanes at this rate. We’re already late.”

“Oh come on. That child has waited for over a year now, it’s not like he’s still waiting in some manger for our gifts.”

“I don’t know..this myrrh might spoil, or that frankincense. It’s not like gold, you know.”

Inspired by Clement Clarke Moore’s classic poem, also titled “A Visit from St. Nicholas”

Twas the Night Before Christmas

When all through the flat,

Not a creature was stirring,

Not even the cat.

The stockings were hung by the heater with care,

Lighting the filthy fireplace we wouldn’t dare.

The parents were snuggled and warm in their beds

While visions of school-buses drove in their heads.

My mother in her pjs and dad in his shirt

Had just dozed off, to sleep off dessert.

When out on the street there rose such a racket,

I sprang from my desk and threw on my jacket.

Away to the window I zipped like the Flash,

Looking outside, expecting a car crash.

I saw street lights reflected on fresh-fallen rain,

Damp moss, slick roads, and rusted road drains.

And what, to my wandering eyes should appear,

But a hovering motor home and eight hybrid reindeer.

With a weighty old driver, yet so lively and slick,

I knew in a moment he thought himself Saint Nick.

More wild than bikers on their cycles he came,

And his sleeves held more tricks than a cheating card game!

“Oh darn it, oh darn it. I think it’s broken.”

He swore. “the shop’ll be closed in the mornin’.”

He glanced at the house, at the door, and the top of the wall,

and spotted the tools for an overhaul.

As burglars check for cameras before they break in,

“Santa” checked the perimeter with a flick of his chin.

So up to the front door quietly he sneaked,

Except for when the floorboards creaked.

And then in the rustling I heard at the door,

The scratching and grinding of jams and bores.

As I grabbed Dad’s gun, and was turning around,

Through the front door Santa came in a bound.

He was dressed in dark red,  from his head to his boot,

And his clothes were all trashed with grease and soot.

A bag of plunder he slung on his back,

And he looked just like a beggar, just opening his sack.

His eyes, they darkened, his wrinkles were sinister.

His cheeks were like canyons, his nose like a mountain.

His thin lips were creased like paper,

And the beard of his chin was ashen like slush.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,

Smoke poked my throat like thorns in a wreath.

He had a small face and a bouncing round belly,

That shook when he laughed, and he made the room smelly.

He was chubby and fat, a right creepy old fart,

And I hacked when I saw him, and it gave him a start.

A wink of his eyes, and a twist of his head,

Soon told me to know I had everything to dread.

He said not a word, and set to his work,

and ate the milk and cookies, the old jerk!

Stepping too close to the sensors beside his nose,

He set the alarms blaring, in mid-bite he froze!

He sprang out the door, wrapped tool box in hand,

and tried the engine to get out of this land.

But I heard the sirens, and smirked as he stood in plain sight,

and watched them arrest him on that cold winter night.

Creeeeeeeeeeeeak.

My eyes widened, followed by my head jerking in the direction of the my parents bedroom door. Why would either of them be coming out right now? They couldn’t possibly be involved with the Santa Claus conspiracy, could they? Then my eyes almost fell out of my face. This couldn’t be right. The jolly man-in-red had to come down through the chimney according to all my sources. Yet right now, Santa came through my parent’s bedroom door.

The heart inside my chest beat faster than my mom’s mixer as I verged on panicking. Now, due to my grave miscalculations…the marble trap would be on the wrong side of the room! Being the nine year old that I was, I only could think of one thing I could do: I tackled Santa Claus. Mind you, such a feat would be impossible for any nine year old but the most determined. Unfortunately, I only managed to get an uninvited piggy-back ride.

The surprised yell that I heard from Santa’s mouth sounded familiar, but I didn’t notice too much. Santa staggered backwards, and I pulling the red cap over his eyes. I swung off his shoulders as he hit the wall, falling to the floor. Pacing the room as his vision cleared, I rehearsed my questions one last time, and then I gave my performance for Santa Claus to hear.

“So…who are you really, Mr. Claus? No lying this time. I know your secrets!” I asked, challengingly, pacing back at forth.

Santa just sat there, blinking.

“Tell me.” I narrowed my eyes, using my deepest, most menacing voice. At the time though, my best voice still sounded like a nine year old kid. Maybe since this Santa guy hung around elves all the time he wouldn’t know what a proper voice would sound like.

And still Santa stared.

I glared. Rather than wait for his answer, I yanked off his hat. Then I staggered back as I saw the man underneath the hat. Even with the white beard, I still recognized him: my dad. The implications of such a revelation stopped my breath short. Were all the stories of Santa and his eight tiny reindeer false? Did my dad go to all the trouble to dress up as Santa to fool me? What about the Santa Claus at the mall? Was he a fake too? Who was the real Santa Claus…if anyone at all?

Being the highly intelligent, straight A’d student nine year old that I was, I could only come to one conclusion: “You really are Santa Claus, aren’t you?” It explained everything.

I knelt behind the couch on the night before Christmas. My parents had gone to bed, leaving the one person wide-awake in the house: me. Keeping a yawn at bay, my eyes fell to my bulging cargo pant pockets. This year I wouldn’t be caught asleep. Of course…I wouldn’t be caught awake either. Smirking like a cat on the hunt, I knew only one person would be caught doing anything this Christmas Eve: Santa Clause.

It’s amazing how special nights like this one can teach a kid about what he wants to do with his life. I knew that night I had found my calling: espionage. Well, either espionage or bounty hunting, but espionage sounded cooler when I could say it right. That night I came equipped with the flash light that came in my kids meal, the decoder ring that I dug out of a snack box, and the only weapon I could get my hands on at the age of nine: marbles.

I carefully selected clear marbles and marbles that would blend in with the hard wood floor. Santa would not get past me this year. You see, I had my suspicions about this guy who supposedly went around every Christmas Eve and trespassed into childrens’ homes and left suspiciously wrapped boxes with toys inside. At the least, each “present” arrived at the bottom of the tree carefully labeled with each kid’s name, an invasion of privacy as far as I knew. Not to mention this guy somehow managed to remember the items on every kid’s wish list, and I logically concluded that Mr. Claus had a database with information on every kid he delivered to. How else would he know who had been naughty and who had been nice?

Every ten minutes I checked the milk to make sure it would be warm enough to make Santa fall asleep as he drank it. I figured if I could knock him out long enough, I could tie him up and give him a proper interrogation. How long would it take him to get here, I wondered. Obviously, with all the homes on the planet Earth, and all the distance he had to cover, Santa must’ve acquired (illegally of course) a time altering device from the military. After All, how could St. Nick afford such equipment when he spent his entire year making toys and then giving them away?

Finally, I heard the thump on the roof, followed by more thumping. I crawled farther into position, in wait. I aimed my camera at the fire place, ready for any forced entry by the fat man. Creeeeeeeeeeeeak.