Santa - Judgement Day Full podcast here: (5th story) Bonus Christmas podcast story here!
Read by Rich Keeble
‘Merry Christmas, motherf**kers. Here I co-ome!’
The wind ripped away Square Jaw’s yell as he dived from the stealth bomber and into the belly of the Mexican night sky. Two thousand feet below, the lake was a silver puddle, a second moon. S.J. hugged his Takana sniper rifle tighter to his chest. He was diving into the moon, a Christmas eve angel of death. A Wenceslas warrior. ‘Yeeeeha!’
At eight hundred feet above the villa where Hector Cabello and his cartel leaders were gathered, he pulled the release ring. But before the canopy fully opened, his feet smashed into something solid. His knees jammed into his chest and he was slammed onto on his back.
For a moment he just lay looking up at the stars while he caught his breath. His legs were bent so far over his head that his knees were touching his ears. The moon swayed as the platform, or whatever it was he had landed on, gently rocked. Absurdly, he thought he could hear the snort of animals and the tinkle of bells.
Specialist Fort Bragg training kicked in. S.J. chopped Arm-Nuzzler between the eyes. It gave a yelp and was gone. An elbow-jab to the left nostril dropped Cheek-Licker out of sight. Jerking his legs forward, S.J. sprang up and delivered a head-butt on Red-Nose. Before the creatures could recover, S.J. was on his feet, his unslung rifle on automatic.
‘Back off you mothers!’ he yelled.
Straining against their harnesses and rattling their bells, the mothers backed off. S.J. staggered as the wind caught his canopy. His chest tightened as he looked over the rim of the platform and saw that the lake was still at least six hundred feet below. He hit the release button and his canopy ghosted into the night.
S.J. realised that he was standing in a frigging sled. The only other occupant was this old, white-bearded guy in a red suit, half-buried in a pile of silver, foil-wrapped boxes. S.J. looked up, searching for the means of support that kept the sled suspended above the lake. There was no Chinook or any other form of delivery vehicle, just the pale, mocking moon.
The harnessed animals floated in a disorganized group a little way from the sled. The one with the big red nose and watering eyes flashed him a hurt look. Then the guy in the fancy dress outfit groaned.
‘OK, grandpa.’ S.J. poked his rifle into the guy’s considerable belly. ‘What’s the scenario?’
‘Scenario?’ the old guy said, rubbing his head and pushing his hood lop-sided.
‘Spill the beans or I’ll spill ya guts!’ said S.J.
The guy seemed not to hear, just shook his head and muttered, ‘Too much brandy and too many pies.’
Way below the sled, white and red lights flashed, accompanied by a distant crackling like burning logs.
‘Oh look,’ the old guy exclaimed. ‘A party!’
‘Just tell me what’s going on here.’ S.J. demanded. ‘And make it quick.’
‘Oh my,’ the old guy said as he stumbled back, looking at the sled floor. ‘Some of the aftershave prezzies have come loose.’ He picked up a cylindrical orange object with a skull and crossbones on the side. ‘I don’t remember bringing this brand. I wonder what it smells like?’
‘Don’t pull that pin!’ yelled S.J.
‘Don’t what?’ asked the old guy, the pin in his left hand and the cylinder in his right. S.J. swung the butt of his rifle, sending the stun grenade and a chunk of knuckle-skin into the night. The darkness was ruptured by a searing white light and thunderous crash. S.J. and the old guy tumbled among the boxes as the sled rocked in the aftermath of the explosion. Something rolled against S.J.’s leg. Fearful of losing his last stun grenade, he grabbed the object and thrust it into his pocket.
There was a loud bang and something clattered against the underside of the sled.
‘Ooooh goody, fireworks,’ the old guy declared, looking over the side. The animals were becoming skittish. The nose of the lead creature glowed like a giant traffic light stuck on red as it glared with clear resentment at S.J.
A streak of flaming orange whooshed behind the sled and erupted into a fire-ball.
‘Yoo hoo!’ the old guy called and waved his arms at the revellers below.
‘It’s anti-aircraft, dumbass!’ called S.J. He yanked the old guy from the edge. ‘They’re trying to take us out.’
Another explosion, closer this time. The sled jerked forward as the animals careered off in a wild gallop.
‘Easy Rudy,’ the old guy pleaded, then dived on top of S.J. as a line of orange fire-balls arced toward them. A blue light flashed on S.J.’s wrist console. A recorded voice squawked from the ear-piece which now dangled loosely on his chest.
‘Warning! Warning! Pending missile attack.’
‘Well, sheee-it!’ S.J. shoved the old guy away. ‘Got to take evasive action.’ He began ripping handfuls of foil from the parcels.
‘Stop. It’s not Christmas morning yet!’ protested the old guy.
S.J. tore the foil from a particularly large box that was found to contain a life-size inflatable Donald Trump. S.J. threw the shredded foil into the darkness and saw the fiery launch of another missile.
‘Are you mad?’ the old guy exclaimed.
‘Chaff!’ S.J. shouted. ‘To confuse their radar.’
A thousand lions roared in the night. The sled was almost overturned by the streak of fire that ripped through the sky just metres away. The animals went wild, tugging at their harnesses to the jingle of bells. S.J. brandished his fist at the diminishing glow.
‘Ha. Missed. Ya motherf …’
The missile turned.
‘Should it be doing that?’ the old guy asked.
S.J. watched in dismay as the missile rushed toward them. ‘Goddammit,’ said S.J. flatly. ‘It must be heat-seeking. But what the frig have we got up here that’s hot enough for it to lock on to?’ He looked at Rudy. Rudy glared back at him. ‘Ah ha!’ S.J. took aim at the red nose. Before he could shoot, the flash of an explosion drove a storm of searing lights into his brain. The blast shattered the sled beneath his feet.
He was falling. The moon raced around in crazy circles. A Niagara of air raged about him but changed in tone as he threw out his arms and stabilized his descent by using the webbed arms of his glider suit.
The moon stopped spinning and he could see the lake, much larger now, rushing up to meet him. A faintly glowing nugget dropped past, arcing down like a little red meteor. S.J. was pleased that at least the missile had scored a direct hit on Red Nose.
His already pumping heart quickened as the outline of the villa became clearer. S.J. grinned defiantly, and mentally reciting the mantra, ‘For God and Country’, he aimed himself towards the lighted ground floor window.
S.J. missed the window, instead demolishing the glazed front door and taking out the armed heavy guarding the entrance. The thick fur rug on which he landed hurtled across the highly polished hall floor, converting gravitational force into a horizontal skid.
Fifteen black-suited goons leapt up from their chairs around the long table as S.J., screaming and swaddled in a tiger skin, cannoned in on them. A complete brake was put on his forward motion when he crashed into the wooden panelling beside the stone fireplace.
By the time S.J.’s consciousness had returned enough to block the evacuation signal his brain was sending to his bowels, the heavies had him covered with a multitude of armament. A smart-alec voice in the back of S.J.’s head said ‘Well, shee-it.’
A furious clattering followed by a billow of soot diverted all eyes to the fireplace. The old guy howled as he embedded into the blazing logs. Then he howled again and leapt off, landing spread-eagled before Hector Cabello at the head of the table. A box tumbled out of the old guy’s arms and burst open at Hector’s feet. In a hiss of compressed air, Donald J Trump slowly filled out before the amazed onlookers. A speaker inside the dummy crackled. ‘Fake news. It’s all fake news’. Hector flashed a smile.
‘And to think,’ he growled, ‘I never believed this hombre was real.’
S.J. saw his chance. His fingers closed around the stun grenade in his pocket. The flash would give him the vital seconds he needed to grab a weapon, then it would all be over. Mission accomplished.
In just one heartbeat S.J. launched his attack. With both hands to his ears, and eyes clamped shut, he waited for the explosion.
The black suits were stunned all right. They all stared, baffled by the can of David Beckham “Intimately” deodorant slowly spinning on the floor before them.
S.J. was just wondering if maybe something had gone wrong when he heard the old guy’s quivering voice.
‘Ho, ho, ho. M … merry Christmas e … every…one?’
S.J. heard a series of metallic clicks. Steel ratchetting against the pull of powerful springs, and then that damn smart-alec voice inside his head saying ‘Well, shee-i-’
(c) Dennis Zaslona, 2018
Ha ha, gasp, oooh! These are the reactions that Dennis hopes his stories for adults and children evoke, rather than zzzzz. His work has muscled its way onto local radio stations, internet story sites and into the BBC Writers' Room. More info on: www.denniszaslonawriter.com.
This year Rich Keeble has worked with Martin Clunes, Keith Lemon, Steve Pemberton & Reece Shearsmith, Daniel Mays, Susan Wokoma, David Mitchell, Harry Enfield, Gemma Whelan, Greg Davies, David Walliams, Frances Barber, Bill Bailey, and Idris Elba. But that's nothing compared to performing at Liars' League (where he won the award for Most Valuable Player - Acting in 2018).
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