2014-12-24 07:54:40 ET|
He's sitting at the bar, nursing a shot of tequila. His phone rings. And rings. And rings.
"You gonna get that?", the bartender asks.
"I'm letting it go to voicemail."
"Because it's the fat fuck calling me again,"
"You're drunk, Rudolph. Don't go talking shit about Santa, again."
"And why can't I? The fat piece of shit doesn't give a rat's ass about me."
"Oh yeah? Well what about that song? That made it sound like you really saved the day."
"I hate that fucking song and everyone who sings it. Bloody idiots."
Rudolph downs the whole shot glass in one fell swoop, wipes his mouth with his hoof, and keeps right on talking.
"Don't those idiots understand what that song means?"
The bartender is wiping down glasses. He looks back up at Rudolph. "Well what does that song mean anyway?"
"It means you can get the shit beaten out of you by the other reindeer every night. Pissed on. Fed scraps of shoe leather until you're wasting away and dying. It means you've cried so much that your tear ducts are as dry as a whorehouse in the Sahara. And does the fat man say anything? Fuck no. But, suddenly, the headlights go out on his sled and it's 'Rudolph, we need you so much! Your red nose saved Christmas! You'll go down in history, Rudolph!'. Story of my fucking life,"
"You believed him?"
"Of course, I believed him! What's even more fucked up is I *wanted* to believe him! I was a goddamn stupid reindeer, lost and without hope. And he finally gave me a purpose. A reason. And, for a brief, shining moment I was happy. Happy to be wanted. Happy to be part of the gang. And then, when the sleigh ride was over, he threw me away just like whatever random piece of elf ass he fucks every night."
"You're goddamn right. And you know what the most fucked up thing about it was?"
"There were no presents. Not a single fucking gift in the whole bag."
"You mean it was all coal?"
"No, I mean the fuck doesn't deliver any presents on Christmas Eve. He doesn't visit any houses. It's the parents that buy all the gifts! He just takes the credit."
"So where does he go then?"
"He flies off to Colombia. He's got a guy there - 'Dirty Sanchez', they call him. He packs Santa's bag full of cocaine and the fat bastard pays him with all the money his endorsement deals with Pepsi and all those toy companies and whatnot made him. Why do you think he's so anxious to fly out? There's no fucking way he can visit, what, a billion households in one night? It's a fucking fairy tale."
The bartender arches his eyebrow.
"So, what you're telling me, is that Santa Claus is just a big, rich cokehead?"
"That's exactly what the fuck I'm telling you. Shit. Can I get another shot?"
The bartender pours him some more tequila.
"Thanks. Listen, all he does when he gets back home is strip down to his piss-stained tightie whities and his 'Real Men Come In The Chimney' t-shirt and snort a fuckload of cocaine."
"And what does Mrs. Claus think of all this?"
"Oh, that's the best part. No one knows where she is."
"What do you mean no one knows where she is?"
"I mean exactly that. No one knows where she is. One day she got sick and tired of cleaning up after Santa's shit so she let him have it right in front of all the reindeer and elves. Fucking went on for an hour. Throwing shit left and right. And the fat man just kept getting redder and redder. That night, I pretended to sleep but, and I swear on my grave that this is true..."
"I swear I heard both of them leave at something like two in the morning. And then an hour later the door opens again and I could hear Santa muttering under his breath 'Ho, ho, ho, bitch.'"
"You think Santa killed her?"
"All I'm saying is, it's real easy to hide bloodstains on a red suit." replies Rudolph as he downs his tequila.
The bartender is silent for a few moments. Then...
"Did you tell the police?"
"I tried. That's when I found out there's no police department in the world with jurisdiction over the North Pole. You'd think there'd be an elf police department or something. But even then, it'd be futile."
"Because Santa's fucked enough elves that half of them are related to him somehow. If they were police I doubt they'd listen to me. It'd be like going against one of their own."
"So what are you going to do?"
"I don't know. I thought about killing myself, you know. Just throw myself in the ice and end it all. But I didn't have the nerve. Like that one ember in a dead campfire that refuses to go out. So a few days ago I decided to stop feeling sorry for myself. I don't care if I've been treated like shit. There are others... *were* others that had it worse. It's real easy to hide bodies when all around you is a barren, snowy wasteland. Anyway, I've made my decision."
"Yeah. I wrote down everything that happened. Every goddamn detailed bit. Anything I could remember I put down on paper. And then I sent copies to every television station around the globe. It was easy too. Turns out Santa gets free postage."
"Do you think he knows?"
"I think he suspects. That's why he's calling me all of a sudden. He knows something's up. He just doesn't know what that something is."
"Well what are you going to tell him?"
"Tell him? I'm not going to tell him shit. As soon as I'm done steeling myself with tequila, I'm hopping on the next flight over to South America. I've got a hankering that Dirty Sanchez has quite a few outstanding warrants over there. Maybe, this Christmas I can kill Santa's coke connection. That should throw a fucking monkey wrench into his Christmas plans. And good luck flying that sled, you fat fuck! Your lazy ass never even fixed the headlights!"
The bartender shook his head in disbelief. Then sighed and reached over for the tequila bottle.
"Here you go, Rudolph. This one's on me. And listen, if even half of what you told me is true, I hope they put that jolly fuck away for a long time."
"I don't know what to say... Thanks."
"Good luck, Rudolph. You'll go down in history."