Santa’s Secret Life - - A Nearly Christmas Tory
copyright 2003 – Murphy
The story is simple. I was hanging out with the Fat Fan and his main squeeze at Casa del Santa in Monaco one hot August weekend, when the bet was made.
"Hey Murph! Put down the machine gun and listen up! I'll bet you my Christmas Eve ride that I can out shoot you ‑ short and long range. We'll compete at my shamelessly expensive, palatial and private, indoor rifle range at the North Pole this November.”
The Fat Man was nothing if not entertaining!
“I'll supply the goodies. You know, the booze, girls, food, yadda, yadda. Just show up with the rifle of your choice and we'll do it!"
Santa was so subtle. Lucky for him that the Missus wasn't around. I wasn't sure of the Fat Man. He said that I could bring any rifle of my choosing. Yeah? But what did he have up his sleeve?
"Any rifle, eh Fats? Okay. You're on. BUT, no magic or tricks from you or the elves. This has got to be a one on one shootout. And you use the same rifle I do."
"No problem! I'll send one of the elves to get you. Probably one of the idiots that sucks up to my wife. Don't be surprised if he talks your ear off. If they didn't do such a good job in the work shop, I'd have canned the lot of 'em years ago."
And with that, I took off to the beach to check out the ladies.
---
Fast forward to the first Saturday of November. I was waiting to be picked up and had selected my favourite rifle. A customized Lee Enfield bolt action rifle. It was a Canadian made Long Branch, made in 1950, complete with an aftermarket trigger, bedded and accurized. I even decorated the stock with red dingle balls to give it a trashy, Christmasy look.
At one in the afternoon, the elf came. When he was finished, he knocked on my door. They really are disgusting creatures.
"Hey Bud, I'm here to pick yas up and deliver you the Fat Man! You ready?"
Quaint. Mugsy the perverted elf was picking me up.
"Yeah shorty, let's go. Hey, are you old enough to have a sled license?" He was a typical pukey, post Christmas elf. A slob in the best traditions of sloth. Unshaven, smelly and smoking a Havana.
"Watch your mouth! I'm old enough to be your grandfather. Get in the sleigh and no wise cracks!"
Yeah, like I was so intimidated by the little jerk.
"Do me a favour, sh!thead,” I said, getting into the back. “Drive the sleigh and keep quiet. And while you're at it, treat yourself and spray this on. You stink like a mile high pile of elephant turds!" And I tossed some Liquid Plumber at him.
After that, no words were spoken. He made like the good underling and just wrangled the reindeer. It wasn't long before we arrived at the North Pole.
After we landed, I thanked the punk for the ride and pushed him into a fresh pile of steaming reindeer poop. It was my way of tipping him and improving his personal hygiene.
"Later," was all I said as I headed toward the main house.
The place was magnificent. It was huge and decorated with all sorts of art treasures Santa had appropriated over the years on his Christmas visits. As I stood there admiring what he pilfered, a voice broke the silence.
"Hey Bub. I seen Spunky bring yous in. You must be Murphy. I'll take ya to the wet bar and we'll fix ya up. You packin'?"
I was beginning to see why these elves aggravated the Fat Man so much. They sounded like actors out of an old, American gangster film. I guess being little affected them.
"Am I packing? Do you mean, am I carrying a concealed weapon? Yes. I have a permit. Why?
The elf walked up to me and yelled at my knee. "The big guy don't like no heaters in the house! Give it to me now!"
So I kicked him in the 'nads. Idiot.
"Thanks,” I said, "But I'll make my own drink. You just lie there and sleep it off."
You have to see the Fat Man's bar. The place isn't decorated like in the movies. Game heads and photos line the walls. No Christmas stuff anywhere. The only way that you can even tell that it's his room is by looking at some of the pictures. They were taken in Africa somewhere, with him drunk and laid out on the bar in his red suit.
There must have been some kink that went with the job too. After about five minutes, this elf came in. Maybe you're thinking, what's wrong with that? This was what was wrong - he was dressed in skin tight red leather shorts and no shirt. And there were two holes cut in the back of his shorts, revealing more than I cared to know about him.
When he talked, he sounded very...effeminate.
"Santa will be with you shortly. He's just finished his midday massage."
Then the little guy wiped some oil off his hands and walked away. I didn't want to know...
I wandered over to his photo wall and began snooping. Santa with Richard Nixon. Santa golfing with Pierre Trudeau. Santa and Teddy Roosevelt shooting wild horses. Santa and Hermann Goering. (I know. I don't get it either.)
The Fat Man quietly walked into the bar.
"Sorry to have kept you so long. I love a good massage. Slimy is my personal assistant. He has such marvelous fingers! I'll introduce you to him sometime..."
"No, it's okay, Fats. Does he always wear red leather?"
"Oh yes! The wife insists that all the elves wear something Christmasy. Anyway, finish your drink and we'll head over to the range. I had it enclosed a couple of years ago so that I can shoot all year long. Did you bring your rifle?"
Of course. I try not to shoot with loaners. You remember the year I worked in Tangiers?" Santa nodded. "I borrowed a pistol from the cops. When I ran into a bit of trouble in the Casbah, the stupid thing wouldn't work!"
The Fat Man slowly shook his head and stared at the floor. "Yes, I remember. I was going to stroke you off my naughty and nice list. You were lucky."
That memory won't go away soon.
"Lucky? Yeah, two fat Turks and a couple of angry dogs almost had me. Good that I had my men's "Stiletto heels" on that day. One of your better gifts to me I'd say..."
"Yes. I think a man such as yourself ‑ a man of international intrigue and adventure ‑ should have things like that. Do you still have the St Christopher garotte medal from last year?"
That one puzzled me when I got it. "Yeah, but a choker disguised as a religious symbol? That one really confused me!"
"The answer is simple, Murph. Saint Christopher lost his status with the Church, so I figured that it was okay. You know, they've started making knock off "Chrissy Garottes". Cheap, off shore stuff. I don't think that it would hold together if needed."
The conversation went on for a while as we headed out to the range. We came to a set of glass double doors that were blacked out.
"This is the place. Spunky should have delivered your rifle and gear to the attendant. Let's go inside and have some fun!
The place looked Bohemian. There were statues of naked Greek and Roman men, medieval weapons of war, and the regular assortment of armour, chains, axes and cannons. Along the walls of the range itself were hundreds of works of art that Santa had appropriated over the years. Paintings, sculptures, pottery, finely crafted wooden objects encrusted with precious stones and more. This stuff was worth millions of dollars.
“Quite the collection, Fats. Where’d you get all this junk?” I never figured Santa as the type that would have such a large display of weapons and Renaissance porn. Obviously Mrs. Claus did not come in here.
“Oh, this? It’s just things that I’ve collected over the years. You know, people are such idiots. I can get into any building or room on the planet. You’d think that if a person had valuables, they wouldn’t leave them out on display for me to steal. Mind you, my reputation as a nice guy has been the greatest opportunity since aliens started landing and hunting humans here around 600 BC.”
“And how do you know about aliens? I suppose they just wandered over and introduced themselves?”
Fats gave me one of those, ‘you’re such a naïve idiot’ looks, rolled his eyes and said,
“Of course. I suppose that you’re going to say that you’re surprised that the earth has visitors? Haven’t you seen that movie Predator? That’s the one where an alien lands on earth and hunts any human who carries a weapon. Guess what? It’s not as science fiction as you think. The screenplay was written by offworlders working in California.”
I guess the look on my face told the tale. Was I surprised? Oh yeah! But the story didn’t stop there.
“Listen, let’s get everything set up and talk at the same time. Yep, offworlders have been poking, stealing, gutting and stewing homo sapiens and other species for, oh, about 2500 years I guess. No big deal.”
“Maybe not for you! I take it that they leave you alone then?” I was flabbergasted!
“Certainly. They are not the brutal, cold‑blooded killers you know. What humans just don’t seem to understand is that they look upon Homo sapiens in the same way that you look upon a dog or a farm animal. In other words, like a pet or something. If it really worries you, I’ll ask them to leave you alone. At last count, there were travelers from seven different planets visiting the earth.”
"This is too weird! You’re just making this story up to put me off my shooting. It won’t work you know. I’ll find my happy place and be into the groove within seconds.”
And with that I started shooting.
Now the Fat Man could be a jerk at times, but one thing that I learned long ago was that he rarely lied. You couldn’t always trust that he would make an appointment on time or speak nicely about you, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard him lie to my face. Aliens, eh? Well, I’ll be a horse’s pa‑tout!
The morning progressed much as I expected. I trounced his fat behind with a score of 250 – 10X. The Kodak moment came when he missed a bull and I cackled like joy smitten witch. One of the elves got a picture of his miss on video. That’s something that the Fat Man won’t live down for a while.
Winning the shoot meant that I got to take the sleigh out for a spin and drive it on his Christmas Eve run.
The Fat Man’s quite a guy. He does nothing all year, has others make his toys and gets all the credit. On top of all that, he only works one shift and gets so worn out that he has to take the next twelve months off. It sounds like government work to me.
Talk about having the world by the a$$!
copyright 2003 – Murphy
The story is simple. I was hanging out with the Fat Fan and his main squeeze at Casa del Santa in Monaco one hot August weekend, when the bet was made.
"Hey Murph! Put down the machine gun and listen up! I'll bet you my Christmas Eve ride that I can out shoot you ‑ short and long range. We'll compete at my shamelessly expensive, palatial and private, indoor rifle range at the North Pole this November.”
The Fat Man was nothing if not entertaining!
“I'll supply the goodies. You know, the booze, girls, food, yadda, yadda. Just show up with the rifle of your choice and we'll do it!"
Santa was so subtle. Lucky for him that the Missus wasn't around. I wasn't sure of the Fat Man. He said that I could bring any rifle of my choosing. Yeah? But what did he have up his sleeve?
"Any rifle, eh Fats? Okay. You're on. BUT, no magic or tricks from you or the elves. This has got to be a one on one shootout. And you use the same rifle I do."
"No problem! I'll send one of the elves to get you. Probably one of the idiots that sucks up to my wife. Don't be surprised if he talks your ear off. If they didn't do such a good job in the work shop, I'd have canned the lot of 'em years ago."
And with that, I took off to the beach to check out the ladies.
---
Fast forward to the first Saturday of November. I was waiting to be picked up and had selected my favourite rifle. A customized Lee Enfield bolt action rifle. It was a Canadian made Long Branch, made in 1950, complete with an aftermarket trigger, bedded and accurized. I even decorated the stock with red dingle balls to give it a trashy, Christmasy look.
At one in the afternoon, the elf came. When he was finished, he knocked on my door. They really are disgusting creatures.
"Hey Bud, I'm here to pick yas up and deliver you the Fat Man! You ready?"
Quaint. Mugsy the perverted elf was picking me up.
"Yeah shorty, let's go. Hey, are you old enough to have a sled license?" He was a typical pukey, post Christmas elf. A slob in the best traditions of sloth. Unshaven, smelly and smoking a Havana.
"Watch your mouth! I'm old enough to be your grandfather. Get in the sleigh and no wise cracks!"
Yeah, like I was so intimidated by the little jerk.
"Do me a favour, sh!thead,” I said, getting into the back. “Drive the sleigh and keep quiet. And while you're at it, treat yourself and spray this on. You stink like a mile high pile of elephant turds!" And I tossed some Liquid Plumber at him.
After that, no words were spoken. He made like the good underling and just wrangled the reindeer. It wasn't long before we arrived at the North Pole.
After we landed, I thanked the punk for the ride and pushed him into a fresh pile of steaming reindeer poop. It was my way of tipping him and improving his personal hygiene.
"Later," was all I said as I headed toward the main house.
The place was magnificent. It was huge and decorated with all sorts of art treasures Santa had appropriated over the years on his Christmas visits. As I stood there admiring what he pilfered, a voice broke the silence.
"Hey Bub. I seen Spunky bring yous in. You must be Murphy. I'll take ya to the wet bar and we'll fix ya up. You packin'?"
I was beginning to see why these elves aggravated the Fat Man so much. They sounded like actors out of an old, American gangster film. I guess being little affected them.
"Am I packing? Do you mean, am I carrying a concealed weapon? Yes. I have a permit. Why?
The elf walked up to me and yelled at my knee. "The big guy don't like no heaters in the house! Give it to me now!"
So I kicked him in the 'nads. Idiot.
"Thanks,” I said, "But I'll make my own drink. You just lie there and sleep it off."
You have to see the Fat Man's bar. The place isn't decorated like in the movies. Game heads and photos line the walls. No Christmas stuff anywhere. The only way that you can even tell that it's his room is by looking at some of the pictures. They were taken in Africa somewhere, with him drunk and laid out on the bar in his red suit.
There must have been some kink that went with the job too. After about five minutes, this elf came in. Maybe you're thinking, what's wrong with that? This was what was wrong - he was dressed in skin tight red leather shorts and no shirt. And there were two holes cut in the back of his shorts, revealing more than I cared to know about him.
When he talked, he sounded very...effeminate.
"Santa will be with you shortly. He's just finished his midday massage."
Then the little guy wiped some oil off his hands and walked away. I didn't want to know...
I wandered over to his photo wall and began snooping. Santa with Richard Nixon. Santa golfing with Pierre Trudeau. Santa and Teddy Roosevelt shooting wild horses. Santa and Hermann Goering. (I know. I don't get it either.)
The Fat Man quietly walked into the bar.
"Sorry to have kept you so long. I love a good massage. Slimy is my personal assistant. He has such marvelous fingers! I'll introduce you to him sometime..."
"No, it's okay, Fats. Does he always wear red leather?"
"Oh yes! The wife insists that all the elves wear something Christmasy. Anyway, finish your drink and we'll head over to the range. I had it enclosed a couple of years ago so that I can shoot all year long. Did you bring your rifle?"
Of course. I try not to shoot with loaners. You remember the year I worked in Tangiers?" Santa nodded. "I borrowed a pistol from the cops. When I ran into a bit of trouble in the Casbah, the stupid thing wouldn't work!"
The Fat Man slowly shook his head and stared at the floor. "Yes, I remember. I was going to stroke you off my naughty and nice list. You were lucky."
That memory won't go away soon.
"Lucky? Yeah, two fat Turks and a couple of angry dogs almost had me. Good that I had my men's "Stiletto heels" on that day. One of your better gifts to me I'd say..."
"Yes. I think a man such as yourself ‑ a man of international intrigue and adventure ‑ should have things like that. Do you still have the St Christopher garotte medal from last year?"
That one puzzled me when I got it. "Yeah, but a choker disguised as a religious symbol? That one really confused me!"
"The answer is simple, Murph. Saint Christopher lost his status with the Church, so I figured that it was okay. You know, they've started making knock off "Chrissy Garottes". Cheap, off shore stuff. I don't think that it would hold together if needed."
The conversation went on for a while as we headed out to the range. We came to a set of glass double doors that were blacked out.
"This is the place. Spunky should have delivered your rifle and gear to the attendant. Let's go inside and have some fun!
The place looked Bohemian. There were statues of naked Greek and Roman men, medieval weapons of war, and the regular assortment of armour, chains, axes and cannons. Along the walls of the range itself were hundreds of works of art that Santa had appropriated over the years. Paintings, sculptures, pottery, finely crafted wooden objects encrusted with precious stones and more. This stuff was worth millions of dollars.
“Quite the collection, Fats. Where’d you get all this junk?” I never figured Santa as the type that would have such a large display of weapons and Renaissance porn. Obviously Mrs. Claus did not come in here.
“Oh, this? It’s just things that I’ve collected over the years. You know, people are such idiots. I can get into any building or room on the planet. You’d think that if a person had valuables, they wouldn’t leave them out on display for me to steal. Mind you, my reputation as a nice guy has been the greatest opportunity since aliens started landing and hunting humans here around 600 BC.”
“And how do you know about aliens? I suppose they just wandered over and introduced themselves?”
Fats gave me one of those, ‘you’re such a naïve idiot’ looks, rolled his eyes and said,
“Of course. I suppose that you’re going to say that you’re surprised that the earth has visitors? Haven’t you seen that movie Predator? That’s the one where an alien lands on earth and hunts any human who carries a weapon. Guess what? It’s not as science fiction as you think. The screenplay was written by offworlders working in California.”
I guess the look on my face told the tale. Was I surprised? Oh yeah! But the story didn’t stop there.
“Listen, let’s get everything set up and talk at the same time. Yep, offworlders have been poking, stealing, gutting and stewing homo sapiens and other species for, oh, about 2500 years I guess. No big deal.”
“Maybe not for you! I take it that they leave you alone then?” I was flabbergasted!
“Certainly. They are not the brutal, cold‑blooded killers you know. What humans just don’t seem to understand is that they look upon Homo sapiens in the same way that you look upon a dog or a farm animal. In other words, like a pet or something. If it really worries you, I’ll ask them to leave you alone. At last count, there were travelers from seven different planets visiting the earth.”
"This is too weird! You’re just making this story up to put me off my shooting. It won’t work you know. I’ll find my happy place and be into the groove within seconds.”
And with that I started shooting.
Now the Fat Man could be a jerk at times, but one thing that I learned long ago was that he rarely lied. You couldn’t always trust that he would make an appointment on time or speak nicely about you, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard him lie to my face. Aliens, eh? Well, I’ll be a horse’s pa‑tout!
The morning progressed much as I expected. I trounced his fat behind with a score of 250 – 10X. The Kodak moment came when he missed a bull and I cackled like joy smitten witch. One of the elves got a picture of his miss on video. That’s something that the Fat Man won’t live down for a while.
Winning the shoot meant that I got to take the sleigh out for a spin and drive it on his Christmas Eve run.
The Fat Man’s quite a guy. He does nothing all year, has others make his toys and gets all the credit. On top of all that, he only works one shift and gets so worn out that he has to take the next twelve months off. It sounds like government work to me.
Talk about having the world by the a$$!
