Just Another Christmas in Sang Sacre

'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the town
Not a creature was stirring, not even a clown.
The party was over, the bar was now closed,
And snowflakes fell gently as everyone dozed.

The penguin was nestled all snug in his bed,
While visions of herring bits danced in his head,
So I sat in my study late into the night,
And caught up on the board by the monitor's light.

I typed up a note to be posted in Natter,
When out from the street there arose a great clatter.
I went to the window, and peeked though the blind,
Without an idea about what I would find.

The moonlight lit up all the new-fallen snow,
It was bright as midday, the world seemed aglow.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a honking great sleigh with a single reindeer.

But that was no reindeer, 'twas a dog name of Max.
And the back of the sleigh held a great pile of sacks,
And a furry green driver, the reins in his clinch,
I knew in a moment it must be the Grinch.

"We must stop! We must stop!"
His cadence kept drumming
"We must stop! We must stop
This Christmas from coming!
Now wait by the front porch,
I'll go through the door.
We've done all the houses,
There's just this one more."

And the Grinch then hopped down from his elegant ride,
Then he twirled on his heel, and he tip-toed inside.
He gathered up presents, and filled up a sack
And the ornaments, also, were soon in his pack.

The Grinch had been careful so he wouldn't be heard,
But he had not reckoned with the ears of a bird,
So there in the doorway, a penguin quite small,
Was asking why Santa was taking this haul.

But, you know, that old Grinch was so smart and so slick,
That he thought up a lie and he thought it up quick.
"Why my sweet little bird," —the fake Santa Claus lied —
"There's a light on this tree that won't light on one side."

So he got him a drink, and he patted his head,
And the trusting young penguin went back to his bed.
The Grinch grabbed his pack, and he turned round to flee,
And that's when he saw —unexpectedly —me.

His eyes, now they narrowed, his expression was wary,
His cheeks drained of color, his face wasn't merry.
His mouth came to life, and he muttered, "Oh, bugger..."
Because he had noticed my Louisville Slugger.
He looked all around for a way back outside,
Or at the very least a safe place he could hide.
I moved ever closer as I brandished my bat,
And I said to the Grinch, "It's time we had a chat."

So, converse there we did, I did not raise my voice.
At the end of our chat, I gave him a fair choice.
He could put back the presents, the trees, and the lights,
Or I'd call up a preacher to read him last rites.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And I followed along, to make sure he'd not shirk.
He replaced all the stockings, the gifts, and the trees,
He brought back the roasts and the holiday cheese.

He when he had finished, with the sky turning gray,
He called out for Max, and climbed into his sleigh.
And I yelled after him, 'ere he slunk out of sight,

"Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!"

(I love DX)

(me too)

t preens

eta: And guess what's on Cartoon Network RIGHT NOW?

(me three)

Ah, it's a lovely morning in Sang Sacre as I relax in the sunroom and read my new copy of Mad Science Illustrated. Unfortunately, the peace is shattered by Hans running into the room.

"Boss, the pancake maker we started up yesterday won't shut down."

I follow Hans into the depths of the Castle only to realize the lower levels are filling with pancakes, buttermilk, blueberry, wheat, apple cinnamon, banana, you name it.

Hans waves toward the growing mass of golden brown goodness, "We can't even get to the pancake maker to try to fix it."

"We have no choice Hans, it's time to use my new experimental pancake flinger".

"But, boss the flinger is pointed at the city." Hans exclaims.

"Activate the flinger Hans, we have no choice."

I awake suddenly. It appears to be my apartment, but the ambient temprature indicates it is in a much warmer climate.

What happened?

Yes. On my way out to my vacation, I fell asleep, and now I'm here. This is why I'm lying on top of the covers, fully dressed.

I jump up, run to the nearest window, and fling open the curtains. I appear to be in a village somewhere, possibly on an island.

Sheesh. Just ONE TIME you resign from the secret service, and look what happens...

What the heck?

I just took a pancake to the head. What kind of city is this, flinging breakfast foods at unsuspecting, innocent petty vengence demons?

Another one, dang it! The Petty Vengence Demon Procedures Manual doesn't have anything about flying flapjacks, I'm on my own with this one. But I am pretty sure it is not the result of local public policy. PVDs are welcome everywhere. After all, we don't mess with history, alter time OR speed up harvests. The worst I can inflict is hemorrhoids.

Dodging further depredations to my hairstyle - a tasteful Gibson Girl-ish bun with whispy ringlets loose at the temples and nape - I back-track along the trajectory of the warm, fluffy projectiles.

Well, whadyaknow! A castle. If this were a cheesy horror flick, a mad scientist would be in residence. Checking my handheld Dimensional Positioning Survey® device, I get the coordinates, then call the home office. Occupant's name is Gudanov.

Boy, have I got a few ideas for you, Mr. Gudanov. I could go with a pun per day on the name. Or, something more situational.

Bother! Another near-miss. This place is so not low-carb-diet friendly.

Pancakes you got, syrup you want. I ground, center, and concentrate... heh, get it? Concentrate. Maple sap will be oozing out of the posts of the bed in the master bedroom for a week.

"Hey, Phred! Got any idea why the bird is hiding under the sink?"

"It's raining pancakes again, boss."

"Wow, no kidding. It's been a couple of years since last time, hasn't it?"

"Yup. Should I get the shovels?"

"Nah. Best to wait until it finishes up before we try digging out. But hey, free breakfast!" I run into the kitchen to get a plate.

A wooden door in the back of a dimly lit shop opens up and out I pop.

"Hey, Ms. Mann, long time, no see!"

The elderly woman who is my landlady nodded agreeably at me and kept rocking and knitting, one eye cocked at the TV.

Velvet Goldmine...again. If it wasn't Goldmine, it was "DOG: The Bounty Hunter.

I shook some unidentifiable plant detrius from my hair, spilled some purple pebbles from one shoe, amd hopped over to the couch.

"Man, it feels like AGES since I've seen you, Ms. M! How's things?"

She flicked the remote at the screen, and we both contemplated a naked Christian Bale for a second.

"Child, your room's are still there, tried to keep 'em clean and not mess nothing up too bad."

"STILL there?"

Well, crap. Goddamned interdimensional portals. They are so fucking unreliable when it rains.

"How long this time?"

She continued to work at the pink and lime striped baby bunting in her lap. (Well, I assumed it was a baby bunting, except it appeared to have 8 legs. It's better to observe than to ask directly with Mrs. M.)

"Oh, 'bout two years and a bit."

"TWO YEARS!" I shrieked. The old fingers went on calmly purling. "Two years in that glorified wormhole? Oh, I am PISSED about this. And that Gudenov guy up at Castle creepy is definitely getting a very POINTED letter about customer service."

I sniffed. "Ugh. After I bathe. Do I still have any clothes left here?"

"All of them, child. I stopped wearing corsets long about, oh, 200 years ago. Here," and she rose from her chair and pulled out a cut glass decanter with an amythest knob. "It's lavender and fairy musk and the essence of cloissione. Go run youself a nice hot bath and I'll bring you up a nice cup of tea."

Some things never change in Sang Sandre.

Most everything else does, though.