Robot Santa: The Further Adventures of Santa's Twin

Santa's Twin

by Dean Koontz

W
ell, now Thanksgiving is safely past,

more turkey eaten this year than last,

more stuffing stuffed, more yams jammed

into our mouths, and using both hands,

coleslaw in slews, biscuits by twos,

all of us too fat to fit in our shoes.

So let’s look ahead to the big holiday

that’s coming, coming, coming our way.

I’m sure you know just what day I mean.

It’s not Easter Sunday, not Halloween.

It’s not a day to be sad or listless.

It’s a day of wonder. It’s Christmas!

Charlotte and Emily love this season.

They’re kids, so they have good reason

to dream all year of that special eve

because they truly and deeply believe

a gift-giving fat man flies the sky,

with toys and goodies galore. No lie!

He’ll soon be up there and on his way

in a maximum-cool, cherry-red sleigh

with camouflage stars on the underside,

taking the wildest of all thrill rides,

like a roller coaster on tracks of air,

pulled by reindeer harnessed in pairs.

S
o someday soon, they’ll put up a tree.

Why only one? Maybe two, maybe three!

Deck it with tinsel and baubles bright.

It’ll be an amazing and wonderful sight.

String colored lights out on the roof-

pray none are broken by anything’s hoof.

Salt down the shingles to melt the ice.

If Santa fell, it just wouldn’t be nice.

He might fracture his leg or even be cut,

perhaps even break his big jolly butt.

They don’t want Santa’s butt in a sling.

What a ghastly, bad, unthinkable thing.

Oh, wait! I just heard terrible news.

Hope
it
won’t give you Christmas blues.

Santa was mugged, tied up, and gagged,

blindfolded, ear-stoppled, and bagged,

locked in his cellar under the Pole,

down in a dismal, deep, dark, dank hole.

H
ark! The sound of silver sleigh bells

echoes high over the hills and the dells.

And look-reindeer far up in the sky!

Some silly goose has taught them to fly.

The driver giggles quite like a loon-

a madman, a goofball, a thug, or a goon.

Something is wrong-any fool could tell.

If this is Santa, then Santa’s not well.

His mean little eyes spin just like tops.

So somebody better quick call the cops!

A
closer look confirms his psychosis.

And-oh, my dear-really
bad
halitosis.

Beware when Christmas comes this year,

because there’s something new to fear.

Santa’s twin-who is rude and mean-

stole the sleigh, will make the scene.

He’s pretending to be his good brother.

Guard your beloved children, Mother!

Down the chimney and into your home,

here comes that deeply troubled gnome.

R
eindeer sweep down out of the night.

See how each is brimming with fright?

Tossing their heads, rolling their eyes,

these gentle animals are all so wise-

they know this Santa isn’t their friend,

but an imposter and far ‘round the bend.

They would stampede for all they’re worth,

dump this nut off the edge of the earth.

But Santa’s bad brother carries a whip,

a club, a chocolate-cream pie at his hip,

a blackjack, spitballs-you better run!-

and a fearful, horrible, wicked ray gun.

They land on the roof, quiet and sneaky.

Oh, but this Santa is fearfully freaky.

He whispers a warning to each reindeer,

leaning close to make sure they hear:

“You have relatives back at the Pole-

antlered, gentle, quite innocent souls.

“So if you fly off while I’m inside,

back to the Pole on a plane I will ride.

I’ll have a picnic in the midnight sun:

reindeer pie, pate, reindeer in a bun,

reindeer salad, and hot reindeer soup,

oh, all sorts of tasty reindeer goop.”

A
t the chimney, he looks down the bricks.

But that entrance is strictly for hicks.

With all his tools, a way in can be found

for a fat, bearded burglar out on the town.

From roof to backyard to the kitchen door,

he chuckles about what he has in store

for the good family that’s sleeping within.

He grins his biggest and nastiest grin.

Oh, what a creep, what a scum and a louse.

He’s boldly breaking into their house!

W
ith picks, loids, gwizzels, and zocks,

he quickly and silently opens both locks.

He enters the kitchen without a sound.

Now chances for devilment truly abound.

He opens the fridge and eats all the cake,

pondering what sort of mess he can make.

First he pours milk all over the floor,

pickles, pudding, and ketchup-and more!

He scatters the bread-white and rye-

and finally he spits right into the pie.

A
t the corkboard by the phone and

stool, he sees drawings the kids did at school.

Emily has painted a kind, smiling face.

Charlotte has drawn elephants in space.

The villain takes out a red felt-tip pen,

taps it
,
uncaps it
,
chuckles, and then,

on both pictures, scrawls the word “Poo!”

he always knows the
worst
things to do.

His mad giggles continue to bubble,

while he gets into far greater trouble.

He’s hugely more evil than he is brave,

so then, after he loads up the microwave

with ten whole pounds of popping corn

(oh, we should rue the day he was born),

he turns and runs right out of the room,

because that old oven is gonna go BOOM!

H
e prowls the downstairs-wicked, mean-

looking to cause yet one more bad scene.

When he sees the presents under the tree,

he says, “Time for a gift-swapping spree!

I’ll take out all the really good stuff,

then box up dead fish, cat poop, and fluff.

“In the morning these kiddies will find

coffee grounds, peach pits, orange rinds,

old stones, mud pies, and rotten potatoes,

hairballs, dead fish, and spoiled tomatoes.

Instead of nice sweaters, games, and toys,

they’ll get slimy stinky stuff that annoys.”

Charlotte and Emmy are up in their beds,

dreams of Christmas filling their heads.

Suddenly a sound startles these sleepers.

They sit up in bed and open their peepers.

Nothing should be stirring, not one mouse,

but the girls sense a villain in the house.

You can call it psychic, a hunch, osmosis,

or maybe they smell the troll’s halitosis.

They leap out of bed, forgetting slippers,

two brave and foolhardy little nippers.

“Something’s amiss,” young Emily whispers.

But they can handle it-they’re sisters!

D
own in the living room, under the tree,

Santa’s evil twin is chortling with glee.

He’s got a collection of gift replacements

taken from dumps, sewers, and basements.

He replaces a nice watch meant for Lottie

with a nasty gift for a girl who’s naughty,

which is one thing Lottie has never been.

Forgetting her vitamins is her biggest sin.

In place of the watch, he wraps up a clot

of horrid, glistening, greenish toad snot.

From a package for Emily, he steals a doll

and gives her a new gift sure to appall.

It’s slimy, rancid, and starting to fizz.

Not even the villain knows what it is.

The stink could stop a big runaway truck,

it’s such gooey, gluey, woozy-making muck.

I
n jammies, slipperless, now on the prowl,

the girls go looking for whatever’s foul.

Right to the top of the stairs they zoom,

making less noise than moths in a tomb.

They’re both so delicate, slim, and petite,

and both of them have such tiny pink feet.

How can these small girls hope to fight

a Santa who’s liable to kick and to bite,

who has a chocolate-cream pie for throwing,

and a fearful ray gun that’s softly glowing?

Are these girls trained in Tae Kwon Do?

No, no, I’m afraid that the answer is no.

Grenades tucked in their jammie pockets?

Lasers implanted inside their eye sockets?

No, no, I’m afraid that the answer is no.

Yet down, down the shadowy stairs they go.

The danger below, they can’t comprehend.

This Santa has gone far round the bend.

He’s meaner than flu, toothaches, blisters.

But they’re tough too-they’re sisters.

I
n the front room, at one of the trees

the bad twin of Santa is on his knees,

giggling as he stuffs another gift box

with a few pairs of his smelly old socks.

He snorts and he chortles with evil glee

and mutters, “No one will know
it
was me.

“They’ll blame my brother, Chris Kringle,

and then next Christmas the merry jingle

of sleigh bells will alarm and terrorize.

Every little kid will watch the skies

and scream aloud when the sleigh appears.

Oh, for one hundred or two hundred years,

“Santa Claus will be feared, distrusted,

because everyone will still be disgusted

by all the tricks that I play this night.

They’ll never forgive the harm and fright.

The toad snot and snail spit! The slime!

This scheme of mine is superb, sublime!

“The gift-wrapped broccoli and the spinach!

Oh, my goody-goody brother is finished.

Brussel-sprouts candy and unsweetened yams,

Chicken-gizzard jelly! Lima-bean jams!

Boxes full of spiders, worms, and bugs!

Old Santa won’t be getting any more hugs.

I
nstead, kids will scream, run, and hide,

and not one child on the earth will abide

the sight of his jolly, merry old face.

The cops will be hunting him everyplace.

“Searching alleys, cellars, and attics

from tropical jungles up to the Arctic.

If they jail him-won’t that be funny?

Then
I’ll go after the Easter bunny!”

F
rom the doorway, the girls have heard

every shocking, horrid, despicable word.

Christmas is now theirs alone to save.

They must be bold. They must be brave.

The troll left his ray gun out of reach.

Emmy sneaks to it. Isn’t she a peach?

Lottie makes fists of her small hands.

Oh, the time has come to make a stand.

Holding the ray gun, Emmy says, “Freeze!”

The troll insists: “Better say ‘please.’”

H
e rises-a giant. He turns and growls.

He hisses, grumbles, and softly howls.

His eyes spin. His nose spouts steam.

He’s a Santa monster from a had dream,

capering, threatening: “Booga-ooga-boo!”

Lottie says, “We aren’t scared of you.”

The elf declares, “I eat kids for lunch.

I eat ‘em for breakfast-by the bunch.

Sometimes I eat children for supper too,

baked in a crust or cooked in a stew.”

L
ottie says, “Listen, mister, you framed

your brother, and you oughta be ashamed.”

Waving the ray gun, young Emmy commands,

“Up with your hands, up with your hands!

“This alien weapon will turn you to dust.

Or maybe to cinders. Or maybe to rust.