‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the lair
Hired thugs were patrolling, staying alert and aware;
The defenses were armed, loaded guns at the ready;
For soon Santa would come; they needed to stay steady;
The thugs were lined up ‘round every window and door,
All seventy-six goons, on four different floors;
And at the tippity-top, sat a lady on a List,
Ready for a showdown, really quite pissed.
As she readied herself, her men raised the alarm,
Sirens blared, screens flashed red; someone meant them harm.
To the security cameras, she leapt like a woman
Who now in minutes could count her lifespan.
She watched crimson blood spatter her well-worn walls
As a white-cloaked figure marched through her halls,
Fearfully she watched the relentless, ruthless raider,
Her eyes did not deceive; there was only one invader.
He cut down a dozen guards without so much as a pause,
The lady knew at once it could only be Santa Claus.
With almost divine fury he slaughtered and fought,
Shouting the names for whom this vengeance was wrought:
“Face the justice of Dasher! Of Prancer! And also of Vixen!
The justice of Comet! Of Donner! And also of Blitzen!
And most importantly, the justice of He-Who-Copyright-Forbids-Be-Named!”
bellowed Santa with menace, as he murdered and maimed.
So he loosed his sharp bullets, and swung his great sword,
Cutting through every one of the woman’s hired horde,
Up to the pent-house, Santa unstoppably rampaged,
Marching with determination, eyes filled with rage.
His reinforced boots thudded as he ascended the stair,
Barely fazed, without so much as a misplaced lock of hair.
The lady drew her gun as he entered the room,
Staring down the Santa Claus; staring down her doom.
He was dressed in thick armor, beneath his rich velvet suit,
This protection had rendered what few blows he took moot,
Within his many pockets he held vast presents,
Like grenades and knives, such deadly contents.
His eyes focused and fiery, his frown hard like stone,
His piercing gaze showed why he held Santarctica’s throne.
Slowly, he smiled, ever so slightly,
Scaring his foe with an image unsightly;
In his hand he gripped a falchion which so brightly glinted
With silver of metal and red of blood by which it was tinted;
He had a muscled physique and biceps to spare,
His face adorned with trimmed, salt-pepper hair.
He strode in so casually, so confident and calm,
The lady could see he held absolutely no qualms;
This, she could tell, was a warrior without peer,
She’d thought herself brave; now she trembled with fear.
Before she could retaliate, with a bang and a flash,
Santa blinded the woman, then cut her down with a slash,
It was barely a contest; this small victory had been won,
Yet there were still names on the List, still work to be done;
So Santa readied himself to leave, not admiring his work,
But perhaps allowing himself a slim, private smirk,
And whispered some last words, as he teleported out of sight:
“Good riddance to the Naughty, and to the Naughty… Good-night.”
[Author’s Note: This poem about Santa Claus the Fiftieth, also known as Santa Claus L, was originally composed on December 18, 2021, as a teaser for the unbelievably still forthcoming , which I am still working on and will definitely be worth it when it’s finished. I just need to finish it one of these days. The-style machinations I’m planning out for this completely ridiculous and yet completely serious take on the very idea of a Santa Claus take a while to straighten out. Maybe you will see it sometime before next Christmas. Until we have need of one another again.]
