My Girlfriend is Santa Claus & Together We Must Stop the Christmas Apocalypse Based on a True Story

Peter, down on his hands and knees, flashlight in hand, peered with surgical precision into a mouse hole. It did very little good, though, as the walls were thin, so to look deep into the mousy depths of the workshop’s architecture, he had to twist the light and his head a certain way— perpendicular into the portal. His skull squished hard against the wooden floor. He had the idea of sticking his phone inside and taking a picture, but his XL sized mobile with its twelve camera lenses banged uselessly against the entrance to the mouse kingdom. He would need a periscope or a mirror on a stick, like a soldier avoiding sniper gunfire, if he wished to catch a glimpse of his mouse girlfriend Squee.

“Peter, there’s a messenger for you outside.”

Peter sat up and turned to Yumeka. The French maid elf’s whole body was stiff and trembling from some nightmarishly traumatic event. But what Christmas horror could have possibly shellshocked the poor girl? The Ghost of Christmas Future with a vision of her untimely death? The gruesome aftermath of a gingerbread house fire? An advent calendar full of 24 species of venomous snakes and spiders?

“A messenger from where?” he asked.

“From the Holy Spirit.”

“What?”

Santa marched into the room, her red uniform buttoned shut as if for war. On her head she fixed a red cap— not the normal stocking cap Santa was known for, but a fleeced officer’s cap, emblemed with silver snowflakes and fir trees. She tossed Peter a similar red coat, and to put over it, a festive flack jacket— ammo pouches stuffed with candy canes and boughs of holly, and a military standard nutcracker.

“Let’s go,” she said coldly.

What a badass! Santa Claus, a girl of sullen gravity, was always the anchor the elves and Peter needed to ensure the workshop was in proper order. He had only ever seen the regal red gift giver by the sidelines, watching over the Master Elves and offering advice as they delineated holiday tasks. But now Santa leapt up to the forefront of responsibilities, and watching her take control of things in an instant— with little more than appearing and calmly saying two words to him— had Peter’s brain snapping its fingers and pointing to her and saying, “See that? That right there? That’s girlfriend material, Peter.”

At the front window to the workshop Peter looked over miles of frigid air into the dark night, but there was no messenger waiting for him nor Santa. All was barren and empty. Wind breathed across the North Pole. The aurora and Christmas lights glowed softly against the dark snow. Timid and curious elves gathered in the entryway, and upon the main stairs, and in the adjacent parlors. Silently and nervously they watched Peter and Santa, wringing their hands, flattening their skirts against their legs, breathing heavily.

“These are messengers,” Santa said. “So they won’t attack us, and we mustn’t attack them. Study them carefully for weaknesses. They are the enemy. Let me do all the talking.”

Peter nodded dumbly, not quite sure what was going on or how much danger he was in. He was wearing a flack jacket, but they weren’t going to attack him? Was she sure?

Santa kicked the door open and stomped out into the snowy winds. Peter slammed the door shut behind him and mimicked her march as if it were ass-kicking time. He searched about yet there was no one around. Because the messengers were up in the sky, behind them, above the workshop. Two of them, massive creatures from heaven, inhuman and terrifying to behold. They were Burj Khalifas, twisted into great rings, studded with hundreds of massive eyes glaring down at the diminutive Santa and Peter. Colossal white wings unfolded in a tangle of feathers, and they too were plumed with hateful eyeballs, staring down with all the wrath and fury of heaven. No head nor mouth nor arm nor legs had they. They flew silently in the frosty air like winged gyroscopes.

“Holy—”

Torrents of cold, horrified blood rushed through Peter’s heart. He felt like a termite before an exterminator— but an exterminator he could understand. An exterminator had methods and tools that he knew. What were these winged messengers capable of? They could squash him under their terrible weight, grind him up like a bug under a semi-truck, but would they even have to lower themselves to physical attacks to kill him? Did they have other, incomprehensible methods to slaughter their prey? Could they shoot out holy laser beams, or sing a song that could make his skull pop like a water balloon? Were they reading his mind right this very second? His knees knocked together in terror, but Santa stood with arms crossed and glared coldly at the unholy angelic monsters.

“I understand you have a message for Peter and me? We are listening.”

“THE HOLY SPIRIT HAS BUT ONE DEMAND OF YOU.”

Peter’s hands clapped over his ears at the terrible voice. When the angels spoke their voice did not come from their body, but from within his head. Each word and syllable was a moth crawling into his ears and flapping their wings about the dark cavern of his skull. Santa felt the very same pain Peter did, but she did not flinch.

“What demand is that?”

“YOU ARE TO CANCEL CHRISTMAS THIS YEAR, AND EVERY YEAR HENCEFORTH. SURRENDER YOUR HOLIDAY TO THE HOLY SPIRIT AND THE FOLLOWERS OF CHRIST. DO THIS AND YOUR LIVES WILL BE SPARED. SHOULD YOU FAIL, THE CHRISTMAS APOCALYPSE SHALL FALL DOWN UPON YOU, YOUR ELVES, AND ALL ELSE WHOM YOU HOLD DEAR.”

“Aaaah!” Peter screamed and beat his head with his hands as if that would stop the voice from scratching around within his brain.

“Peter, you’re embarrassing me,” Santa said.

“Excuse me! It’s like there’s a goddamn eggbeater in my ears!” Peter shouted.

“Anything else?” Santa asked.

“THAT IS ALL. SO IT IS SAID BY THE HOLY TRINITY: THE FATHER, THE SON, AND THE HOLY SPIRIT. AMEN.”

“Nope,” Santa said.

“Santa,” Peter whispered. “Let’s discuss this a little bit before we answer. Let’s at least pretend to discuss it a little bit before we answer.”

The messengers leaned forward and eclipsed the sky with their tremendous bodies. It was as if mountains were falling atop of them. Peter leaned back as the black pupil of one monstrous gelatin eye came closer and closer, until it felt as though he was going to be swallowed by it. He fell down onto his back and threw his arms up in a pathetic attempt to avoid being crushed. Santa, however, stood firm.

“YOU DEFY THE WILL OF THE LORD? YOU WILL SURRENDER CHRISTMAS. OR ELSE SUFFER THE WRATH OF HEAVEN.”

“Nope,” Santa repeated to the colossal messengers. “Good little boys and girls need their toys.”

“SO BE IT. ON CHRISTMAS EVE THE APOCALYPSE WILL COMMENCE.”

The sky parted as though stretched open by a nuclear blast, and the night sky tore apart with blinding sunlight and warmth. An angelic choir sang triumphantly from up above. And in an instant, without a single flap of their wings, the angelic messengers apotheosised off into heaven as if catapulted into the clouds.