Post Xmas Xmas Party

Santa Claus took one last look at himself in the mirror, dropped his head to the back of the cistern, and easily vacuumed up the other line of cocaine he’d cut himself up just a few minutes ago. He could instantly taste the 100% pure quality of the stuff (The President himself had personally given it to him, as a Christmas present of course), and it didn't take long for the usual dopamine charged euphoria to wash over him for what seemed like the thousandth time that evening.

He took another brief look at himself in the mirror, fixed up his oversized, whiter than snow beard, and then proceeded to exit his en-suite bathroom to rejoin the party, flashing himself a cheeky wink at his reflection as he went.

The annual “Post Xmas Xmas Party” was being held at his and Mrs Claus’s North Pole property as usual this year, following yet another successful festivity, and let’s just say it was really starting to go off. Santa gruffly staggered a drug and booze induced shuffle back towards his kitchen. The party had already reached somewhere around the 36 hour mark, helped along by the sheer quantity and irresponsible concoction of narcotics, and his favourite Eggnog recipe. They’d been at it for a while, and his motor skills were just starting to show signs of wear and tear.

As he entered his kitchen, the sights that he saw couldn't help but cast a jolly big smile across his face though. It was complete pandemonium. The Christmas music was pumping. The disco lights were casting a rainbow of hallucinogenic visuals, and a greyish, blue hue filled the room from the countless smokable materials that were being inhaled. Elves loved to smoke.

That’s right. Elves. There were, of course, hundreds of Elves at the party, still donning the workwear they put on for Xmas Eve almost 48hrs ago, and every single one of them was completely fucked. One thing is absolutely for certain, Elves are the truest and strongest advocates of the expression “work hard, play hard”.

Santa, still grinning like a maniac and with eyes as big as saucers, scanned the room. There was a lot going on. Elves everywhere were crushing and racking up all sorts of uppers and downers, pingers and zingers, each line as long as their forearms, and on every kitchen side available. Others were swinging from the chandelier that sat above the dining room table, kicking unsuspecting patrons in the head as they stumbled by. Some Elves were playing a round of the favourite, ‘Hide the Sausage’, much to the uncontrollable laughter from the crowd overseeing the game. Even some 20 or 30 Elves had simply had too much fun and passed out completely, their bodies collected together and piled into the corner of the room. The rest were dancing, screaming, shouting, shagging or smoking.

As his gaze slowly processed what the fuck was going on, he spotted his beloved Mrs Claus, standing on the outer side of a circle of Elves. As he watched on, she proceeded to bounce each of her naked breasts off the head of each Elf in front of her as she navigated its circumference, much to the delight of the surrounding Elves. She was loose as a goose, and the perfect match for Santa.

They caught each other’s eye, causing them to laugh psychotically, even though nothing was said.

‘Damn it. I really do love her’, he thought to himself.

Just then a small hand tugged at the back of his pant leg, demanding his attention.

“S’cuse me Santa. We’ve got a little problem here”, managed the Elf, for he was really quite fucked up.

Santa rotated around to find Ernie, his Chief Commanding Elf, swaying on the spot, his eyes rolling around in his head. He did look a mess. He clutched in his hands a suspicious package wrapped in their infamous ‘Organic-Free-Range- Hemp-Vegan-Animal-Friendly’ brown wrapping paper.

“Ernie, how are you? What can I do you for? I hope you're enjoying the party. As you can see I most certainly am” exclaimed Santa through a warming beam, as he sparked up another joint, just to weirden and alter his state even further. Total annihilation was his destination.

“This present”, mumbled Ernie, “This present has been left up on Level 12,314. It's been forgotten, I’m afraid Sir”.

“Ah shit”

“Shit indeed Sir. Shit. Shit. Shit”, drivelled the Elf.

“Well. Where was it going?”

“As luck would have it Sir, just down the road. Either a three hour drive or a 30 second fly by my estimations”, It was Ernie’s turn to beam. Ernie was chuffed with himself that he could still work that out, despite the state he was in. As was Santa. He had picked Ernie to lead the Elves for two reasons.

Number one. He never let him down.

And number two. He was always the last Elf standing at these shindigs (which in fact reiterated point number one).

Therefore, and not at all unwarranted, the position was his.

“Well, there’s only one thing for it then Ern. Help me find my fucking keys will ya, we have one last parcel to deliver!”, he announced through now stoned, piss-slit eyes and his usual manic grin. Without further ado, Santa racked up two more monster lines of coke, hoovered up the first himself, insisted Ernie do the second (not that he needed much convincing), chugged another eggnog, took another huff on his joint and went off in search for his sled keys. He was sure he’d left them here somewhere.

…

After locating the keys at the bottom of Goldie’s fish tank, and giving Mrs Claus a very intense wet, slobbery kiss goodbye, Santa now waited in the sled for Ernie to show up with the drugs. He had put him in charge of supplies for the half minute journey, after all he may have been somewhat ‘called in to work’, so to speak, but he was definitely still the boss. And it was definitely still the annual Post Xmas Xmas Party.

The garage door burst open to the little Elf holding one of Mrs Claus’s rather large brassieres, clearly used as a makeshift carrier bag.

“Couldn’t find anything to put them in”, he explained as he heaved his narcotic-full body into the passenger seat.

They quickly took stock. Ernie definitely hadn’t let them down. He’d quickly shot around the party and managed to collect two bags of cocaine, a strip of acid tabs, an ecstasy tablet each, a large bag of weed, and two bottles of single malt. He had also managed to swipe a handful of nangs and the ‘nangenator’ from whatever the hell a small group of particularly rambunctious elves were doing in the hot tub.

“Jolly good!”. Santa was more than happy with the haul. There were more drugs there than either of them could manage in the 30 second each way journey. But by show, they were going to give it a go. They took their ecstasy in union, smashed a nang each and started up the sled. They caught each other's eye and started to laugh uncontrollably. A long, insane laugh. Like two possessed demons returning to hell after a weekend of debauchery and sin.

The engine chirped away under the hood of the sled. The mechanical garage door started to lift, until they were faced with the dark and unforgivable presence of the icy cold tundra. The sun must have set at least 4 hours ago.

Without a second thought, Santa slammed the sled into gear and shot off into the outdoors. The sled needed a short run up before she could take flight. Santa moved up a gear. The runway was slipping past them now at breakneck speeds. Each particle of snow stung their face as they blasted through it. Santa glanced across to Ernie. He was still tightly grasping the bra, still the proud owner of a wild smile on his face. He really was unhinged.

They started to lift from the ground, and before long the feeling of weightlessness subsided over them. The runway noise left them, and a magical silence came to greet their ears. They were about 20 ft from the ground when the wondrous smile suddenly disintegrated from Ernie’s face. Clearly they had both over estimated Santa’s ability to drive. Santa had entered a small drug coma, a miniscule momentary lapse of what he was supposed to be doing. Maybe something shiny had caught his eye, or maybe he was internalising just how fucked he was. Either way, he wasn't operating the heavy machinery with the usual poise and grace he was so naturally gifted with.

Ernie let out a warbled scream, as if it had been done under water. This brought the giant, beardy man round to his senses, but not in time to correct his driving error.

Santa had clearly forgotten about the treehouse he had built over the last 12months. It stood at full height in all its glory at about 25ft, and was situated towards the furthest end of his runway. Built from Norwegian maple and set in the arms of a great Icelandic Oak it was quite the masterpiece. Another one of his ‘projects’. The sled struck the tree at full speed, sending the pair into a mortifying death-spin as they lost altitude and the snowy ground came hurtling up towards them. Both gripped hard whatever they could to try and brace themselves for their impending doom. But no white knuckle action would surely save them from this disaster. Their energies were wasted, futile.

It all seemed so beautiful, yet so sad. Santa couldn’t help but think of his beautiful Mrs Claus as his mind slow-mo’ed. He thought of the good times. He thought of the laughter. He thought of his good friend, Rudolph. He thought of how much he’d enjoyed being Santa. He steadily closed his eyes, and waited.

They ploughed into the ground with an almighty thud. The deafening crash rumbled across the land. The snapping of splintered wood and metal. The unmistakable sound of an accident. Then nothing. This time it was a strange, eerie silence that had travelled to greet them. There was no sound. Nothing.

A few moments passed. That's when the laughter came. A never ending tirade of a drug fuelled, demented howling, causing them to convulse in spasm as their stomachs began to ache with enjoyment.

“Fuck me”, spluttered Santa thorough his laughing fit, “I thought we were goners then for sure”.

Ernie was hysterical, “I actually said a prayer Sir! A prayer! I’m an Elf! I don't even believe in a God!”

Santa roared with more laughter. They sat there for a while, enjoying their love for life and enjoying each other's company, amidst the disaster that never happened. They passed the single malt back and forth, chuckling and discussing what could have been.

Ernie shuffled around in his seat to find one of the bags of cocaine. The rest had gone awol in a cascade around the cockpit of the flying machine. He poured out two lines, each as thick and as long as King Kong’s finger and handed Santa a note from his back pocket. They finished the coke and decided to head back up the runway to the Laplandic mansion and rejoin the celebrations.

Halfway towards the house, Ernie started to chuckle uncontrollably again.

“You know what the best thing is Sir?”, spluttered Ernie, “We forgot to pick up the fucking present anyway!”.