Dean Koontz - Santa's Twin

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.

In 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.

Instead, 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?

ThenI’ll go after the Easter bunny!”

From 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.’”

He 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.”

Lottie 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.

Or maybe to cornflakes or maybe to mice.

Whatever it does, I’m sure it’s not nice.”

The troll is not merely evil but quick.

Up his big sleeve he has one more trick.

From his hip holster he suddenly draws

a chocolate-cream pie. He knows no laws.

He’s a gangster, a thug, a bad boy indeed,

and he flings the pie with fearful speed.

Lottie studies ballet and has some grace.

She spins-but still gets pie in the face.

Emmy fires the ray gun. Oh, no! Oh, no!

The living room magically fills with snow.

It’s a weather gun, some strange device.

The fireplace mantel is all hung with ice.

From out of the ceiling a blizzard falls,

drifting over furniture and up the walls.

The malevolent elf can’t repress a giggle.

“From this one, child, you cannot wriggle.

For this big mess, you won’t be thanked.

In fact, I bet you’re gonna get spanked.

Spanked so hard that your ears will slip

all the way down, down, down to your lips.”

Then instead of cooking them in a stew

or brewing some tasty little-girl brew,

the giggling troll flees into the night.

The girls give chase, ‘cause it isn't right

that he should be allowed to skip and run

after ruining Christmas, spoiling the fun.

Like many bullies, he’s bluster and bluff.

He’s not really made of very stem stuff.

The two girls chase him out the front door.

He slip-slides across the icy porch floor,

falls down the steps, flat on the ground,

and lands with a rubbery, blubbery sound.

The sisters run barefoot into the snow

to make sure he doesn’t jump up and go.

“Knocked himself silly. What’ll we do?”

asks Charlotte as her pink feet turn blue.

Suddenly eight reindeer descend from above,

each deer flying with the grace of a dove

to the snowy lawn in front of the house,

making less sound than one wary mouse.

A deer says, “Christmas mustn’t be bleak.”

Emmy gasps, “Since when do reindeer speak?”

“Magical reindeer,” Charlotte supposes.

In agreement the deer twitch their noses.

One reindeer licks at Charlotte’s face

and says, “My, what a very unusual place

to find chocolate pudding Christmas night.”

Lottie replies, “I was in a pie fight.”

Girls, you must come with us to the Pole.

Santa’s in a dismal, deep, dark, dank hole.

We’ve deliveries to make-games and toys-

to millions and millions of girls and boys.”

The sisters aren’t dressed for the Pole

or for any dismal, deep, dark, dank hole.

So the reindeer wiggle their magic snoots,

and now the girls are standing in boots.

Pajamas transform into snowsuits of red,

nothing at all like what they wore to bed.

Woolen mittens, long scarves, jaunty caps,

“What about a driver’s license and maps?”

“No maps are needed,” or so the deer say.

“No license required to drive this sleigh-

just a lot of faith and a good pure heart.

That’s all that you need to do your part.”

They have a problem with Santa’s had twin,

who’s flat on the ground on belly and chin.

He’s knocked out cold. Wow, does he snore!

Loading him into the sleigh-what a chore.

First the old troll must be tied up tight

to prevent trouble the rest of the night.

They bind him fast with jump ropes and Slinkys

and tie his long mustache to his pinkies.

Lifting him into the sleigh-they’ll fail,

because he weighs half as much as a whale.

Reindeer noses twitch-the magic is back.

Something stirs in the real Santa’s sack.

Teddy bears, stuffed dogs, toy monkeys too:

all spring to life. It’s a magical zoo.

They help the girls load up the evil Claus,

using their hands, their tails, their paws.

With huffing and puffing the job gets done,

although heaving an evil Claus is no fun.

The last toy returns to the sack with a wave,

and Lottie grabs the reins. She’s so brave!

In the sleigh Emmy sits by her sister’s side

and says to the deer, “Let’s start this ride.

To the top of the world! Up, up in the sky!

Let’s see if reindeer really know how to fly.”

Up into the night the eight reindeer spring.

The bells on their harnesses all softly ring.

Up toward the stars and the big frosty moon.