He was dreaming again, hence the tie. “This is a little f-ed up,” he said to the woman nearby, who didn’t reply. No, he didn’t like this place. He had found a limit. Wendy would not be his daughter or something. He’d leave all that to Toothpick and Elberta and their Deep South ways (!). He’d have to talk to Eraserhead Man about this shoot, compare it to DaBob in that other production he worked in, the one less famous. Or was it more famous. Snap out of it, snap out of it! he cried inside while snapping his fingers, which, of course, passed through each other. Tarboo Bay, DaBob, The Twins… they were all together; all in on this. What does it mean? He better get Wendy to safety and out of the shiny light of revealing film while she’s still wearing that dress. He knows a guy who knows a guy in Snowlands who has a remote-ish cabin kind of tucked away in some small woods, getting smaller by the month but Barry DeBoy doesn’t know that in the present. He’d only find out about the deforestation of Purden in the future through a rogue Snowman gone good instead of the usual bad but still with a bad Santa, one called Satan, an obvious anagram (too obvious). The Snowman’s name is… well, let’s just wait. Regular readers of this here blog and derivative photo-novels probably already know the name. Let’s just make it the title of this here post.
Tag Archives: Satan Santa^*
Leaday, who has mysteriously replaced Goldie in the meantime, whispers through the disconnected line of pipes toward Peter/ Dr. Diper. “End of tiimmmme,” the part fish, part frog creature hissed.
“We’re running out of time,” stated Parasol across from Guy Benjamin while staring over at the Residents Union Back hourglass and its shifting sand.
But these were the “human” forms of cat beings Rebl and Guyd respectively, out of the End of Time caves and in Kowloon for a reason. Guy has human relatives: Grandmama and Grandpapa. Well, only Grandmama now, since the latter was done in by Axis the other day. With his Lost Cane in heaven, he still directs the good guys down below, however. Including grandson Guy. Parasol has other reasons for being here. She’s still looking for someone. Herbert Gold back in Rosehaven didn’t produce the needed results.
Across the alleyway, in the apartment directly behind Leaday, a phone rings. Satan Santa, taking his third bath of the day, cusses a hellish word, then exclaims to Frosty beside him, “You know who that is.” It wasn’t a question; no one calls here but her. Satan Santa stands up out of the tub and prepares to waddle toward the living room to answer it. Five rings, six rings… he knows she won’t let up.
Frosty is gleeful. He hopes this is the last time he has to see this ugly, hairy ass moving away from him. Too many times!
He turns away from her on the bed while she is talking, much to her relief. She’s tired of looking at the thing. He claims their sex is hot, hot, hot, but to her it’s always lukewarm! And he’s not tea so no reheating; one and done. “Santa,” she calls back toward him.
“Satan, please,” he requests, his voice booming even when projecting the wrong way. “Santa’s a last name.”
“Oh, right.” April Mae knew full well what his name was. He had to use the most obvious anagram possible. Might as well stick 2 horns on his head and prod expectant children with a forked candy cane or something. “He knows about you,” she then offers.
“I’m *not* the maker.”
“He knows that too.”
“I am Satan!” His tone was more defiant that ever.
“You are the Red Devil, true,” she agreed. Where did all the legends get that hot fire and brimstone stuff? she wonders again. Falsities!
“Be a dear and bring me the book, April Mae. The one where I’m a star — I need it to get to sleep.”
Well, she certainly wants him to get to sleep. So she can sneak out again. Tommy Pajamy over in cabin B might be willing later tonight. She’s been prepping him for weeks, bending too far over while shoveling the sidewalks, climbing too high with her dress on a ladder to prune the snow laden trees. She knows he watches. She has eyes in the back of her head.
She retrieves the book from the shelf and then hands it to Satan Santa, not looking down. It’s a 1989 mystery novel involving a cooperative venture between the US (US) and USSR (THEM) that gets screwed up because a woman’s death is broadcast on the net. Then it turns up on a VHS tape that lands in the wrong hands. The woman is named Kat. Eartha Kit Kat Moon. And I believe she’s Chinese. Or Japanese. And she may not be a woman either.
(to be continued?)
He loved listening to Bing’s Song on the music box. But “White Christmas” was over in Eot and he was melting. He’d have to go back to Kowloon to keep perpetually frosty. He didn’t understand quite why, except that he was *made* there, much like Guy Benjamin’s Grandmama and Grandpapa. He must get lost inside the maze, only to be found when the Heart Queen good and well wanted him to for her traitorous ways. Because she was back at it (some things never change). He could room with Satan Santa again. Safe bet that he’s not living with anyone still, being there’s a Hell Portal right smack in the middle of the kitchen ceiling.
He likes to use it to warm his tush while he’s cleaning the counter.
“Sure you can stay with me again, Frosty.” He points to the corner furthest away from the kitchen. “Park your half melted carcass right over there behind the bathtub.”
“Oh man,” he thought to himself. Stuck in this spot the rest of the winter. Unless the Heart Queen needs me. Sounds pretty good right now.
“Pass the soap, wouldn’t you Frosty?”
“Sure thing, Satan, er, Santa.”
Old Kringle was perhaps not the worst of the Santas, but he also certainly did not represent their best. As mentioned, he had a fairly serious dark side. He was not a killer, a slayer of elves verbatim. But he did cast them out into the cold and wilderness at times to fend for themselves. Often they were ill equipped. Woody Woodmanson was his first living toy. Then came Woody2, 3, 4, 5, quickly renamed each time. Old Kringle let the elves choose the name of the second to boost sagging moral and empower them in some fractional manner (their choice: Tom1). When making this decision, he had started reading a book called “The Green and the Grey” by John Bennerson. It was a short-lived positive influence. He realized about a third of the way through that he simply couldn’t identify with the main character, a man named John like the author who opposed enslavement of Martians. Well, didn’t his elves have some Martian blood in them, since they derived from the same prime race? So he threw the book in the fire, which Mrs. Kringle retrieved and then read the unburnt 2/3rds afterwards. One year later they were divorced. Younger Kringle became Old Kringle without supporting, balancing soulmate. The rift was final. Although not directly responsible, Old Kringle found out about dumped elf bodies in Purden Gorge and said nothing about it. This wasn’t the work of Arosa’s unfortunately named Satan Santa either, who was a quite cuddly, effeminate character underneath all that zombie skin. Nor Butchie Santa down in Smithers Bluff. No, this was a different kind of reddie, as they called their clan. A rouge one.
Old Kringle keeping a watchful eye on his elves as they slave away in his Porvoo toy factory.
Recommended by my friend Veyot, I had already visited the gallery of Karly Twine through Old Grey earlier in the day, but a lingering trace of my avatar’s demonic status ruined the snapshots I took then. So I returned through her late at night. Very late. You see, she was invited by Robot Derak Jones to the New Island Community College faculty dance and stayed until five am cutting the rug. In her younger days she could shake and shimmy for a week solid. Now it was down to mere hours, but more than even the youngest and most fit professors and administrators at the event could handle. In the end she was dancing alone. Typical. I should also add here that the walking cane she favors is only an outfit prop.
Very beautiful photographs here by Karly (who I also met earlier) — go to Veyot’s tumbler site for more information about the gallery — but Old Grey was admittedly more looking for clues about how to move ahead with the “Collagesity 2016-2017 Winter” storyline. Since the parcel was called Da Vinci Gardens, she was hoping for Mars again; instead Karly’s gallery was set in the midst of a winter wonderland. Still, this structure found outside in the ice and snow seemed to knit the two concepts together.
Old Grey had seen a variation of it before on her way to spy on Baker Bloch in Martian Jacksboro this past November. The spiral based building sat on a plateau beside an amphitheater of dancing automatons. Old Grey had landmarked the place and returns every once in a while to prance amongst them, sometimes as a ballerina in the Nutcracker. Very limber bones she has, but of course that has more to do with the demon inside than any exercise regiment.
Up she strides around the building’s external spiral path.
She pauses to take in the view. Snow seems to be getting heavier.
She reaches out to pet this wildcat (Old Grey has no fear) and the feline disappears (!). Shades of Jorondip and its quantum cat here. This is clearly a magical place.
Finally she reaches the top. Even the very fit Old Grey is slightly winded by the long trip up.
Well, tempted as she is, Old Grey hasn’t got time for sledding or skiing. She senses someone inside. An ancient nemesis.
Vicky Diamond? No not you Vicky. But you might come in handy anyway.
Books. Surely not Professor Jones. She’s just been with him and knows his wheezy ways. He wouldn’t have a hideout so difficult to reach.
No, there was only one deity who would summon Old Grey to such environs. Well, two maybe. But turns out it was both. Snowmanster and Satan Santa sat next to each other on the couch to her left, eating popcorn and, hmm, sharing frequent, buttery kisses.
Old Mabel took a break from studying about The Beetles upstairs at The Table to hang with Jiff again. “Did you know John Lemon hated the sound of his own voice and asked his producer to smother it with ketchup?” she asked at one point.
“No I didn’t know that,” Jiff replied in his high pitched, wavering voice from the vase he put in place yesterday. “My turn in the chair again.”
“Why don’t we just sit together.” She was feeling more comfortable around him all the time. Peculiar: she doesn’t usually take to people like this. But there was something familiar about Jiff the Minoan, who could be both man or woman by the way, depending on the week.
“Alright,” he agreed, and joined Old Mabel in the blue retro seat. “Ahh,” he exclaimed as his little body sank back into the upholstery.
“There. That’s better,” said Old Mabel. “Best we both sit in this comfy chair, eh?” The proximity seemed familiar again — what was it about Jiff? Certainly not a physical attraction.
Seeming to pick up on Old Mabel’s thinking, Jiff said in a playful manner: “You couldn’t possibly fall for another refuge half your size?” His eyes gained a devious twinkle.
“No. I’m already taken, if not exactly in the present. Baker Bloch is my friend in the here and now but soon to be more, I feel. We will eventually become man and wife. I sense this. I *see* this.”
“Oh,” Jiff simply said back, expression changed.
“Here, let me brush your hair again,” Old Mabel then spoke, trying to smooth over the awkward moment. “Such beautiful hair. You say this is a traditional Minoan style? Tell me about your people again — if it’s not too painful.”
“It’s like I said before,” he started, quickly getting over the disappointment and remembering who he *really* was. Deep inside. “The portal opened up and we came through. Demos, I mean, *demons* were already there. Holiday demons mainly. Satan Santa and Snowmanster. Cookie the Crumbler. Mean dudes. But we outnumbered them, by a great margin. More and more of us poured through. Eventually a truce was made — Unch the Walky Tree wrote up the contract. The line between Rubi and Minoa was drawn.”
“What happened to the Rubi demons?” Old Mabel then asked. But Jiff was looking at the Blue Feather’s front door, mouth agape.
“What’s wrong?” She stared with Jiff toward the door.
“Nothing. Just thought I saw something pass by. Couldn’t be, though.”
“Who or what do you think it was?”
“Hold on,” he said and walked to the door, then peered down Old Cannon Road toward the woods. Just as he suspected.
He crossed the line again.