In article <01bbe11c$e0130f60$2479ea9e@Rigi>, "Paul J. Boller" asked: >Of what traditions regarding Xmas, St. Nicholas, Ho-Tei and other Great >Givers are the subscribers to this newsgroup aware? Subject: Re: Buddha Claus is Coming to Town Date: 3 Dec 1996 22:03:03 GMT Timmy awoke with a start from his dreams of sugarplums and angels. He had sneaked back down from his room after Mommy and Daddy had climbed the carpeted stairs to bed. This Christmas eve he was determined to lie in wait and actually catch a glimpse of Santa while the jolly old elf went about his gift-giving business. He had squeezed his little boy body into the narrow space between the sofa back and the living room wall to wait for the Saint's arrival. Drowsiness had come quickly, and Timmy had drifted off to sleep clutching Bobby (his ragged once-plush bear) and his beloved Power Rangers blanket. It wasn't the commotion coming from the fireplace that had startled Timmy from his sleep. It was the smell; a smell and sharp and intrusive on his dream-world as a loud noise might be. His little nostrils literally burned with the combined stench of sweat, cheap tequila, and clouds of oily soot. The soot was easy enough for even Timmy's immature brain to understand. As he rubbed the sleep from tiny eyes and peered out from behind the sofa's arm, the still-groggy child saw a stream of black dust raining down into the fireplace from the chimney above, and veiling the area around the family hearth in dark clouds. As the sooty clouds grew thicker, and the smell more intense, Timmy could hear a muffled voice from up inside the chimney. He didn't understand the language (it sounded kind of like the way the people talked on Channel 87) but it seemed like the voice was angry. The voice let out the sort of guttural half-groan/half-grunt that often accompanies a final, desperate effort at some impossible physical task. The flow of soot increased to a deluge. There was a cry of "sshhhiiiiiiiitttt!" (this word Timmy *did* sort of understand, having heard Daddy say it on occasion) and an incredible figure tumbled into the fireplace from above. Timmy was confused. Some of what lay before him fitted his expectations. The figure was certainly that of a very fat, not very tall man in an outlandish costume. The boots looked about right (although much more scuffed and worn than the child had expected). The trousers were, in fact, of something that might once have been red velvet. But where Timmy had expected a wide, patent leather belt this fat man wore a frayed, stained satin sash. There was no ermine-trimmed, red velvet coat either. Just a threadbare, waist-length jacket decorated with a few forlorn sequins dangling loosely from their threads. That hat was completely wrong. It was a greasy, black sombrero so wide that Timmy couldn't for the life of him understand how the fat guy had gotten it down the chimney. On the other hand, he *was* carrying a bag. Or at least it was hanging >from his belt. The bag didn't look quite right either. None of the Santa pictures Timmy had ever seen, or the "Santa's helpers" in the food court at the mall, had bags made out of heavy-gage vinyl. The fat man stood up and started pounding the soot out of his ridiculous clothes. The resulting clouds of dust set off a coughing fit in the intruder that peaked as he bent completely in half, snorted like wild boar, and spit a vile mass yellowish goo onto the floor beneath the family's stockings, hung neatly on the mantle. He hacked and spit again, shook his head as if to clear it, and caught sight of Timmy standing by the sofa in his one-piece flannel "footie" pajamas. "Hey! Little bendejo, don' just stand there watchin' me choke. You got any drinks around here?" The wide-eyed child lifted his hand, still holding Bobby by one worn ear, and pointed to the snack that he and his parents had left on the mantle for Santa. The short fat figure rose to his tiptoes, snatched the glass from off the mantle, and (without bothering to really focus his eyes long enough to see what the glass contained) took a hefty gulp. The force with which he spit the milk back out through both lips and nostrils was amazing, leaving a dripping mark on the wall all the way across the living room. "Jesus, cabron! Ju tryin' to kill me?" "No, Dupree. The milk was meant for me." El Dupree whirled to face the voice. Timmy turned, and his eyes grew even larger. Neither had heard the corpulent, white-bearded figure enter the room. From the black smudges on his red velvet outfit it was clear that this equally fat figure had also arrived by way of the chimney. Somehow he had made this difficult entrance with none of Duprees struggling or noise. He had all the familiar characteristics: rosey cheeks and nose; peaked, ermine-trimmed cap; and a deep, sympathetic comforting voice. He was holding a gun, leveled at Duprees ample midsection. "Hey, hermano, long-time no see." El Dupree's smile was taught and insincere. "I been lookin' for you all over the place." "Ho ho ho. I'll bet you have...And don't call me 'hermano'. I've told you before, we're not brothers, no matter what She told you." "Brothers! Brothers! Cabron, we're twins! Whether you wanta buy it or not. What's the problema? You don' want the chico here to know the great Santa Claus is somebody's evil twin?" "Me the evil...! Why you..." Santa became suddenly aware of the two tiny blue eyes gazing at him in astonishment from near the sofa. As he turned, the mask of animal fury that had been his face melted and changed. He smiled his most cheerful smile. "Hello, Timmy. Don't be afraid of this nasty criminal. Hohoho! I'll handle him. You just head on back upstairs to bed. There'll be plenty of great stuff here for you when you wake up in the morning." Turned as he was to address the little boy, Santa shifted the barrel of his blued steel forty-four ever so slightly away from the dead-center of El Dupree's sash. The fragrant sage saw his opening and took it. With a grace entirely out of keeping with his bloated frame, Dupree slipped to the right. He dropped to the floor on his right shoulder, rolled once and leaped to his feet. The vinyl headsack, loosed from the sash while he rolled, had left his fingers and was hurtling toward the velvet clad Saint before El Dupree was fully upright. Santa whirled and fired, ducking as he did so to avoid the approaching vinyl hood. His grace of movement was every bit the equal of his corpulent antagonist. The headsack sailed high, catching in the middle branches of the family Christmas tree. The teflon coated "cop-killer" bullet likewise missed its mark, burying itself in the white-plaster living room wall just below and to the left of the "God Bless Our Happy Home" sampler that Mommy had bought at the church craft fair. Dupree opted to take Santa low. He dove forward and rolled, once again; this time into the velvet clothed knees and shining boots. Santa tumbled backward to the floor, with El Dupree on top of him. Dupree clutched for the Saint's gun hand, and the two struggled on the floor in a tangle of smashed gifts and fallen ornaments. Timmy, his eyes fixed on the headsack dangling from the tree, inched forward, not sure what to do next... Awakened by the gunshot and ensuing commotion, Timmy's Daddy appeared at the top of the stairs. He was literally dumbfounded by the sight that greeted him. Santa and El Dupree still grappled amid the debris of the family Christmas gifts. His tiny son had scrambled up onto the arm of the sofa and leaned precariously toward the middle branches of the brightly decorated Scotch Pine, apparently trying to grasp what looked like a tattered heavy gage trash bag that was tangled in the boughs. A wide semi-circle of fallen soot surrounded the fireplace and one livingroom wall was decorated with a mixture of mucous and milk and a large calibre bullet hole. Daddy, being the very archetype of the serious, business-like (but fair) young parent of the nineties, saw at once that it was his responsibility to put an end to the nonsense arrayed below him before it got any further out of hand. "Now see here!" he began (politely but firmly) as he started down the carpeted stairs. Only a few steps from the top, the smell hit him with a literally physical impact. His eyes began to burn and teared over at once, leaving Daddy unable to see matching Power Rangers pillow that Timmy had left on the steps when he had himself descended earlier in the evening. His slippered foot tangled in the brightly colored pillow case and he lost his balance, tumbling down the steps and banging his head on the bannister post at the bottom where he came to rest, unconscious but not seriously hurt. At just this moment, Timmy made one final desperate lunge, from his perch on the sofa's arm and tumbled forward into the Christmas tree, grasping as he fell for the stranded headsack. He caught two fists-full of greasy black vinyl and hung, suspended, for a split second before sack and tree became disengaged. The shrieking child fell, still clutching the headsack, directly onto the struggling pile of human flesh below. As it happened, Santa had momentarily gained the advantage over the Odiferous Sage, and kneeled atop El Dupree as Timmy crashed down from the branches above. Attempting to break his fall with outstretched hands, still holding the vinyl bag, Timmy succeeded, entirely by accident, in neatly slipping the headsack over Santa's peaked cap and snow-crowned head. A silent darkness descended over the saint as the sack snapped into place, and he tumbled backward from his kneeling position, landing solidly on his ample bottom, where he remained sitting, stunned and confused. "Ayy! Gracias, chico," El Dupree grunted as he struggled to his feet. He bent down to pick up the revolver from the floor. "I'll handle this bendejo from here on out." Turning to the still seated Santa he growled, "Vamanos, Mr. Bigshot. Time for us to go." "Go? You mean you're gonna take Santa with you?" Timmy asked, with obvious disappointment. "Sure kiddo. What's th' problema? You don't need no stinking velvet-boy around here." "But...but...but what about my gifts? You and Santa smashed all the presents Mommy and Daddy got, and now Santa's gonna leave before he unpacks me any toys or games or anything." "Games?" El Dupree replied. "You want games? Hmmmm..." scratching the back of his grimey neck, "I think I got just the thing for you." The corpulent cavallero pulled off his huge sombrero with a flourish and reached inside its inverted crown. He pulled out a battered cardboard box, that might (in better days) have contained a game of some kind. It was not like any game Timmy had ever seen. The box showed no writing, except a warning that read, "Not for any ages". The tattered picture on the top looked like a crudely painted desert-scape littered with small piles of stones. On the bottom was scrawled in crayon "Corzappa included." Timmy wasn't quite sure what to make of the odd gift, but he managed to stammer a "Thank you," anyway. El Dupree reached down to towsle the little boy's mop of dark brown hair (so unlike Daddy's quite Aryan blonde), The very touch of his sausage like fingers left the childish locks greasy and matted. He grabbed Santa by the elbow, jerked him to his feet and turned to go, when a soft female voice, husky with emotion, stopped him in his tracks. "Dupree, you bastard. What are you doing here? I've told you. I was drunk that night, and I never want to hear from you again. You've got some nerve showing up on Christmas Eve." It was Mommy, standing on the carpeted landing with her housecoat pulled tightly around her... "Ayyy! Mama you lookin' good after all these years!" Dupree whistled. "Quantos anos, now chica?" (he stole a glance at four-year-old Timmy, gaging the child's age), "Almost cinco, ain't it?" "Mommy!" Timmy's eyes widened with amazement. "You know Santa's twin brother? Wow!" "Hey, no kiddin' she knows me cabron! Your mama and me, we're _real_ good friends." The color rushed to mommy's cheeks. "Yes, Timmy. I know Mr. Dupree. But he has to go now. He and Santa have a lot of stops to make still tonight. Don't you Dupree. I _said_ DON'T YOU DUPREE!" "Oh, I dunno. Maybe we can stay for a little bit. After all, it ain't every day you get to see an old...uh...friend. Huh kiddo?" Mommy's face went very cold, and very grim. She descended the remainder of the stairs and stepped across the living room to where her little son stood holding the gift that the portly sage had given him. "Timmy. Let me see that lovely game Mr. Dupree gave you." She swept the box from Timmy's hands, pulled open the dented top and hefted the corzappa that lay inside. "Yessss. Very niccccce indeed. Perhaps Mr. Dupree would like to play a little game with ussss, as long assss he'sss sssstaying." Even without the appearance of the corzappa, and the obvious relish with which Mommy was handling it, El Dupree would have been alarmed by the telltale snakey intonation in Mommy's voice. It was definitely time to get back on the road. A groan arose from the floor where Daddy lay, slowly regaining consciousness. He slowly raised himself into a semi-sitting position, leaning on his elbows. "Hey. What happened? What's going on here?" "Nothing dear," Mommy half-snapped. "Jussst lay back down and we'll talk about it later. She snatched a brownie from the platter that lay on the end table near the sofa and stuffed it into her husband's slack-jawed mouth." Daddy, overwhelmed by the smell and still not fully recovered >From his fall, obediently lowered himself back to the carpet and closed his eyes, waiting for the noises in his ears to stop. "Hey, Chica," Dupree smiled. "Looks like you could use a little Christmas present yourself, to use when the old man comes to." Dupree tossed an almost-like-new medium-gage vinyl headsack to his former lover. "Couple hours with this baby, and he won't be askin' any embarassin' questions. 'Sides, your gonna want one to teach the kiddo with anyway." "Jusssst get out of here and don't come back!" Mommy obviously meant business. "Awwww. Baayybee. You know you don't mean that." Dupree ducked deftly under the arc of the swinging corzappa and broke for the door, shoving the disoriented Santa, headsack and all, ahead of him. He hustled the stumbling saint down the sidewalk into the battered gold Cadillac that waited at the curb. The engine turned over with an unmuffled roar that woke half the subdivision. Tires squealing, the Caddy leaped from the curb and off into the near-dawn night. As it sped away, Timmy could hear the strange fatman call to the whole neighborhood, "Feliz navidad everybody! Asta la vista!" The eight tiny reindeer on Timmy's roof were enlightened. P.K.