Today is my birthday. I am off gallivanting in the bright lights of the big town. As such, Swipery will be paused for this week. Instead, allow me to regale you with a short story for Christmas, written for the Reading Writers Secret Santa Challenge. We were offered a prompt, a victim recipient and given five hundred words to come up with a little treat. Here’s mine, a tale of hubris, entitlement, social media and revenge. Hope you enjoy, and I’ll see you next Saturday for the Santastic Swipe Special.
HO HO HO OH NO ELMO
Prompt: The elves rant on X and threaten to reveal all about Santa!
‘Chatbot, chatbot, on the wall, who’s the bestest of them all?’
Elmo Rusk, gazillionaire and shithead, crooned to the projection of his custom AI, ten feet tall on the poured concrete of his situation room. The chatbot spat up a progress bar. It had been carefully tuned to deliver the results Elmo expected. According to Gronk, Elmo was the strongest athlete, the smartest brainiac, the greatest lover. When he needed a little ego boost, his pet device came up with the goods.
Gronk pinged, and a picture appeared.
‘Who the rancid fuck is that?’ Elmo bellowed. ‘Who am I looking at? More importantly, why am I not looking at me?’
‘This is Santa Claus. Universally beloved, a perfect example of the best aspects of humanity—‘
‘I am the bestest! How dare this—this beardy fatso take my place?’ Elmo whirled, snarled at the cringing mob of lackeys at his back, poised to indulge his every whim. ‘Release the elfbots! Ruin Santa on the only platform that matters—social media!’
As Elmo wished, so it came to pass. The socials were weaponised against Santa.
‘BREAKING: Claus cruelty to reindeer!’
‘SANTA links to Big Toy corruption—Follow the money!’
‘Whistleblower SLAMS inhuman conditions at the North Pole Sweatshop!’
None of which mattered to Santa, who was, after all, a tulpa—the dream of a billion children made flesh. Elmo’s usual tactics had no effect on a metafictional construct.
But then, in desperation, he went a step too far.
‘MRS CLAUS and the Easter Bunny—the sordid truth!’
‘SANDRA CLAUS SEX TAPE SHOCKER!!!’
Santa wasn’t going to stand for that.
Elmo woke. It was Christmas Eve, a minute to midnight, and there was a huge, red-clad figure standing at the foot of his bed. He scrabbled for the loaded Desert Eagle he kept on his bedside table.
Not there.
The figure lifted a huge hand. He held up the gun, which he crumpled like it was made of cardboard. Then he moved. A blink and he was in Elmo’s face.
‘Come for me and you’re spitting in the wind,’ Santa hissed. ‘Upset the missus and, well, that’s a different matter.’
Elmo whimpered. ‘I didn’t mean—‘
‘Yes, you did. You just didn’t care. And now I have to deal with my lovely, powerful wife thinking she’s worthless.’ Santa leaned in. ‘And that’s not nice.’
‘Wh—what are you going to do?’
‘Something I save for very special boys and girls. The naughtiest of the naughty.’ He gestured, and suddenly he was holding a chunk of black carbon, the size of Richard Osman’s fist. ‘A lump of coal. Up your hole. Keep the noise down and I won’t go in blunt end first.’
It’s said you could hear Elmo’s shrieks from here to Lapland.
Sometimes, Santa gives you what you deserve, instead of what you need. Let’s hope Elmo learnt something useful from his Yuletide surprise. It’s unlikely, but we can always dream.
Happy Christmas, gentle readers. Happy, happy Christmas.
EXCUSES AND HALF TRUTHS 