True Story©... The Heist
It is finally
beginning to come together, it makes total sense now!
First, we learned that Rudolph was a dope fiend. Then we learned that Santa is a kingpin 364
days of the year and that Rudolph is basically a slave to his own damned
dealer.
But this shit gets deeper.
But this shit gets deeper.
In addition to
stewing for the past year on the revelation that Santa is an asshole scumbag dopeman, I also
live with the fact that writing still COSTS me more than it makes me, I wake up every day and go work with people who do not share my drive and
that often frustrates me.
I was watching The Wire, and I had myself an idea. Omar Little was kind of like the Robin Hood
of the whole thing. He was so against
the dope dealers that he sustained himself ROBBING them. That way, he padded his own pockets while
preventing them from moving filth in the hood for profit.
[Phlip note: He also didn’t curse, but I possess no such fucking hangups]
[Phlip note: He also didn’t curse, but I possess no such fucking hangups]
Anyway… Santa is the dope man and has been able to
move with international impunity for 1700 years because apparently no one
suspects him and treats him like some kind of fictional character.
And I’d had about fucking enough of sitting by idly with that information so I decided that this year would the year I would put it to GOOD use!
And I’d had about fucking enough of sitting by idly with that information so I decided that this year would the year I would put it to GOOD use!
I had it all mapped out. I would convene with my family and imbibed in a drink or 10ish before being
transported back to my own home. Once
home, got Ava in the bed after she helped bake cookies for Santa, then ATTEMPTED to sober up with a half-gallon of water and my huge mug of
coffee. All that out of the way, I waited with Remington under
my duster.
11:58ish I heard the sleigh bells
ring-ting-tingling in the distance, I knew it was go time and leapt to
action. I watched from the window as
Santa approached. I quietly climbed out a window
in the back of the house and approached from behind quietly.
… or so I thought. As I approached, Santa dropped his bag and put his hands up, not even turning to address me.
… or so I thought. As I approached, Santa dropped his bag and put his hands up, not even turning to address me.
Santa:
“Now do you really need all that tooling
for a 1700 year old bearded fatman?”
“Bearded Fatman,” that’s MY line! I should shoot now!
Me: “W-what?”
Santa:
“I knew you’d be here”
Me: “But how?”
Santa:
“C’mon, Phillip, it is one of the three
Christmas songs you actually know all the words to.”
Me: “Well why did you come if you knew I was
intending to jux you?”
Santa:
“The show must go on, young man. When it is my time to go, it is my time”
Me: “Wow”
Santa:
“So what are we gonna do here? You gonna let an old man go on with the only
day he works every year or make this ugly?”
Me: “Well I AM kinda here for the bag though. Not the toy one, the babies need those. I want the one from your day job”
Santa:
“Well then, it’s all yours”
Me: “Well this is easier than I thought”
Santa:
“Merry Christmas, Phillip”
Me: “Merry Christmas to you too, Santa”
And with that, the fat man walked away from the bag and got
back on his sleigh. Fuck, I kinda felt bad about having to do it as easy a mark as he was about it.
Wait, was this
shit REALLY just that easy? Santa doesn’t
want to get greased, so he just leaves the bag and goes on about
Christmasing? Fuck me, if I had known it
would be THAT easy, I would have robbed Santa a couple when I was in my 20s! I walked slowly across the yard and picked it
up to see what I had been left with.
I should have known this shit was too good to be true. I open it up and there is coal. The whole-ass bag, FULL of bricks of
coal. I pulled them out and it WOULD NOT empty! Santa had given me a fucking
magic bag of coal that never goes empty!
I am asthmatic, so the concept of running a fire is an instant nightmare knowing that smoke is a trigger for me. I have a neverending bag of coal that I have no use for…
I am asthmatic, so the concept of running a fire is an instant nightmare knowing that smoke is a trigger for me. I have a neverending bag of coal that I have no use for…
Insult to injury was the sticky note on the collar of the
bag:
"Be good for goodness sake" in ancient Greek. F. M. L.
I should have shot
this fat motherfucker.
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