In a small village mall in Western Kazakhstan a mall Santa had a child on his lap who was asking for
their Christmas wish.
“Santa more than anything this Christmas I want Saint Nicholas to come back and punch some
heretics!” A very simple wish.
“Ho-Ho-Ho well that is a fine wish and I will do my best to make it happen!” With a big Ho-Ho-Ho
Santa threw magical Christmas glitter into the air. At first nothing happened and they both looked
expectingly around. A moment passed and then a fist punched up through the tiled ground and a
dirty and disheveled Saint Nicholas was pulled out by the child and Santa. He was dusted off with a
fine Kazakhstani hanky and he looked dazzling for a man who had been in the grave since the year
343.
“To clarify my dear fellows, I didn’t slap Arius, I gave him a full knuckle sandwich all you can eat
buffet. Stop downplaying my feat. Now what is it you want? My time here is short!”
The young lad spoke.
“Dear Saint Nick, I have these items to give to you to aid you in the hunt for heretics. They need to be
punched, you’re our only hope!” He handed Saint Nick a wad of hundred dollar bills and a small toy walrus. Saint Nick sniffed the money and it was like a million visions came to him as his eyes darted from floor to ceiling ovIer and over. The walrus he examined and noted its facial features. With these clues he could immediately find his prey.
“The money will lead me to Joel Osteen as it stinks of deception. The walrus was an easy clue, it just
looks like T. D. Jakes.”
In a far away land known as Houston, a man that has been plaguing the land with mistruth and dead end dreams was preparing to go to bed for the night. He had just come home from a day of spending other people’s hard earned money that he had slyly taken from them. He entered the kitchen for a glass of water before bed and the power went out. Osteen flicked the switch and nothing.
“Those dang racoons, damn them to hell!” In the dark he fumbled for the tap and poured some
water, amongst the gulping he heard a bump like someone was sneaking around. Joel cowardly ran
and hid in a corner that enshrouded him in darkness. Sounds of movement entered the room,
Osteen’s hiding place filled him confidence. Saint Nick moved in on the prey, unbeknownst to Osteen his mouth was gaping open revealing his bright shining teeth. The full moon shone off them.
“Bingo.” Saint Nick lined up a haymaker from the kitchen and charged Osteen. The blow sent Osteen through the wall and flying into his Olympic sized pool. Desperately Osteen grappled onto an inflatable wad of cash. Toothless he looked up to see Saint Nick.
“Looks like you could use some self-help!” With that witty remark Saint Nick vanished into the night air and Osteen was left whimpering to himself.
“If there was a God then why would he let me get hurt! Wait, if he has punched me then surely he’s
coming for my ministry, I mean, business partner Bishop Jakes. I’ve got to warn him!”
Conveniently Saint Nick’s next heretical target was just down the road in Dallas. Why are these
Texans allowing these dudes to live here? Jakes lived in a lavish country castle that was fortified by
armed guards and had a moat filled with lava. The only way to enter would be to lower the
drawbridge and destroy the automatic rocket launching turrets mounted on the four castle spires. None of this matters really, I’m just escalating the drama. Saint Nick being immaterial (except for when he attacks) just walked through the walls. Again, his prey was in the kitchen, this time with back turned. A big sweat patch made his shirt stick to his back and Jakes was slicing up a leg of ham to make a ham and pickle sandwich. Saint Nick checked his energy timer and noticed he was running low, his actions needed to be hasty. Stay and talk sense to the man or punch him? His planning was abruptly cut short.
“I’ve been expecting you Saint Nick!” Like a flamingo he pirouetted and threw a meat cleaver at Saint Nick, it went through the middle of him and clattered across the floor.
“Your attacks have no effect on me, only your lies deal damage to people!” The eyes of Jakes
twinkled, his arm stretched out and he grabbed a copy of How to Build Your Vision From the Ground
Up.
“Something I prepared earlier!” He threw the collection of lies like a frisbee across the room and it struck Saint Nick hard in the gut. The impact cleaved him in half, leaving him to writhe in pain on the ground. Jakes walked over with another book of which Saint Nick could not see the title. He stood dominantly over Saint Nick while he ate his ham and pickle sandwich, sweat dripped and he grinned as he took his eyes from the book.
“Maybe you should read this Saint Nicky, it could help!” Jakes laughed like a mad man and an
unchopped pickle had made its way into the spot in your throat that you don’t want it to be. He
choked and heaved. An alarm went off from the energy timer. The ground started to open up and it
began to swallow Saint Nick up as his time had come to an end. To dust he would return and with
this final opportunity his hands locked around the stump that was T. D. Jakes’s ankle and their fates
collided. Jakes coughed up the pickle and began to struggle but it was too late. He was being dragged down below and he didn’t even get to finish his sandwich! The room returned to normal except for the two books and cleaver that lay on the floor. The book Jakes held onto till the end lay like a tombstone on the ground where the floor had reformed. It was titled Help Me, I’ve Fallen and I Can’t Get Up. And Christmas was saved, The End!
Listen to this story with bad sound effects and terrible voice acting in the latest episode of Nothing New Under the Porch, a podcast on videogames, theology and satire!
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