Jesus Vs. Santa

Chapter One

FUCK! Jesus slammed the front door and stomped into the house.

His wife rolled over in her bed, stretched her arms overhead, and yawned. Sounds like The Prince of Peace is home … so much for my nap. She turned onto her side, propped her head up on her elbow, and waited, her gaze fixed upon the closed bedroom door.

His angry footsteps echoed through the hallway.

Uh oh … this doesn’t sound good …

The door burst open.

Sweetheart! she said. Welcome home! How about a kiss? Did you have a good day?

A good day, Mary? A good fucking day, Mary Magdalene? A miserable PIECE OF SHIT day is more like it!

Oh oh, she thought, if Jesus isn’t happy, then ain’t nobody’s going to be happy …

DAMN RIGHT nobody’s going to be happy, Mary …

He’s just like the lead singer of a rock band … so temperamental …

Fuckin’ A, woman—will you be serious for a minute?

Jesus Christ, are you reading my mind again? I thought we talked about that.

Damn it, I can’t help it …

Fine. The point is, at the risk of sounding insensitive … your day … whatever happened … it can’t be that bad. Maybe if you just take a deep …

No—it is that bad. That’s the fucking point.

Okay then, Jesus. Out with it … what’s so fucking bad?

It’s that fat little FUCK! That red-suited motherfucker!

Red-suited motherfucker? she said. That sounds like a fish, she thought, like the yellow-bellied cocksucker I caught when we took that fishing trip.

No, it’s not a fish, Mary. He sat down next to her on the bed. And neither is a yellow-bellied cocksucker. But Santa is one of those too, now that I think about it.

Huh? You’re talking about Santa Claus? You’re calling him a fish?

No—I’m calling him a cocksucker.

So, that’s what this is about? Santa? Being a motherfucker and a cocksucker?

"Well, you’d have to agree—my birthday’s a huge deal, right?"

Yeah, but what’s that have to do with mother fucking and cock sucking?

Just humor me, alright?

"Sure … yes, of course, it’s a huge deal, your birthday; the biggest holiday of the year, on Earth and in heaven. Your party last night was … epic. She stopped and rubbed her temples. So epic, I woke up this morning with a splitting headache. Think you could help a girl out with it?"

He laid a hand on the top of her head. There—you’re healed. Better now?

Yes. All better, thank you.

"Good. So, today, I was still feeling high from my party; I mean sky high, if you know what I mean."

I think I do.

But then I got a taste of the news … He handed her a newspaper. … and it killed my fucking buzz, deader than Elvis. That ASSHOLE!

"Elvis? Elvis is an asshole now? I thought you liked him."

No, not Elvis; check out the paper.

She opened it up. Looks like a lot of feel good stuff … Christmas stories …

"A lot of Christmas shit is more like it."

"So … what’s the problem, honey? Christmas is all about you, and you’ve always been such a big fan of you."

No, he said. "It only started out being about me, and that was a long fucking time ago. Now it’s all about ribbons, wrapping paper, and the almighty fucking dollar. It’s so materialistic, it makes me sick. They’ve taken all the Christ out of it—they ought to have to change the fucking name."

Jesus, don’t you think you’re exaggerating just a little?

Well Mary, look in that newspaper; how many stories do you see about me? Kids born in mangers? Anything like that?

She scanned a few pages. Here. In the crime section … something about a nativity scene getting stolen from a church display. Does that count?

It counts … as bullshit. And it’s all that fucking Santa Claus’ fault. He did this… he made Christmas the way it is. I’m just an afterthought now.

She set the paper down and began caressing his arm. Honey, it’s awfully hard for you to compete with Santa, giving away all of that free stuff.

Tell me about it, he said. He’s buying votes, like a crooked fucking politician. I know that’s oxymoronic, but the point is, Christmas is bought and fucking paid for.

Honey, you’re not an oxymoron. She sat up and kissed him on the cheek, her hand sliding from his arm to stroking wide circles on his robed back. For a moment, Jesus’ troubles drifted away.

The reprieve, however, was only temporary.

It’s my frigging birthday! Who told that asshole he could steal it? Motherfucker!

Jesus, she said, still trying to work on his back.

I am the son of God! And he’s just a … son of a bitch!

Jesus, don’t you think that’s a little un…

"Un what? Unbefitting of my regal stature? He stroked his royal beard. You might have a point—if I wasn’t so pissed off."

Un… she attempted to continue.

I’ll tell you what’s unbefitting of my regal stature; it’s the way that asshole in red is treating me! No respect! That rat bastard is way, way out of line!

Mary waited a second. "Unfair. Don’t you think it’s a little unfair is what I was going to say."

He glared at her as if she’d been unfaithful.

Isn’t what Santa does supposed to be a tribute to you? she asked.

I don’t see the fuck how. Stealing my thunder is what he’s doing.

Jesus …

"The bottom line is, it’s my day, and he’s taken it over. It sucks, and he sucks. For a hundred years, he’s been working to take it away from me—and the fucking papers are so proud of him! That passes for reporting? Journalism is dead!"

He picked up the newspaper and threw it on the floor, then set his face in his hands. Sons of bitches.

Jesus, she said, getting up out of bed, I want to make you feel better. She turned and faced her husband. So tell me, what can I do?

He looked up from his hands, and caught her untying the sash of her flowing silken robe.

Then, smiling like a cat, she pulled the garment open, and let it fall to the floor.

You’re definitely onto something here, Mary. He laid his hands on her hips. You’re never going to believe this—but I feel a little better already.

Chapter Two

And 3 … 2 … 1 … you’re live, Santa! the cameraman said.

Poised to begin the interview, Santa took a deep breath. Okay, he thought, anticipating any second the sound of the popular news anchor’s voice. Don’t forget to be jolly, and remember to stay the fuck away from politics.

A long, surprisingly silent moment passed … followed by another … and another.

Santa squinted into the camera. Bo, what the hell is going on? Where the hell are they?

The cameraman popped up from behind the camera, scratched his head, and shrugged his shoulders.

Is the fucking studio broken down again? Goddamn it! Santa whipped off his earpiece and microphone and stood up out of his chair.

Everything’s dead, Santa. Sorry.

Where the hell is Nigel? We’ve got to get this shit fixed, on the goddamned double.

I … don’t know, Santa. I’ll go find him. He was already headed for the door.

Yes! Santa said, "On the double—please!"

Bo was gone.

Fucking elves; I get them everything they need … tools … training … and then they screw me like this, sputtered Santa.

Hey Santa. Another elf had entered the studio, lackadaisically slurping the contents from a giant mug, and moving very slowly. Have you tried this new hot chocolate from the coffee shop? It’s Irish! I wonder if I’m Irish …

NIGEL! What the hell are you doing?

What do you mean? You almost scared me out of my boots, big guy. I could have spilled my …

Sorry I yelled at you, Santa said, "but we’re in big fucking trouble here. Bo went to find you. The studio’s not working, and I’m supposed to be on TV right now."

Oh, shit—I’ll check it out. Here, hold this. Nigel handed Santa his mug. But don’t drink it.

Wouldn’t think of it, Santa said. You know I’m a beer man.

The elf hustled over to the camera, and began to examine it, before moving on to Santa’s microphone and earpiece, and some of the other studio equipment.

Hmmm, he said, stepping over to the large electrical panel on the wall. Hmmm, he said again as he surveyed the panel’s contents.

Nigel! Bo said as he came through the studio door. Where the fuck have you been?

I’ve been right here, helping, Nigel said. Where the fuck have you been?

Never mind that shit, you guys, Santa said. Are you getting anywhere with this, Nigel? Please say you are.

The only problem I see is this, Nigel said, reaching into the panel. He flipped a switch, and the studio crackled to life.

And for our Christmas wrap-up this December twenty-sixth, they heard the perky female voice say over the studio sound system, "we have a special—the most special—Christmas celebrity guest, here for you on the Wake Up World Morning Show."

Shit! The interview! Santa scrambled back into his seat.

Nigel hurried Santa’s microphone and earpiece back into place, and Bo got his ass back behind the camera.

Santa Claus, please say hello to our television audience.

Ho Ho Ho! Good morning—and I hope everyone had a merry Christmas!

I’m sure they did, Santa, the interviewer replied. At least all of us good little boys and girls did!

Santa leaned into the camera, a stern expression on his face. And don’t you forget, young lady—I know exactly which list you are on.

Oh, well … she stumbled.

Ho Ho Ho! Santa was just having a little fun with you. Kind of awkward though, wasn’t it?

I thought so, Bo whispered to Nigel, who’d joined him behind the camera.

No, not awkward at all, said the interviewer. When you’re good, you know it.

I’m sure you do, Ho Ho Ho! Well anyhow, we look for the best in everybody around Christmas. That keeps it fun for me, too.

Nigel turned to Bo. "You know how the studio wasn’t working before? We should make sure it’s turned on next time."

Bo nodded his head in agreement.

So Santa, the interviewer said, I’m sure our audience is curious as to just how big a Christmas the world had this year. Do you have any numbers for us?

Well, we did add to our business this year, as a matter of fact. We haven’t had a chance to crunch the final numbers yet … but all indications are that we had more good kids this year than ever before.

"And what do you say to those who suggest that is more a case of the bar being lowered as to what is considered good behavior, and modern society’s reluctance to label their naughty children as naughty?"

I can assure you that, while the situation you described may well be the case, we at The North Pole are using the same formulas that we always have. There is no inflation of statistics, behavioral or otherwise, where Santa is concerned. Jesus, he thought, this is starting to feel like a goddamned interrogation.

That’s certainly good to hear. Can you tell us, Santa, what will you do now, with Christmas behind you, and the end of the holiday season in sight? Since next Christmas is a whole year away, will you get back to work immediately, or do you take time off?

"Ho Ho Ho! That’s a great question, and I’m happy to talk about it, because it’s got a great answer. I frankly don’t recall ever having been asked about what happens after Christmas."

So why don’t you answer it? she said. "I mean … fabulous. What happens after Christmas, Santa?"

Uh … each year after Christmas, what happens upon my return to the North Pole is … essentially, nothing. We shut down for a couple weeks, and relax. Mrs. Claus and I sometimes travel … the elves kick back … we get the chance to recover from the massive Christmas effort—and get ready to ramp up to the next one.

Interesting, she said. And when do you start watching again, to see who’s naughty or nice, for next year?

Oh, that never stops. The nice and naughty lists are constantly updated—we’re always watching.

No kidding, Santa. I guess we’d all better keep that in mind.

It wouldn’t be a bad idea. In fact, I recommend it.

Great advice for all the girls and boys out there, she said. "Thank you Santa, for being with us this morning. It’s been fascinating, as always."

Thank you, Santa said. And I’ll be seeing you.

"Santa Claus, everybody; be good, for goodness sake. Next up: The President undergoes surgery to remove his head from his buttocks—stay tuned."

And we’re out, Bo said.

Great interview, boss, added Nigel.

Thanks, kiss-ass.

Bo started laughing.

No, really, Santa said, thanks. They make me feel like I’m testifying on the stand sometimes. I think they’re jealous they can’t wear red like I can.

Now agree, Nige. Tell him how good he looks.

Fuck you, Bo.

Bo—don’t forget, Santa said. If you make him stop kissing my ass, guess who’s next in line for the job! Ho Ho Ho!

See, Bo? Someone has to do it.

They enjoyed a good laugh together.

After a few minutes, Santa noticed a pretty blond face in the window of the studio door. Now there’s a sight for tired eyes! He bade her to join them, and she obliged.

Hi boys, she said

It was only then that Bo and Nigel, who were still in the throes of yucking it up, realized they had company. They suddenly clammed up and stood at attention, like a superior officer had just walked in.

Hi Mrs. Claus, the elves greeted her in unison.

At ease, soldiers. And what was so funny? Nigel kissing Santa’s ass again?

HA! Bo laughed. See? Even she knows.

Ho Ho Ho! Don’t worry Nigel—like I said, I’m fine with it.

Geez, with friends like you guys, Nigel said. "Keep laughing. You can all kiss my ass."

Aw, come on buddy, Bo said, Let’s go have a drink. It’s party time.

Okay, Nigel said. Bye Mrs. Claus and Santa.

Have a good time, boys, Santa said.

Mrs. Claus waved goodbye, and they watched the elves go. How was the interview, Kris?

Not bad, Santa answered, "But so far I like after the interview a whole lot better. He put his arms around her and pulled her close. Even better now."

I bet you’re exhausted.

Nah, I’m feeling peppy as hell—for an undead fucking zombie. He smiled wearily.

She buried her face in his red-suited shoulder, and gave him a hug. He sighed, and patted her on the back. You know, he said, I vaguely remember making some vacation plans …

You do? she said. "I’d question that memory. I recall us having plans … that I made—while you were busy being a workaholic."

Yeah. Those plans.

Oh, then I guess I know the ones you mean.

Tell me, Madam, Santa evoked his most noble British accent. Shall we stand around here all day, rather than making haste for our vacation destination?

You sound like a butler when you talk like that.

Just play along, will you?

"I meant, Sir, she said, doing her best American southern belle, I would most certainly enjoy accompanying you anywhere!"

I love it when you do voices, Santa said.

And I certainly put up with you when you do them, she replied, still in character. You big, strong, handsome man!

You’re going to make my head swell if you keep talking like that.

Unless I’m mistaken, Sir … She rubbed up against him. It feels like I already have.

Chapter Three

Jesus, honey?

Yeah?

I was just thinking about something.

Jesus groggily rubbed his eyes. That’s good to know. About anything in particular?

You know how you’ve been a little ... down … over your birthday?

"Yeah, I guess maybe I have been a little bit ornery."

Yes … a little. Anyhow, what if we went away for a little …

Shock therapy? I don’t know—it didn’t seem to help much last time.

… vacation. A vacation—it’s not shock therapy, but I think it would be good for us.

"Vacation, eh? That could be nice, except you know how whenever you take me anywhere, you always end up saying you can’t take me anywhere?"

I do recall saying that, Mary said.

So what about it? Probably makes it a non-starter, right?

I think it would be just the thing to perk you up.

What about my track record of bad behavior?

Can’t you try to be on your best behavior this time?

"I guess I can try to be on my best behavior, but …"

Well, I guess that will have to do—what more can I ask than your best? Besides, she thought, the place will be full of other wonderful women trying to put up with their asshole husbands.

Hey! I heard that!

I knew you would, she said. That’s why I thought it.

Chapter Four

The delivery van bounced over the bumpy road. Among its passengers was a nondescript package bound for the Kahuna Village Resort, located a just few miles ahead.

This part of the island sure is quiet, the driver spoke into his phone. "Yeah … it’s my favorite part too … beautiful beaches... not too crowded. Beaches, I said—not bitches. Yeah, they’ve got them too. HA! You’re full of shit! Fuck you, too! All right—I’ll see you later."

Up ahead in the distance, he spotted the sign marking the entrance to his next destination. Yep, the Kahuna—there it is.

A ways up the driveway, he came to a turnoff, and another sign. Deliveries in the rear? he read aloud. "To each their own, but I think my rear will pass on any deliveries, thank you very much. He smiled and shook his head. There I go, talking to myself again." He turned in at the sign, and guided his van along the winding access road, which cut like a machete through the dense native vegetation, eventually working its way to a security gate and guard shack.

The van’s brakes squealed as it stopped at the gate, waking up the napping security professional who was tasked with manning the checkpoint. Recognizing the delivery service and driver, he raised the gate and leaned out the door, waving the van through. Look for the receiving dock at second building you’ll come to, he said.

The driver nodded in understanding and eased the van past the gate.

The security guard sat back down, put his feet up, and closed his eyes.

Soon, the delivery van was upon the complex of resort buildings. The driver kept his eyes peeled for the loading dock, noting the structures’ semi-authentic island motif—oversized caricatures of the traditional huts that had housed the area natives. Yup … huts on steroids.

He found the loading dock door right where it was supposed to be. That looks like the place. He wheeled the van around, and backed it up in front of the dock. After killing the engine, he slid open the driver’s side door and jumped out.

There was an entrance next to the large garage door, and he headed in its direction. His eyes fell upon a red button off to the side of the door, with a sign over it that read Ring Bell for Service.

He pushed the button, holding it down for a few seconds. Nothing happened.

After a minute of nothing happening, he reached for the doorknob and tried it, just for kicks. As expected, the damn thing was locked tighter than the princess’ chastity belt.

He looked at his wristwatch. Shit! I’m running late. Is anyone home, or what? I’ve got other fucking stops. He looked at it again. Fuck it—I’ll leave it with the stupid guard—he can sign for the stupid thing.

In a huff, he got back behind the wheel, and started the engine. Frigging place! Don’t they have any help around here? He dropped the transmission into gear, and planted his right foot hard into the accelerator, sending the van lurching ahead.

Just as the van took off, the door with the bell swung open, and a young man stepped outside. He started jumping and waving his arms when he saw the van taking off.

The driver caught sight of him, shook his head, and wheeled the van back around to the door.

Hey man, the kid asked through the van’s open window, you got something for us?

"Yeah man, I do."

The driver climbed out of the van, and opened up the back.

How many boxes? the kid asked.

Just this one, the driver said, pointing to the package on the floor of the van.

He handed the kid an electronic signature pad. Just make your mark, and it’s all yours.

Alright, thanks.

After he signed for it, the kid picked up the box and headed for the building.

Have a good day, he called back to the driver, who was closing up his van.

Yeah, you too, kid.

The kid was pleasantly surprised by the lightness of the box, although its bulk required both hands and most of his reach to carry.

Tiki, did you sign for whatever they had for us? squawked an authoritative voice from the intercom speaker on the wall.

The lad set the box down on the floor with some others, and walked over to the the intercom. Yeah, I signed for it, he spoke into the device. Just one box this time.

There’s still a whole fucking pile of boxes down there, right?

Yeah, there’s a bunch.

Then that’s your next project—get all those packages where they’re supposed to be.

You got it, boss.

Tiki walked into the office carrying a stack of boxes so high that he had to look around them to see where he was going. He set them down next to the reception desk. Hi Muriel, he said to the pretty lass stationed there.

She looked up from her paperwork, through cute, bookish glasses. Oh … hi Tiki.

I’ve got something for you, Tiki said. That didn’t come out right! he thought. Think before you speak, asshole!

She smirked. Oh, okay. Just leave it there, on the floor in front of my desk.

Sure thing.

He took the top box and placed it where she had indicated. There you go.

Thanks, she said, looking back down at the work on her desk.

Tiki lingered a minute, until she looked up again.

Oh, was there something else? she asked.

Yes … I still have that other something for you. he thought. Uh, yeah, he said. You know … I was wondering if you’re busy … because I could take you out … tonight, if you want to …

Muriel shifted in her chair.

So, Tiki continued, I was thinking we could go to the beach … or something …

Sorry Tiki. I can’t really make it tonight.

No? Not tonight either? You sure stay busy, Muriel. You sure?

Yeah, she said, getting back to her work. I’m … afraid so.

That’s okay … maybe some other time. Hey—how about tomorrow night? I could do that …

Her phone started ringing.

I have to get that, she said, and proceeded to answer the phone. What? she said to the caller. Right now? You already gave me a ton to do.

Tiki waited through a few minutes of the call, before deciding that whatever window he’d had, was closed. Okay, he said, I’m going to go now—I’ll see you later.

She waved goodbye, granting him only minimal attention.

He collected the other boxes, and got out.

Once he was out of sight, Muriel lowered the phone and replaced it on the receiver.

The caller really had only been on the line for a minute.

Chapter Five

The handsome couple walked arm in arm through the main entrance, into the lobby.

So this is the Kahuna Village, he said, looking around. Not bad.

I’m glad you approve, the hot redhead replied. Should I let them know Jesus approves? Maybe they’ll do an endorsement deal.

"Should I let them know Mary Magdalene is a smart-ass? Or do you think they’ve already heard?"

I doubt they’ve heard that, she said, so I guess you’d better tell them, if you want them to know.

They walked up to the check-in desk; the place was deserted.

Well, the service here is awesome, Jesus said.

Just give them a minute. I’m sure they’ll be along.

Fine. I’ll just spend the time gawking at you and that little yellow dress.

You like it? Good. You look pretty sharp yourself in those new shorts.

I know—I think they show off my butt a lot better than my robes do. He turned so she could check him out.

I noticed that.

But it feels weird getting used to the feel of them—they’re much more constricting. Maybe it’s wearing underwear, all of a sudden.

"You’ll live. You can’t always go around wearing dresses everywhere."

"It used to be cool," Jesus said.

"Lots of things used to be cool; every couple thousand years, you should update your look, you know?"

I guess. But we’re not throwing away the dresses, right?

I wouldn’t think of it, Jesus.

Help was a long time coming.

Maybe we should try this bell, Jesus said, pointing at the one on the counter.

Funny, I don’t remember a bell being there before, Mary replied. It’s almost like it appeared while I was looking away.

You mean like magic or something?

Yeah, sort of like that.

"Well, ring it. Maybe if it is magic, we’ll actually get some fucking help."

Mary rang the bell.

There was no response.

I guess the bell idea was a winner, Jesus said.

She rang the bell again.

Maybe, he said, what we need is a magic air horn. Or a whoopee cushion.

A door marked employees only opened, and a tropical beauty emerged.

Finally, some action, he said.

The girl made her way to the counter.

Can you check us in? Mary asked.

Yes, I certainly can, she answered. What’s the name?

Jesus looked to Mary; she usually handled with the aliases.

"Shepard’s the last name … Jesús and Mary."

Hay-soos? he thought to her. What am I, Hispanic all of a sudden?

It’s all part of the identity camouflage. Trust me.

But I don’t look like a Hay-soos.

You’re right—you look like a hippie refugee from Woodstock or The Haight, in new khakis. It’ll fly; just go with it.

The girl’s fingers clicked across a keyboard, and she peered into a computer screen. Found it, the she said. Right there.

Great, Mary said. And I love your outfit, by the way.

Thanks, but believe me, grass skirts and coconut bras get old, day in and day out.

I see, Jesus said.

Mary elbowed him. You should see, you’re staring hard enough.

Her point, Jesus said. That’s what I meant I saw.

Right, Mary said.

The girl punched a few keystrokes into her machine, clicked a mouse, and somewhere behind the counter a printer started up.

I’ll have some paperwork for you to sign in just a second. And I’ll need to see your ID’s.

The printer sounds stopped, and the girl ducked down behind the counter.

Jesus held his empty hand up for Mary; he waved it in a circle, and a pair of driver’s licenses materialized in it.

The girl stood up and pushed a pile of papers across the counter at Jesus and Mary. Here you go. Please sign on the X’s—and while you do that, I’ll make copies of your licenses.

Why do you want copies? Jesus asked. You look nothing like us—I doubt they’ll do you much good.

Just for verification—to help make sure the right people end up in the right rooms—and end up with the right bills.

A worthy cause. He handed over the licenses. Copy away.

A few quick signatures later, she handed back their ID’s, along with a pair of room keys.

See? There, across the top, are your account number, your key numbers, and the phone number to your room. Also there’s the number for here at the desk—call here if you need assistance with anything. We here at the Kahuna Village Resort are at your service.

You really have your rap down, Jesus said. Nice job.

Thank you Sir. I do my best.

You’re awfully friendly today, Mary thought to her husband. What is she—due for a coconut inspection?

Yes she is, as a matter of fact. You all are.

A second girl joined the first behind the counter. Dressed identically, they bore a close resemblance, except that the new girl sported about four times the others’ girth.

Looks like Bessie needs to be milked, Jesus thought. Where do they get coconuts that size?

Be nice, Jesus, Mary thought. The poor girl …

Sorry Mary—I didn’t realize I was thinking so loud. But that girl is a beast.

So, can you take the Shepherds to their room? the first girl asked her plumper co-worker. They’re in Hut 3, top floor, Suite 4.

Alright. She plodded around the counter to the vacationing couple. If you’ll please follow me, I’ll take you to your suite.

Alright, Jesus said. We’ll be right behind you.

She led Jesus and Mary back through the lobby.

"This girl sure doesn’t move