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- [00:01]
Santa Claus
The following is a special rebroadcast of a show originally released on Christmas Day 2023. We hope you're fully braced for this presentation of the no Sleep podcast. Merry Christmas to all the good and the naughty kitties out there. Live from the North Pole, it's Santa Day Night Live. Tonight, Santa welcomes his guests, Jill Benson, Charlie Davenport and Marcus Danda. And now, lube up your chimney. Cause here he comes, the fat man himself, Santa Claus.
- [01:11]
David
Hello.
- [01:15]
Jill Benson
Hello, everyone.
- [01:19]
Santa Claus
Hello. Thank you, everyone. What a festive night. Thank you for joining us at Saturday Night Live. It's wonderful to see you all. And it's Christmas, so of course I'm the only one working, am I right? Well, that's not entirely true. I have my trusty sidekick with me tonight. Why don't you introduce yourself Happy to Santa? Of course. My name is David. No, I was only kidding. We don't have time to hear you chatter on. Gee, thanks. Well, how have you been, Nick? That's St. Nick to you, sonny. Sorry, Saint. Have you been extra busy this year? You know, I really have been. The workshop has been abuzz with non stop production. Do you have any idea how many Christmas presents this year were inspired by that tall blonde woman? Oh, sure. Barbie was the hottest thing this year. Barbie? I was talking about Taylor Swift, you knucklehead. I should have known. All right, let's move. In fact, let's shake. If you say shake it off, it's going to be a cruel summer and winter for you, bucko. Point made. Santa Day Night Live is sponsored by Quints. And now that we're so close to Christmas, your shopping is probably done. But this is also a wonderful time to treat yourself to a present or two. Here's the thing, it's kind of gross out. Even those of us that embrace the chilly weather need something to break up the long winter nights. Something, my dear Kelly loves to do is treat herself to a little something lovely to wear. But we don't want to spend a fortune fighting those winter blues. That's where Quince comes in. With Quince, you can treat yourself to everyday luxury at an affordable price. And Kelly loves her cashmere Dolman sweaters, which start at only $50. Whatever you're looking for, all Quince items are priced 50 to 80% less than similar brands. They're able to do that by partnering directly with top factories and cutting out the cost of the middleman, passing the savings on to you. So follow Kelly's lead and slip into some beautiful and great fitting clothing from Quints. You deserve to treat yourself this winter without the luxury price tag. Go to quince.com nosleep for 365 day returns plus free shipping on your order. That's qU-U-N-C-E.com no sleep to get free shipping and 365 day returns. Quince.com nosleep now back to Santa Day Night Live. Now, I think it's time we start this show. People didn't tune in to hear us talk about Tay Tay. That's right. They came for horror. They want to hear about people being terrified and killed. So less Tay Tay and more slay. Slay? Oh, my. The only thing you slay is the fun around here. All right, let's bring out our first guest. She's a gifted author and one we've had on before. I can't wait to hear about her latest story. Would you please welcome. Actually, Santa, I have something to tell you. Did you just interrupt me? I did. You see, Ms. Benson couldn't make it here tonight. What? Why not? I don't know. Something about a tragic mistletoe accident. Well, doesn't that, as the kids say these days, suck a heap of donkey balls? If you say so. Well, what are we going to do now? Fear not, Santa, because Jill sent us a copy of her story. We can listen to it and enjoy it even if she's not here. Well, that will have to do, I suppose. Who's in it? It's performed by Peter Lewis, Aaron Lillis and Graham Rowett. Oh, you mean Petey Lou. Aaron Air Alike and the Growman. That's them all right. Put your hands together and welcome Christmas Santa by Jill Benson.
- [06:10]
Jill Benson
My father died when I was 12 years old, December 21st, just a few days before Christmas. That was the day that life as I had always known it ended. A week earlier, we'd had one of the biggest snowstorms in Kansas City history since the Blizzard of 74. I remember waking up that morning, the snow coming down fast and heavy, and watching the school closings earnestly on TV along with my younger sister, Rachel. When we finally saw our school on the list of closures, the city schools were always last to give up the goose. Rachel and I jumped for joy and promptly donned our winter clothes to go outside and play. Dad joined us a little later and we played in the snow all that morning with only a brief reprieve to come in for a mug of hot chocolate. Heavy flakes coming down all the while. I remember how much fun that was. Me, my little sister, and my dad. Mom stayed inside, proclaiming it too cold for her, but still watching from the kitchen window. Rachel lay in the soft blanket of snow, making snow angels while dad and I made a snowman. Snow was nice and sticky and we'd made the perfect snowman. A couple of round stones for the eyes, sticks for the arms, my dad's blue, red and green scarf wrapped around his frozen ball of a head, and I swear this is true, a carrot for the nose. The snow finally stopped late that evening and the snow covered town looked like something right out of a postcard. School was closed the next few days because of the bad weather, and since winter break was supposed to start the following week, we got the rest of the year off. My sister and I were thrilled and could barely wait for Christmas. On the day of the accident, the sun had come out, warming things considerably and the snowman my dad and I had made melted. By midday, all that remained was one large deformed ball of snow, a carrot in its melting center, and my dad's soggy scarf lying forgotten and dirty in the wet slush below when the knock at the door came. Mom was making dinner and my sister was upstairs in her room. I was downstairs watching tv, one of those claymation made for kids Christmas shows we always watched year after year. Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. Our Christmas tree was decorated with red and green balls, tinsel, candy canes, and a handful of Shrinky Dink Christmas ornaments Rachel and I had made the previous year. I was especially proud of a toy race car I had hand drawn multicolored Christmas lights blinked on and off, lighting the tree in the magical colors of Christmas. The string of lights consisted of solid incandescent bulbs, not the mini lights everyone seems to use nowadays. And they were always a little hot to the touch. I remember one strand had gone out, leaving a dark patch right smack in the middle of the tree. Mom said dad would fix it when he got back, but of course he never would. My mother went to answer the door, probably thinking it was our Uncle Mark and Aunt Audrey come to join us for dinner, or maybe cousin Jimmy, who was always looking for a free meal. But it wasn't any of them. Curiously, I peeked around my mother seeing the two officers, one holding his hat in front of him with both hands and looking uncomfortable as hell. It was the other one, a lady police officer, who said the words I would always remember.
- [10:21]
Marcus Danda
Ma'am, I'm afraid we have some bad news for you.
- [10:27]
Jill Benson
There had been an accident, a collision involving a blue Ford Taurus and a semi, and she told us my father was dead. My mother had shrieked, then sobbed uncontrollably, and that had frightened me more than the news about my dad, because I had never seen her like that before. My sister cautiously came downstairs, wondering what was wrong. I watched as mom collapsed into a nearby armchair, the one my father usually sat in after dinner and broke down. Rachel stood at the bottom of the stairs, wide eyed. I was frozen to the spot. We glanced at each other, both of us frightened, neither of us with a clue in the world about what we were supposed to do next. Then the police officer, the one with the hat in his hands, asked if there was anyone they could call for us. On Christmas Eve. The police returned my father's belongings to the house. The few things that had been in his car the day of the accident, a gym bag full of clothes, some tools, jumper cables, and an old toy gun of mine I had forgotten about that had been lying on the back floorboard. And Santa. I'd always had a Mr. And Mrs. Santa, the kind that glowed when you plugged them in, and even at the young Age of 12 I had already had fond memories of them, the friendly pair standing together on the front porch all lit up, ready to greet any guest that happened to arrive. Just seeing them and all the lights and decorations always made me feel warm and Christmassy and inside. A few years earlier, Santa had gotten lost during a move, leaving only Mrs. Santa. My mom and dad still set her out on the front porch every Christmas and lit her up, and she would stand there solitary and alone, a frozen smile on her face, looking strangely like a cheerful Christmas widow. When I thought back on that years later, I realized what an odd thing that was for my parents to do, almost as if they thought it would be a crime to leave her all wrapped up and alone in the attic year after year. The day of the accident she had been standing as usual on the front porch when dad called to say he'd found Santa, her exact match, in a cozy off the Beaten Path antique store. He was old and faded, but with a new bulb inside he would light up just like she did. He was a deal, too, only $5, and would mom like to have him? She had said yes, of course, proclaiming how wonderful it would be to have the pair again, and the crash must have happened shortly after that, even though the plows had cleared the streets, the gray packed banks on either side looking more like roadside debris than snow. There were still plenty of slick spots on the roads, especially as the day gave way to evening and the news had warned drivers to take care a slick spot on the road. That's what the police said had been the culprit. Dad must have hit one and then lost control of the car, swerving into the lane of an oncoming semi. According to the driver of the truck, dad had veered in time to avoid a head on but not to avoid a crash altogether, and his car had struck the right corner of the semi's front engine compartment, then jagged off sharply across the lane, slicing right into the guardrail. I was spared most of the grisly details, though I overheard my uncle later say that the guardrail had barreled into his chest, skewering his body to the seat like one might skewer a chunk of beef. He had died instantly, and as horrible as that was, it brought me some sense of relief knowing he had not suffered. I didn't know then, of course, what I know now. After the officers left, all we could do was stare at all the things from my dad's car that sat on the kitchen table, Santa included. I can remember thinking he looked freaky and even a little scary, nothing like the cheery Santa we'd had before. He was discolored and worn, his coat and hat a washed out, reddish, almost pink color, his belt gray, his face dull and cheerless. He looked less like a jolly elf and more like a Christmas ghost. Only his eyes seemed to have any life in them, a sharp blue that stared out from beneath a storm of hectic eyebrows, and I wondered what on earth ever possessed my dad to buy it. Uncle Mark must have been thinking the same thing, because he picked up the figurine, peered into its face, and said.
- [15:50]
Marcus Danda
Kind of a creepy Christmas Santa, isn't he?
- [15:53]
Jill Benson
My aunt chided him for the remark, telling him it was neither the time nor the place. Uncle Mark just shrugged, but I didn't mind. He always just called it like it was, and there was nothing wrong with that. But I didn't have long to ponder his words. No sooner had he sat Santa back down on the table than my sister came running into the kitchen, tears streaming down her cheeks, and threw herself into my aunt's arms. Mom had a lost it. Just lost it. We hurried into the living room and I watched, stunned, as she pulled down the tree with all the lights and decorations and hauled everything outside. My aunt tried to stop her, but my uncle put a hand on her shoulder.
- [16:40]
David
No, let her be.
- [16:43]
Jill Benson
This was her grief and it needed to be played out. That night everything went out that door and onto the curb. Everything, that is, except Santa. Even Mrs. Santa went, leaving our new Santa oddly single and alone. My aunt and uncle did at least save our Christmas presents. The next morning we opened them. A neighbor there to help, my mother upstairs, sedated with with Valium. To this day, I couldn't tell you a single thing I got that year. I only remember my sister opening up a doll she had wanted so badly and then bursting into tears. The next few days were a blur. My Uncle Mark and Aunt Audrey stayed with us, taking care of me and my sister and mom the best they could, making funeral arrangements. The funeral was held two days after Christmas, and it was so strange having family come in not for the joy of the holiday season, but to mourn. And stranger still, sitting somberly in a church that had been gaily decorated for the holidays. Bright Christmas tree in one corner. The Sunday school kids had decorated it with strands of popcorn and handmade decorations. Shiny coffin near the pulpit up front. When we returned home, I climbed the few stairs that led to the front door. And then I stopped dead in my tracks. Santa was standing on the porch in the same spot where Mrs. Santa had stood only two days earlier. In spite of the cool temperatures, the sun that shone brightly in the late afternoon sky reflected off the snow, practically blinding me. I blinked for a moment, unsure of what I was seeing. I shielded my eyes and stared at the miniature elf, wondering who on earth would have set him out on the porch. And then I had the strangest thought. I imagined Santa creeping out of the hallway closet where he had been put, sauntering silently across the hardwood floor, then somehow opening the front door to step out onto the porch, ready to greet us. It was that thought more than the cool temperatures that made my flesh break out in goosebumps. No one who came to our house on that cold afternoon commented on the one remaining Christmas decoration that stood on our porch. And to this day, I'm not sure if my aunt and uncle even saw him as they climbed the front steps, or if he was invisible to everyone but me. The next thing I knew, Uncle Mark had slipped on the icy walkway, his feet going out from underneath him, and he fell hard to the ground. I heard clear as anything, the back of his head smack against the concrete sounded like the clack of billiard balls, and I remember suddenly feeling sick to my stomach. Aunt Audrey and another relative I didn't know so well rushed to his aid, helping him up. For a moment, it was all in question. My Uncle Mark was a hefty man, but he was soon on his feet, grinning sheepishly, embarrassed by his Clumsiness. And as the rest of the family gingerly guided him into. Inside the house, I stood frozen to the spot, gazing at Santa. His plastic lips had somehow curved up and. And he was smirking. I know that sounds crazy, but I swear it's true. Before that day, only a hint of his lower lip was exposed beneath his mustache. But now, now, by God, his lips would twist it up into an awful smirk, as if he was oh so thrilled with the recent chain of events. I know that some might think this was just the imaginings of a grief stricken kid, but I can only tell you that it was not. I saw what I saw on legs that were stiff from more than just the cold. I stepped inside the house, deftly skirting the elf as best I could, telling myself it had nothing to do with my uncle. I felt numb all over and I hardly said two words the rest of the day. This was not normal for me, as I was usually quite the chatterbox, even with adults, but everyone chalked it up to grief. Later, Uncle Mark came over to me, scruffed the top of my head. He told me everything would be okay. But it. It wouldn't. A week later, Uncle Mark was at our house, reaching into the pantry for a box of Lucky Charms. When he dropped to the kitchen floor, he was dead in minutes. Though it was not a friendly death, I should know, I witnessed it later. The doctors said his death was the result of a subdural hematoma, whatever that means. They said he likely never felt a thing, but I knew different. I went outside. I stared at Santa, fists clenched, unsure what to do, feeling the anger inside of me almost boil over. But there was nothing to be done. My uncle was dead and that was that. And so, not two weeks after my dad's funeral, we were attending another. The following month, Aunt Audrey sold their house, packed her things and moved somewhere back east. North Carolina, I think. I miss her terribly. I still do. But who could blame her? We didn't see much of her after that. The day after my uncle's death, my mother plucked Santa off the front porch, wrapped him in newspaper and shoved him into a of the large gift boxes left over from Christmas. Though we never spoke of it, I think she knew something was wrong. She glanced at me briefly, a look of dull shock on her face, and Santa got moved into the attic along with the rest of my father's things. That was the last we saw of him for six years. I can't really tell you much about that. Next year, each day seemed to melt into the next. Going to school, coming home, playing video games until it was time for supper. That was about it. That year we tried to celebrate Christmas. Mom even bought a Christmas tree. Not a real one, one like we'd always had, but one of those fake ones, the kind that came pre decorated. I tried to play along, but we were just going through the motions. None of us felt like celebrating, except maybe my sister, who was just young enough to shake off the grief quicker than the rest of us. Over the next few years, we slowly put the past behind us, and little by little, life became livable again. Still, it was always hard around the holidays. By the time I turned 18, I was working and driving, but still living at home. The thought of moving out made me feel like I was abandoning my mom and my sister. Or maybe I just wasn't ready. Mom was doing better. She appeared to have shaken off the sorrow and loneliness and was enjoying life again. I remember she'd come across a garage sale with what seemed like box after box of Christmas decorations for sale. And she had bought every last one, her face flushed with excitement. We'd loaded everything into the back of the pickup truck I had at the time, and when we got home, I helped her haul everything upstairs into the attic. What a hot, sweaty mess that was. But mom seemed happy. Later that Christmas, she pulled everything downstairs and cheerfully decorated the house. I remember looking at those decorations and feeling sick about it, like we were decorating our house with someone else's memories. Mom said it was really no different than buying decorations in a store, only for a heck of a lot less. And after a while, we would build our own memories. Still, it was not the same. That year she found Santa. I remember her bringing the box he'd been stored in down from the attic, opening it and plucking out the aged figurine from inside. She sat in the easy chair, the same one she'd collapsed into sobbing hysterically the day my dad died. And she just stared at it, her face oddly blank. Seeing her that way sent chills up my spine big time. And I remember wanting to lunge over to her, yank Santa out of her arms, and pitch the freakish elf through the front window. Instead, I simply stood there. After a while, she got up and stood Santa out on the front porch, plugging him into a nearby outlet. I thought I could still see that smug look on his face, but I said nothing. What would I have said Christmas morning after my sister had opened all her presents? By then I was too old for presents, though mom still got me a nice watch. Mom went upstairs for a nap. Just an hour or so, she'd said. I could tell by the dark circles under her eyes that she hadn't been sleeping. She'd gone upstairs for a little well deserved rest, but never came back down. That was the day I stomped the living crap out of Santa. It was my sister Rachel who found her. When a few hours had passed and mom had still not come downstairs, Rachel had gone up to check on her. She'd rushed back down to where I sat in the living room, tears running freely down her face, and I remember my stomach instantly in knots because it reminded me so much of how she'd cried the day our mother dragged the Christmas tree from the house all those years ago. I immediately went upstairs, stepped into the darkened bedroom, and felt my blood run cold. Mom was lying in bed, her body tangled in the bed sheets, Santa clutched in her hands. The last I remembered seeing the figurine, he'd been out on the front porch. Yet here he was. I yanked the hideous thing from her grasp and hurled it to the floor, then turned back to her, unsure what to do. I sat frantic at her bedside, calling out to her, shaking her as gently as I could, patting her lightly on the cheeks, trying to wake her. Her skin was so very pale, not unlike the grisly elf himself, her lips colorless. Only the dark circles under her eyes lent any color to her face, and I remember thinking that she looked like a ghost. I grabbed her wrist with one trembling hand and I tried to take her pulse, a part of me already suspecting the worst. And as I squeezed my eyes shut in concentration, desperately searching for that steady throb in her wrist, I heard a soft rustling from behind me. I turned, startled, sure that Santa had somehow crawled back up into bed. But it was Rachel, standing at the bedside, eyes wide as she stared down at our mother, puffy cheeks red and tear stained. Call 911, I told her as calmly as I could. As she turned to go, my gaze drifted down with a fiendish little elf at my feet, and I realized with some surprise that he was no longer faded and dull. His suit was a vibrant red, his black belt dark and shiny. His cheeks and even his nose were now flushed, blue eyes sparkling, and although his lips did not move, I swear I could hear a hearty ho ho ho come from his upturned mouth. Without conscious thought, I lifted my foot and I stomped on that smug little face as hard as I could, over and over again, hearing the loud pop as his body was crushed under my foot, and with each stomp. It felt as if I were not crushing hard plastic beneath my shoe, but bones, and the sound of those snapping bones brought me more pleasure than I could ever explain. Twice the figurine shot out from underneath my feet, as if the little guy somehow thought he could escape his steady ho ho hos ringing in my ears, but I simply kicked him back under my shoe and kept stomping. Afterwards, I stood there leering down at the now flattened piece of plastic, damp hair hanging in my face, my breathing labored and with tremendous pleasure. I punted the little mess of an elf as hard as I could, and it flew across the room and struck the far wall, the smack sounding flat and hollow. I turned then, feeling the presence behind me. Rachel had returned and was standing in the doorway, mouth hung open wordlessly. I had just opened my own mouth to say something, though I have no idea what I could have said, when we heard pounding on the downstairs door. The paramedics had arrived later, after the ambulance had taken my mother away. No need for sirens. I grabbed the smashed Santa from the bedroom, wrapping him hastily in an old sheet. Then I went to the garage for a roll of duct tape. I then drove out to the old Bent River Bridge, flattened Santa lying next to me like a dead body. When I got to the bridge I jumped out. I found a good sized rock on the roadside and I wrapped it in the sheet with what was left of Santa. I then carefully taped the whole mess up with duct tape. I looked over the side of the bridge and down into the river below. It was a good 50ft, maybe more, to the swift moving water. Without ceremony, I dropped the thing over the bridge and heard the splash as it hit the water. I stood there for a few moments, gazing down at the current. That night I downed almost an entire pint of Wild Turkey. I I did not attend my mother's funeral. That was almost 40 years ago, and those memories are just as real to me now as when they first happened. I somehow pulled the pieces of my life together, joined the Navy, and later married. My sister went to nursing school but eventually dropped out. She's a teacher now, third grade, and she seems to like it well enough. Even though life seems normal now, my sister and I did not come out of this unscathed. Rachel suffers from bouts of depression and although I try to keep in touch with her some days, I admit it, it's just too much. I have high blood pressure and on occasion I can get the most intense migraines, usually around Christmas. Last year I retired and my wife and I settled in a small town just outside of St. Louis, where most of her family still live. I've never been much on Christmas, as you can imagine, but after we had our kids, James and Sydney, well, you kind of fall back into the habit. Still, the holidays for me are very guarded, Much of my enjoyment superficial. It's really for the kids, anyway. I thought back on those horrible memories of my mom and dad and my Uncle Mark more times than I care to count, wondering how the hell it all happened. One thing I am certain of it. It did happen. And now here's the kicker. You know the real ending to this insane story. See, Santa is back. I know that's impossible. Yet here he is, the same grim and faded old elf. I sit on the couch, staring at his form on our coffee table. His Santa suit is dull and cheerless, as is his complexion, but it's him, I'm sure of it. Same blue eyes, same smirk. And yet, even as I sit here, I remember perfectly well stomping the life out of him and then wrapping him in that old sheet and dropping the unsavory package into the bent river. I pass a trembling hand over my brow, unsure what to do next. Thoughts of going outside to the woodshed, grabbing the hatchet that I know is there and hacking the thing to pieces come tumbling into my exhausted mind. But what good would that do? I wring my hands and I can hear the soft whimper coming from my own throat. My heart is pounding like a son of a gun. I need to calm down, get a grip. For a moment. I entertain the possibility that this is all in my head, that perhaps my wife just happened to pick up an old Santa from somewhere in town. And in my mind I can hear her say, oh, Helen. And I stopped into this little jewel of an antique store not far from the market. I must have driven past it a million times and just never noticed it before. And, well, I picked up this darling little Santa. And then it happens. Santa jerks his gaze in my direction and winks. My heart slams against my rib cage and I feel my chest suddenly tighten, the pain sharp and excruciating. Jesus Christ. I have never in my life felt pain like this. My breathing is now shallow and labored, as if heavy wool socks have been stuffed inside both lungs. I had collapsed to the floor and have not been able to move an inch these past several minutes. My cheek is against the polished wood and the cool, coolness is oddly soothing. For a moment there is nothing, no sound whatsoever. Then movement from the coffee table above the soft rustle of clothing, and I watch in horror as black boots land softly on the floor. Santa twists his small form, leaning in to get a better look. Look at me. His eyes are two icy chips of cobalt, and I watch as his grin spreads from ear to ear. My chest tightens even more and I cry out softly, one hand to my heart, as if I can somehow soothe its savage pounding. I watch the maniacal elf turn, then sauna her across the living room floor and out the front door. I lay here helpless, gazing at that open door. Santa, I'm quite sure, is standing on the front porch just beyond, waiting for my wife to come home. And as my world fades, I can see from my place on the floor that it has begun to snow.
- [38:46]
Santa Claus
I liked that one. The idea of a Santa killing everyone really warms my jingle bells. Really? I thought you'd be upset at the idea of a Santa who causes such awful ends. Listen, sonny, leave my awful end out of this. All that Christmas cake has me plugged up for days. I guess you could say you're hoping for a yule log this Christmas. I guess you could be looking for a new job if you keep making that potty humor you overripe second banana.
- [39:21]
Jill Benson
Again.
- [39:22]
Santa Claus
I can only apologize, boss. Say, isn't it time for a commercial break? No ads necessary, old boy. This episode is sponsored by the Sleepless Sanctuary. The wonderful people of that organization have made this possible. So no ad breaks for anyone. They sound like brilliantly generous people. Firm of buttock and rosy of cheek. Smart, funny, kind hearted. They smell good. All right, all right. No need to kiss their ass that much. But we do love them so for their support. Now, who's up next? Ah, yes, the man named after the place I keep my yacht. You have a yacht? I do. And I keep it at the Davenport. Ah, yes, right. Charlie Davenport. What's wrong? Well, he's. He's not here either. What? Why in the blessed name of Rudolph is he not here? All I heard was that there was a problem with his flight. What kind of problem? His flight ended up at North Pole. Alaska. What? That fraud of a town? Everyone knows I live at the North Pole. Which is in Canada. You're goddamn right, it's Santa. Day Night Live is brought to you by better help. When December rolls around, I love to cuddle up in front of the TV and watch holiday classics. Rudolph, Frosty, Saturday Night Live. All the very best of the season. It really is the perfect time of the year to feel festive and comfy. Comfy? Cozy with your shows and a sweet treat to munch on. And those feelings don't have to be limited to the holidays. When therapy is part of your life, you can learn to feel good like that. On an even deeper level, therapy is a great way to bring yourself some comfort that never goes away, even when the season changes. Therapy has allowed me to enjoy special times like these without the corrosive cynicism I used to easily get caught up in. So if you're thinking about therapy, give BetterHelp a try. All it takes is answering a quick questionnaire and you'll be matched with an online therapist suited to your needs and schedule. So find comfort this December with BetterHelp. Visit betterhelp.com nosleep today to get 10% off your first month. That's betterhelp.com nosleep thanks to BetterHelp for sponsoring this episode. Now let's see what else Santa is getting up to. Alright, so what do we do now? Well, through the magic of digital file transfer protocols, we also have this story in an audio format we can listen to. Wonderful. What they can do nowadays, eh?
- [42:29]
Jill Benson
What?
- [42:30]
Santa Claus
Who are the fine folks who will rock our world with this story? This story is performed by Jeff Clement, Jeffy Clemson, Graham Rowett the Growman, David Cummings who? Aaron Lillis, Lily Bells and Mary Murphy Merry Christmas. Delightful. All right, based on the title, I know I'll like this one. Let's listen to Old Nick by Charlie Davenport.
- [43:15]
Marcus Danda
Since 1978, the Quabbin Brook Christmas Tree Farm had cornered the market on Halloween as well as Christmas festivities in the town of Hanton. Every October weekend, they ran the event they called the Terror Trail. For a reasonable fee, $5 for adults, $2 for 12 and unders, you could walk the winding paths that separated the lots, and local folks would leap out at you wearing costumes. Mostly it was parents decked out in their barn clothes and the same rubber masks they'd born the year before. But in the absolute country, darkness with no flashlights provided, the Hanton PTA were transformed into monsters and madmen that made Michael Myers seemed like a playful kitten. Or so I'd been told by the other kids at Perry Elementary. I was timid by nature, likely the last one in my grade to see any of the Friday the 13th movies. Still, every year, mom pushed for me to walk the trail. Each time I'd decline. Grandpa would warn me that folks around town might think I was chicken shit. The old man had taught me how to shoe a horse, unclog a drain, and change the oil in the Caddy. He was fond telling me that after he was gone I'd be the man of the house and would have to take care of such things. He was an old school Yankee through and through and did not believe in complaining, self indulgence, or cowardice in any form. So the year I turned 8, I finally decided to stop being chicken shit. We pulled into the Quabbin Brook parking lot the weekend before the big night. Grandpa, mom, and I piled out of the brougham. Grandma had stayed home, never one for large crowds or long waits, but I think every other person in town was in line for tickets that night. A grand arched entrance stood behind the booth, assembled out of bramble wood and underbrush that had been lashed together. In the low light it looked like a series of interlocking skeletal hands erupting out of the soil, reaching to heaven in a protest of their fate. Old Man Escobar, latest in the line that had run Quabbin Brook for generations, that hung signs among the branches advising Turn BACK and Abandon ALL hope. We were just entering the simple picket switchbacks that served as crowd control when the first screams could be heard over the tree line and I could feel my heartbeat quickening in anticipation of what lay beyond. I'd heard things from other kids over the years, descriptions of of cemeteries with zombies lurching around them, cavorting clowns bursting out of the bushes, walking right up to you on their hands, a giant pumpkin monster rearing up to stand as tall as the trees, a killer family of hillbillies that wanted you to come inside their shack and have a bite. My overactive imagination gave them a production value and terrible glory they could never have had in real life. But such rational thoughts were a million miles from me. That night I started looking everywhere for something to distract me. Cardboard standups of Freddy and Jason glared fixedly at me from their platform where the locals posed with them, folks either feigning indifference or miming absolute terror until the flash went off. Bella la gosi slid across the side of the barn, an old projector distorting his features across the irregular surface. There were a couple of stands set up with candy and refreshments, their signs assuring everyone that all proceeds would go to the volunteer fire department and their charitable works. The smell of fried apple fritters set my tummy grumbling. I'd refused dinner out of nerves. I thought that maybe I could convince mom that she would step out of line to grab me something, but as I tugged on her hand, she just.
- [47:30]
David
Looked down at me and said, here we Go.
- [47:36]
Marcus Danda
We passed under the archway and started walking down a solid mile of winding and wooded darkness. We were just approaching the first bend when I heard a distinction hissing sound and a thick mist smelling strangely of cotton candy came rolling out to greet us. A strobe light flickered to life, the world around it disappearing then popping back into existence in shuddering bursts. I tried to plant my feet but could offer no resistance against the two adults holding both my hands. All my efforts managed to do was to plow up shallow furrows of black New England soil and pine needles. With a sigh, Grandpa stopped.
- [48:25]
David
Are you really scared?
- [48:28]
Marcus Danda
As though there could be any down. I nodded hard enough that my chin bounced off my chest. Grandpa placed his hand over his mouth and sized up the path in front of of us.
- [48:41]
Jill Benson
How about this?
- [48:43]
David
You stay with your mom and I'll go check it out.
- [48:46]
Jill Benson
If there's anything too scary and hairy.
- [48:48]
David
Over there, I'll let you know.
- [48:52]
Marcus Danda
Man. The relief I felt was profound. I threw my arms around his neck and squeezed for all I was worth. Grandpa accepted the hug just for a moment and then drew back. He patted me on the chest and instructed me to look after Mom. Then he strode off into the fog. Better look back. Long moments ticked by and he did not return. The hiss picked up again and the sweet smelling cloud which had been dissipating surged back around us. Mom tightened her grip on my hand.
- [49:31]
David
Dad.
- [49:34]
Marcus Danda
The concern in her voice prickled my belly with a different kind of fear. It was quickly washed away when a guttural scream caused me to try and literally climb up my mother's arm. From around the corner I heard the growl and rev of a chainsaw. The silhouetted lunatic lunatic carrying it roared like a grizzly bear as he ran at us at top speed. I knew in an instant he killed my grandpa and was coming for mom and me next. I stood frozen in place until I felt the blade of the saw. Toothless, I would later be assured, passed over my head to hear mom tell it. Afterwards, I ran so far fast that all she could see was the flash of my white sneakers disappearing into the distance.
- [50:28]
Santa Claus
Heat.
- [50:31]
Marcus Danda
I stopped just long enough to look back. The man with the chainsaw was just standing there. Mom was on the ground in front of him, her hands clutching her belly. That was all my lizard brain would allow me to take in before reasserting itself. I ran. I did not go back up the way we'd come, back to the well lit field full of people and fried goods. Instead, I bolted straight off the trail and into complete darkness. There I found monsters, monsters with rubbery skin and flashlights held underneath their false faces. I ran from each one of them, pinballing deeper and deeper into the woods. I realized the branches were no longer scraping and scratching across my cheeks and forearms. I was in a clearing for the first time since I'd run away from the Chainsaw man. I stopped. I placed my hands, my knees, trying to slow my breathing down, and looked out into the darkness that surrounded me. Oh God, I thought as the adrenaline began to leech from my system. It was just pretend. The zombie with the eye dripping down past his cheek had been coach McCarthy Gregor. He always told me that one day I'd be able to climb the rope and gym. I knew, of course. The werewolf, crouched down on all fours with bloody viscera clenched in its jaws, had been Mr. Hate. The entrails were nothing but tripe from pigs on his farm shoved into his mask for added oomph. The witch, twisting a gnarly old branch in a plastic cauldron of dry ice Vapor, was just Ms. Vanesca, just the nice lady from the video store who called me whenever a copy of Police Academy was returned. She'd been cackling bubble, bubble, toil and trouble between threats to boil me alive and crack my bones open for stew. The man with the chainsaw. My brain was just processing what he'd been wearing. Overalls and work boots and a buffalo checked flannel. It was practically the farmer's uniform around these parts, just like Grandpa wore just about every day of his life. In a flash I could see it. Grandpa creeping around the corner, gesturing for whoever lay in wait to hand the saw over to him. And they did, because everyone in town knew Fred Martel, salt of the earth, someone you could trust. My sense of betrayal knew no bounds. Why had they all done this to me? I'd screamed, I'd cried, I'd begged them to stop. All it would have taken was one adult to step out from under the makeup and latex to just shoot, show me a familiar face and walk me out of there. Even my mom, she'd been rolling on the ground with laughter. This had been funny to them. I sank down to the wet ground and put my head on my knees.
- [54:12]
Jill Benson
It's not funny.
- [54:15]
Santa Claus
It's not funny.
- [54:20]
Marcus Danda
I wailed with my nose pressed against my jeans, my great heaving sobs staining them with snot and tears. It was then that a deep, calm and utterly pleasant voice spoke up.
- [54:39]
Santa Claus
Pete, what's wrong, little buddy?
- [54:44]
Marcus Danda
Maybe if I'd ever been brave enough to rent Friday the 13th or Psycho from Ms. Vanesska. I'd have known not to ask. But I cried out into the inkiness, who's there? A rich, warm chuckle filled the air around me.
- [55:10]
Santa Claus
Oh, of course. Where are my manners?
- [55:18]
Marcus Danda
There was the sound of somebody snapping their fingers, and suddenly the clearing was filled with a milky light. Sitting less than a foot from me on a carved wooden chair a hair's breadth away from being a throne, was an old man in a red crushed velvet suit with puffy white pom poms where buttons should have been. Its collar and sleeves were lined with a gleaming white fur that matched the man's billowing beard. I've read since that around eight years old most kids have stopped believing. So I guess I should have had some questions, but just then the man in the red suit seemed no more out of place place out there in the middle of the woods than he did at the Christmas village they set up at the galleria every year. Are you s He waved a hand in front of his face to shoe the question away before it could be finished.
- [56:23]
Santa Claus
Oh, you can call me Nick. Just Old Nick.
- [56:31]
Jill Benson
Old Nick.
- [56:34]
Marcus Danda
I repeated, and the very sound made me feel better. He smiled, clearly pleased, but then his features pinched with concern.
- [56:47]
Santa Claus
What are you doing here by yourself, Pete?
- [56:51]
Marcus Danda
I got lost. I crossed my arms in front of me.
- [56:58]
Santa Claus
Oh, that can be scary, huh?
- [57:01]
Marcus Danda
I'm not scared. Only babies get scared. I hadn't meant to shriek at the old man, and he seemed just as surprised as me. He blinked for a moment, cleared his throat, and then leaned forward in his chair.
- [57:20]
Santa Claus
I think you'll find that's not true.
- [57:25]
Marcus Danda
He looked over each of his shoulders as though somebody might come up behind us at any moment.
- [57:33]
Santa Claus
Everybody gets scared now and again.
- [57:39]
Marcus Danda
Even as I wanted to believe that, my lower lip began to quiver. Grandpa? He shook his head sadly.
- [57:55]
Santa Claus
Fred played a pretty mean trick on you, didn't he?
- [58:00]
Marcus Danda
The man in the red suit patted his knee and gestured for me to come closer.
- [58:07]
Santa Claus
Come here and tell me all about it.
- [58:12]
Marcus Danda
I moved forward, but then the accumulated hours of Chief Cabral coming into class to warn us about stranger danger kicked in, and I drew back. Old Nick tilted his head to the side and gave me a sympathetic smile.
- [58:30]
Santa Claus
Come on now, Peter. They bring you to see me every year, don't they?
- [58:37]
Marcus Danda
Yeah.
- [58:40]
Santa Claus
I'm in your house once a year, aren't I?
- [58:45]
Marcus Danda
I suppose so.
- [58:48]
Santa Claus
And who do you tell what you really want each and every year? Hardly sounds like a stranger, does it?
- [59:00]
Marcus Danda
While he'd been talking, an iridescent purple box with a gold ribbon around it had appeared in his hand. He looked at it, seemingly noticing it for the first time himself, and set it spinning on his finger. The light, where was it coming from? Bounced off the shiny violet wrapping. It spun faster and faster and I felt my thoughts drifting and going soft.
- [59:33]
Santa Claus
Say, do you want to tell me what you want this year? Cutting line in front of all your little friends?
- [59:43]
Marcus Danda
All around us was damp, lush greenery. The scent of pine mixed in with the cold. But as I settled down on his lap, his arms unfolding me, a different aroma puffed up. It reminded me of the scent of fake fog, of cotton candy, but heavier and cloying. I felt it sliding up my nose. I looked up into his face. The jolliness in the smile was still there, his dimpled cheeks still flushed a healthy red. It was his eye, the left one, that was wrong. The skin around it had puckered and pulled away, allowing a view of something underneath the surface, something with the shifting color of an oil slick. It's a mask, I remember thinking, and then trying to push that thought as far out of my mind as possible. Nick brought up a single white gloved finger, smoothing out the rumpled flesh, and squeezed a rivulet of plum colored fluid from it. The glob perched on his finger as he brought the purple box in front of my face.
- [61:05]
Santa Claus
Just remember, once it's asked for, can't be unasked for.
- [61:15]
Marcus Danda
The top of the box came away and I looked down into it.
- [61:22]
Jill Benson
I could see it.
- [61:24]
Marcus Danda
I could see it all down there, and part of me started screaming. Chief Cabral, prophet of stranger danger, found me in the clearing. He brought me to mom and Grandpa, who both gave him their profound thanks and looked embarrassed to tears as we walked to the car. They both got a tongue lashing from Grandma when they got me home. Why would you do that, you damn fools? She sat with me, cooing over me, and read me an old Hardy book boy's book until I finally fell asleep. The next morning she made me a huge breakfast and no one in my house mentioned that night again. School was a different matter. Sammy Pleasance, the kid who delighted in gleeking into the back of my head during math class, took pleasure in telling me he'd nearly pissed himself laughing when he heard the story. He got the other kids in school to run by me at every opportun opportunity, mimicking the sound of the chainsaw. Sarah Cohen, a great ahead of me and able to turn me into a stuttering mess just by looking in my direction laughed every time. It was December 19th. I will never forget that date when I came home from school and found Grandpa still dressed in his rubber clamming boots and winter coat. He spoke with a hopeful smile on his face as he shucked off his work gloves. I think there's something you might want.
- [63:11]
Jill Benson
To see in the dining room.
- [63:15]
Marcus Danda
It was the most he'd spoken to me in weeks. Now and again, passing by him on my way to the kitchen or up the stairs to brush my teeth, I'd catch him looking at at me, and all I'd see there was shame. Now, if he was ashamed of what he'd done or just of me, I could never tell. The juniper tree had looked stately when we'd tied Grandpa's scarf around it back in September. Full and lush, but with just enough space between the branches for all of Grandma's ornaments. He was objectively the perfect tree now, held tight by the tree stand and occupying the corner by the fireplace. It was different. You might argue that it was all down to context. Cut down anything and plop it in your parlor and you'll see it in a different light. But it wasn't that. Looking at it made me sick to my stomach. Mom's current boyfriend, Ernest, had taken us out on his boat once, and I'd become almost immediately seasick. Look toward the horizon, he told me, assuring me it helped the eyes see the motion of the boat and let my brain know that my inner ear wasn't lying to it. I spent the better part of that afternoon nearly heaving but not actually puking, staring at the juniper. I felt very much the same. It was as if the world around it moved while my brain believed all should be still.
- [64:50]
Jill Benson
She's a be, ain't she? Didn't want to stay up, I can tell you that.
- [64:58]
Marcus Danda
Grandpa dropped a hand on my shoulder, a tight lipped grimace on his face. For the first time in my life, Grandpa looked like he didn't know what to say next. He let out a sharp exhale.
- [65:15]
Jill Benson
I was wrong to do it. A man should be able to admit.
- [65:19]
David
That kind of thing.
- [65:30]
Marcus Danda
Later that evening, I helped mom and Grandma string up the lights, drape the tinsel, and hang the ornaments. By the time mom put the star on top, the juniper needles had poked into my hands a dozen times. My fingers tingled with a poisonous numbness. Six days later, on Christmas morning, I woke up in the dark with a full bladder and house around me. Groaning slightly in the winter wind, I trudged to the bathroom. The bare tile on my feet bringing me further out of my sleep than I wanted. I peed, and in the perfect silence that followed, I could just about make out a sound. A low whispering, like an audience anxiously awaiting the start of a performance. I crept down the stairs and saw the dining room's pocket door drawn half back. I'd been avoiding going in there for days. The tree kept changing even under my eye. Grandma's ornaments would suddenly be all blue, then red, then gone completely. The lights had been simple white lights when we strung them on the juniper, but that didn't stop them from cycling from green to red and back to white once they'd turned a shade I'd never seen before or since. A few times, seen just out of the corner of my eye, the tree hadn't looked like a tree at all. The sound grew more distinct as I got closer to the door, clearly not conversation sensation, but something closer to a tea kettle whistling. I peeked in like the tree had been waiting for me. The lights flared into a momentary brilliance that produced black spots on my vision. Then, before the glow had faded completely from their filaments, the tiny bulbs blazed again. Everything in the room seemed to convulse with each flash, granting the tables and chairs. Chairs to say nothing of the evergreen itself, a herky jerky locomotion. I turned away, blinking to clear my sight.
- [67:57]
Jill Benson
What the hell is happening down here, Peter?
- [68:02]
Marcus Danda
I knew it was Grandpa, even though everything I could see was still a vaguely defined silhouette. His footsteps had always been heavy on the floorboards, even in his slippers. Something's wrong with the tree, Grandpa. Oh, now the damn thing has come a fire. Grandpa rushed past me into the room. He pulled the lapel of his robe over his nose and his mouth.
- [68:32]
Jill Benson
Pete, fill a bucket and bring it back here.
- [68:36]
Marcus Danda
He pressed forward without giving me a chance to ask where he expected me to find a bucket.
- [68:42]
David
Gee, these things must have shorted.
- [68:44]
Jill Benson
Older than Methuselah anyway.
- [68:48]
Marcus Danda
He reached his hand towards the juniper branches, trying to locate the source of the fire he expected to find.
- [68:56]
Jill Benson
It's not even hot.
- [69:01]
Marcus Danda
His hand remained out in the empty space between him and the Christmas tree as he turned back to the door. His face blinked in and out of my perception, but I could make out his surprise at still finding me there.
- [69:16]
Jill Benson
So I told you to get a bucket.
- [69:20]
Marcus Danda
He shook his head, unsure of what to do with me, then gave up on that cause and focused back on the glowing tree. He sniffed the air tentatively, and then deeply.
- [69:33]
Jill Benson
Am I having a stroke, or can you smell cotton candy, too?
- [69:40]
Marcus Danda
The Flemmy Rumble of the two stroke engine filled any space I might have had to give him an answer. I could also see on Grandpa's face that he'd registered the sound perplex, perplexed at hearing it in a place that he'd never had any reason to expect it. For just a moment I could see the guide bar comically long and teeth spinning wildly around it emerge from the tree's branches. Then the world disappeared again. When the next strobe brought it back, the saw had changed position to the other side of the tree and Grandpa saw his eyes were wider than I'd ever seen them. His jaw had dropped almost to the floor, which was where several branches and most of the fingers on his outstretched hand lay. Grandpa spun back to the tree as the juniper's branches began to writhe and sway, each gesticulation producing a crack loud enough to make you believe the thing was tearing itself apart. They'd it bent and peeled radially back from the trunk and stepping forward from it saw blade first, was a man. He was wearing overalls and work boots with a simple buffalo checked flannel underneath. It was practically the uniform if you worked the fields around those parts. Except the overalls weren't usually made of red velvet and and their buttons were normally not little white furry pom poms.
- [71:15]
Santa Claus
Hiya, Freddy. Oh, what's wrong, little buddy?
- [71:23]
Marcus Danda
Without waiting for an answer or giving Grandpa time to scream, Old Nick pivoted his shoulders and hips with a swing that would have made a golf ball crowd. But movement pushed the blade through my grandfather's cheek, taking a good portion of it away and sending him spinning to the ground. The crimson spray hung in the air between the flashes and looked as black as midnight. Grandpa pulled his ruined lips apart, producing a ruined slurpa. I dashed forward with no thought of the danger or how pointless the gesture was. Nick swung downwards, dragging the blade across the backs of Grandpa's knees. The gory grizzly pop of his skin and the yowl it drew from Grandpa. It's something I can still hear in the quiet moments of my life.
- [72:23]
David
No.
- [72:24]
Marcus Danda
I take it back. I threw myself onto his back, trying to cover as much of him as I could. I don't want this.
- [72:37]
David
I was wrong.
- [72:38]
Marcus Danda
I take it back. The man in the red overalls looked down at me, and all on its own the saw stopped. The room was was absolutely silent, save for Grandpa's whimpers. I could feel him shiver under me as the shock began to take him. Old Nick crouched down and moved a lock of hair out of my eyes with a single white gloved finger. For a moment I had hope, even as the sickly sweet smell of him, like fruit rotting at the bottom of a dumpster, filled my nose. He lifted me off Grandpa with one hand like I weighed absolutely nothing, and held me face to face with him. The jolliness and the smile was still there, and the beard was the same lustrous ivy white, but I could see beads of that purple sludge gathering at the corner of his eyes like crocodile tears.
- [73:44]
Santa Claus
I'm sorry, Peter. Once it's asked for can't be unasked for.
- [73:54]
Marcus Danda
With a casual sweep of his arms, he launched me through the air. The landing should have would have hurt a lot more if not for the Persian rug Grandma had in the living room. It absorbed enough of the blow that I didn't pass out as the back of my skull made contact with the ground. My vision blurred, the dining room blinking from two to one, then back again. My grandfather was sprawled belly down with Old Nick standing over him, the one not encumbered with the slumbering saw, and swept the air in front of him. The dining room's pocketbook door jumped to his command and slid shut with a resounding bang. A moment later I heard the saw wake back up. I could hear Grandpa make an inarticulate sound from the other side of the door, something like a wounded animal thrashing in a trap.
- [74:58]
Santa Claus
Oh, Freddy, come on now. Keep this up and folks might think you're chicken shit.
- [75:06]
Marcus Danda
Then, judging by the noise, the saw met flesh and bone. It carried on long after Grandpa stopped screaming. I screamed for help. I begged. I smashed my child's hand against the door with all the force I could muster. It changed nothing. After a time I heard the tree's branches cracking, and at its own pace the door slid back in place. Revealing Old Nick's work that Christmas morning was one that will live on in Hanton's memory for long after I'm gone. In total, nine of the town's residents went missing and seven were never seen again. Coach McGregor had told his wife he was headed out to their garage to bring in the gifts he had hidden from his children's ever searching eyes. When he didn't return, she'd sent the kids to look for their father. All she found was a single thick rope hanging down from the rafters. There was no trace of Mr. Hagg until the following spring. His wife was feeding their hogs and her foot collided with a clump of dirt wedged just below the pen's bottom plank. It crumbled revealing the simple, dinged, nicked and chewed hoop of her husband's wedding band. Ms. Fanesca lived alone, and it was only when her neighbor came over to ask if her power was out, too, that anybody realized something was wrong. A quick knock sent the back door swept, springing open. The neighbor searched the house and called the police after finding a full bathtub with a radio still plugged into the wall, bobbing around in the water. Someone had taken the soap from the dish on her sink and written in the mirror, bubble, bubble. Sarah Cohen's parents were relieved when the police said they found her her sitting on the swings at school, but not when they found out her beautiful eyes had been wiped to a clean eggshell white. Sammy Pleasance left behind only his bedclothes, rough gouges torn all the way down to the mattress. Every single one of them had gotten their tree from Quabbin Brook. Grandma found me still staring through the door to the dining room. She was concerned that when she woke for the first time in her 52 years of marriage, she'd done so alone. She didn't see the pine needles spread everywhere. She didn't hear the smashed ornaments crunching under her slippers, never noticed the blood and bone that painted the baseboards and walls. It would be weeks before I worked up the courage to clean up the mess.
- [78:43]
David
The car is out front.
- [78:46]
Marcus Danda
Did your mom say they had to go somewhere? The police found mom just before sunset on that grim Christmas day, wandering around the stumps of Quabbin Brook, barefoot and still in her nightgown. Even as they wrapped her in a blanket, her shivering never ceased. All she said, all she would say until the day she died was.
- [79:21]
Jill Benson
It'S not funny.
- [79:34]
Marcus Danda
It's been years. But when Christmas Eve rolls around and I'm waiting for snow sleep to come, I'll think about it. I'll think about what I said in the clearing, held in the arms of the thing, wearing Santa's face, my words sliding out slow and sleepy. I just want them to know what it's like to be scared and oh God, did I get what I asked for?
- [80:42]
Santa Claus
You know, for someone who's known for being jolly and festive, I seem to inspire a great deal of dark horror, where I'm more of a Krampus than a Kringle. Well, children do fear falling afoul of you. But surely a bit of coal in the stocking is less frightful than me slicing and dicing people all willy nilly. Willy nilly. Is he our final guest? No. But this just may be your final night and it won't be a silent one. Sorry Santa. I know you don't like sharing the spotlight with anyone, especially you. So knock it off or you'll be like Twitter and find your name changed to X as in ex co host. Roger that, Santa. Day Night Live is brought to you by Ghostbed. Whether it's the suspense of a no sleep tale or the twists and turns of your own dreams, great sleep sets the stage for everything. That's why Ghostbed is the go to mattress for those who value quality rest. For over 20 years, Ghostbed has crafted mattress that cater to every kind of sleeper, back side or somewhere in between. Ghostbed has you covered. We highly recommend the Ghostbed Luxe. It's perfect for hot sleepers thanks to its advanced cooling technology. And for those who need that perfect blend of support and softness, the Ghostbed Flex combines memory foam and coils to deliver just that. This holiday season, give the gift of better sleep to yourself or someone you care about. With Ghostbed's easy mattress quiz, fast free shipping and 101 night sleep trial. Finding the perfect mattress has never been easier or more rewarding. And here's something to keep you up, but in a good way. No Sleep listeners get an exclusive deal 50% off site wide. Visit ghostbed.com nosleep and use code NOSNO sleep at checkout to claim your discount. Don't let restless nights keep you awake this holiday season. Upgrade to Ghostbed today and experience sleep that's truly supernatural. Head to ghostbed.com no sleep and use code no Sleep now to unlock your exclusive 50 off deal. Now time for the finale of Saturday Night Live Alive. Now, surely you're not going to tell me our final guest isn't here either. No, he's here. He's in the green room. But he's what now? Well, it's Marcus Demanda and he's. He's nog going to come out here with us. Did you say he's nog going to join us? Yes. There's been a problem with the eggnog. It was made by that awful couple. Awful couple? Who do you mean? Well, you know, Sam and Ella. Oh, that's just great. Is he going to live well? Oh, I don't care. It's our once a year Christmas special and all three guests have bailed on me. Oh, what a slap in the face. Is Will Smith here? I am warning you. Relax, Nicky. Just as before, we have a splendid audio version of this Marcus Demanda Christmas tale. I think you'll like it. More killer Santas. Not quite. But you do get to hear the lovely voices of Jesse Cornett. My man jc David Alt. Ah, my second most favorite. David Atticus Jackson, Atti Jacks, Jessica mcavoy, J. Mac in the Hishy, David Cummings. Oh, for fuck's sake. Mary Murphy, Mary Murphs, Aaron Lillis. Lillis Thrillus, and Graham Rowett. Rowett. Into my harbor, Tall man. You sure are a weird dude. Don't taunt me, bucko. Taunt? What about Tomty? What on earth is a Tomty? Well, they say it's a mythological creature from Nordic folklore, typically associated with the winter solstice and the Christmas season. Kinda like a little gnome. And they swear a lot. A story about a gnome? Not Santa. You know what they say, there's no place like gnome for the holidays. Santa. Let's just roll the story. Here's Tomty by Marcus Demanda.
- [85:44]
David
Pardon me if I get a little pissed off at Christmas. There I'll be either tucked away in the kitchen pantry or just minding my own business under the floor, but I'll still hear it. The annual Christmas assault that begins before the Thanksgiving leftovers are even. Cold Christmas music on the radio, Christmas specials playing on TV. Kids Christmas shows from the 1970s streaming on repeat out of the damned computer speakers. It's all ho ho ho and deck the halls and hark how the bells, sweet silver bells all seem to say this whole holiday. Christmas is my work season, don't you know. At least that's when it is for the viewing public. I work year round, really. I'm the protector of the house. Had this job since, oh, the year 1450 or so. So many homes and properties, of course. Spent most of the time protecting farmlands back in the old country, then ended up on a boat to America right around the time our leprechaun chasing neighbors across the water got a nationwide case of the terminal shits from potato rot in the late 1840s. Still, it wasn't hard to find my way onto this farm or that one. Big state, Pennsylvania. Lots of horses, lots of pigs, lots of cows. And nice families too. Weren't any cats at that first establishment, which was a right shame. I fucking adore cats. It's a soft spot. Still, nice families hardly had to tie any cow tails together or tip over any buckets at all. Mind you, this was back when I was still learning the new language, so I didn't know for a while if that first farmer and his wife and children were clean spoken or foul mouthed. They Seemed like decent kind people to me, and for the most part they were. But swearing was a big no no to me and my kin. I used to punish that. I'd prank the out of anyone talking dirty back in the day. You believe that? Goddamn right you do. Anyway, I'm a fast learner, but I learn by doing. Sometimes I'm doing it before I even know I've learned it. Had absolutely no idea that first farmer with the man tits and the ugly kids had a potty mouth on him before I inadvertently took on his manner of speech. Just like that and no warning. I'm the foulest mouth yard decoration that ever did a Christmas porridge. Speaking of, the missus did make a fine Christmas porridge and she never did stint on the butter neither, so it wasn't the perfect arrangement. But I stayed. I kept the coyotes out of the coupe, kept the horses in the barn, and I made sure the drunk ass kids who came to tip cows got their dicks good and zippered first time they paused for a beer. Piss. I avatar of justice during the day I keep mostly to whatever closet I've been assigned, but I do get around at night. In the early days I had floorboards to cover, but that linoleum people use now is even better. Give me a bit of time and I can dig quite the network of tunnels not only under the property but around town too. And one of my favorite things to do is to get myself nice and quiet and in secret right up next to some unsuspecting son of a and just pop the out of the ground like a prairie dog. I don't even have to say nothing, just stretch out my arms and shake the dirt off like hey presto, here I am. And I can make a 300 pound lumberjack scream like Janet Lee with a fistful shower curtain. But I digress. I haven't lived on a farm in a long time. It ain't easy keeping yourself in circulation with farms going belly up as frequently as they do nowadays. I'm a tomty of suburbia now. I made my way to my latest white picket post via the Home Depot when the wife asked for a nativity scene and the husband brought me home instead. There is no barn, there are no fields. There's only the front yard where they cut the grass closer than the hair on my ball sack and where I've become the guardian of Christmas decorations. I've got the lights to look after for one thing. Don't ask me why, but the husband always up the lights and I always end up fixing that for him when no one's looking and before the missus ever figures it out. Pain in my ass. Then there's St. Nick in effigy along with the creepy ass elves he surrounds himself with. Then there's lamp posts painted like candy canes that serve no practical purpose. They'll fall over if no one's there to straighten them out time to time. And there's the nativity scene because the hubby wasn't going to get out of tracking down one of those things just on account of his bringing me home with him. Hey there, chief. Got a special trick for you. Ain't you never heard of Amazon before? It's the goddamn Home Depot and he's asking for a nativity scene. It makes as much sense as giving a baby frankincense. You want my opinion? So yeah, I'm a garden gnome now. You got a problem with that? Well, I admit I look the part. My get up's gotten a wee bit threadbare over time. I haven't changed in, well, I want to say 75 years or so, but my boots are still sturdy and my hat's still good and pointy. And I got me a set of white whiskers that would give Grizzly Adams a serious case of beard envy. I'm getting a little old and stiff in the joints for farm protection duty. I don't see so good through the hat no more. Sometimes gotta pull that up to peek out of it. But I'm not complaining about that. No one really makes my bright red shorts ride high in the crotch. Is the disrespect from the world at large. The lack of appreciation. You might say I've seen more Christmases than that overgrown Niss of the north ever has. For what I do, I don't need an army of rosy cheek child actor elves to get the job done either. But that's all anyone wants to talk about these days. Santa this and Santa that. Elves, the North Pole, all those God damned reindeer got a media lock. Santa does. He's got the shows, the tunes and a host of portly alcoholic temporary employees who fan out and play the part at shopping malls all over the world. Seen more than one of them give interviews on the local TV news. Kind of hard to compete in a popularity contest against a guy who gives away for free. No one talks to the tomty at Christmas. But I've got my own job to do and I'm damned good at it. You bet your ass I am. The first thing I do when the fam goes to bed is check on them. Yard's nice and dark. By then most folks are in for the night. Who's going to notice if a garden gnomes gone missing from the rosewoods Christmas display for a few hours? If you answered no one, that's who you'd be 100% correct. Once I'm back in the house, no one's waking up. Not until I finished my rounds. Let me tell you something about Santa. He may know when you're sleeping and when you're awake. And if that ain't creepier than the animatronic rats, said Chuck E. Cheese, I don't know what is. But he don't know jack about sleeping spells. Straight up the stairs. No stopping at the liquor cabinet, no plopping down to catch a little Cinemax after dark till I've seen to my responsibilities. Right past the bathroom, here we are. Benny Jr. Age 9. Kid thinks he's all grown up crashed out on top of the covers in his big boy sweatpants and T shirt. Nope, that is not going to fly. Not on my watch. It's the goddamn month of December. Christ's sakes. I'm gonna just pull these covers round and and tuck him right the fuck in like so. There we go. He's a good kid. I mean nothing award winning winning, but he treats his parents with respect. And his report cards got nothing but the first two letters of the Alphabet in them. Haven't had to prank him once, not in the three years I've been at this post. It's a sad thing though. He can't see me no more. Well, not as I really am. The most kids lose that side at five or six. Benny Jr, he made it to eight, though he never made mention of it to his folks. I could just tell, particularly when he stopped seeing me. Every now and again there's a hint and just a quick second look from the corner of his eye that makes me think he still can. But no, it's the way of things. Was only last year, right after, when he stopped taking notice of me, that he tried to get in on a game of flashlight tag. With a bigger kids on this street, I didn't approve much. And them other kids are all if you ask me, but that ain't my department. That goes straight to the Department of Mom. At least when Benny Jr. Wants a slightly better shot at a yes than he'll have from dad, he talked her into it too. I heard the whole ridiculous conversation from my post in the front yard. I let out a huff, just a Puff of winter mist no one could see except for me and the cats, of course. This neighborhood is full of strays, what we would have called ferals if you go back far enough. One of the best things I can say about this place. They are nearly as good at staying hid in plain sight as I am, truth be told. But there ain't any darkness in that world that can keep me from seeing a cat's eyes. I know their language too, and speak it fluently anyway, all lit up under the yard lights and the candy cane lamp posts. Just doing my shift when Benny Jr. Comes out in all of his darkest threads and with a pair of C sized flashlights, light batteries to offer up as his way to get into the game, and these spoiled bastards don't let him play. Worst yet, they don't turn him down until after they've taken the batteries, which they asked him to get in the first place. He don't mind or nothing, but he stays on the porch long enough, probably hoping mom don't come out and see him there so that he can later report that he had a great time. He watches them play without him. It's only after he's gone back inside and only when I tune in real close that I can hear him crying in his bedroom. The spoiled bastards, meantime, are still playing their stupid, stupid game. All right, you scabby little shit stains, I say to myself. Brace yourselves. Tomty is coming to town. There's a song all the cats know by instinct, if not by memory. The tomty and the cat have been linked since time out of mind. They will hear the song, they will answer it, though I've never sung it in these parts before. But I do sing it now. The boys running around looking for hiding spaces either between or behind houses only hear it as an extra breath of wind. But the cat's eyes light right up, blinking their green and yellow glow from behind bushes, from within the shadows of parked cars in the street, from around unlikely corners. They do not come to me, not with so many people still out and about, but they listen. They speak to me.
- [99:20]
Santa Claus
What is it?
- [99:25]
David
Got a hint of the Siamese, that one up in the branches of a pine tree. Bright blue eyes, but only one fang. He speaks for all of them. He is the one in the tree. Until some other pussy climbs up there and knocks him out of it. Human kittens, I tell him, the ones making all the noise.
- [99:54]
Jill Benson
Or the yellow haired one with the click light.
- [99:57]
David
Yeah, them bastards, every long last one of them. They're annoying, I think. There are Five of them.
- [100:08]
Jill Benson
Shall we kill one for you? Does the tomte want a present?
- [100:14]
Santa Claus
A trophy?
- [100:16]
David
I don't much consider it, other than at an intellectual level, you understand. Could 10 or 12 neighborhood ferals take down just one of them and kill him? Maybe if they all pounced on him at once. But I don't think they'd get the carcass all the way over to me in the yard. I'd have to go and collect that anyway. I'm not one to abuse my position. No, no, no, nothing like that. Keep your tail on straight and your claws in check, my friend. What I want, Yes? I want to hear them scream.
- [101:02]
Jill Benson
You wish them frightened?
- [101:06]
David
Yes. But no killing.
- [101:11]
Santa Claus
How bad?
- [101:15]
David
Like nightmare fuel bed. But no killing. If we do this, we shall want a reward. Then the others chime in, almost like a single entity. Like one big cat with a purpose.
- [101:37]
Marcus Danda
For all of us.
- [101:39]
David
All of us.
- [101:41]
Jill Benson
A reward for all of us.
- [101:46]
David
Well, time was a friend might just do a friend a favor. Then, after some consideration, the missus has some of them Hormel pepperoni slices in the fridge. How would that suit? Must have suited them just fine, because they came out of their lurking places and fanned out stealthiest shadows themselves, as quiet and as undetected as a heart attack about to happen. What went down at 9 o'clock that night is still discussed far and wide across town. One moment all was quiet, like not a creature was stirring. Quiet. But cats are more sensitive to noise than most critters, particularly humans. And 10 or 11 year old boys hiding in the shrubbery ain't a level of quiet that would put a feral cat off the hunt. Not by a long shot. The next moment, feline hisses and yowls, then squeals and screams and high pitched streaks of terror filled the nighttime December sky like shattering glass. Those boys all come out of their hiding at once, howling, doing a sort of panicked spider dance, arms flat, flailing and pinwheeling, hands slapping at themselves in an effort to pull them ambushing cats loose. One of the boys has a Russian blue right on his head like a Davy Crockett hat. There's some scratching and biting too, despite my explicit instructions, especially when the kid reaches up at it with both hands and the determined little monster finally launches himself free. Thought I'd been crystal clear, but what can you do? Cats, am I right? The blonde kid with the flashlight has a black tabby hanging off his ass half the way down Sycamore street on the way to Seminole Satisfying. Later, though, the night of the cat attack would eventually grow into local legend. All anyone would have seen in evidence was a small pile of pepperoni slices scattered at the feet of a perfectly ordinary 100% stationary garden gnome. Just as though someone had dropped them there. And a careful observer might have seen the cats one by one again emerge from their lurking places in the dark to collect payment and to rub up against my leg. Good company, cats. On to the next room just before the master bedroom. Here we find baby Sarah in the plushy pink crib with unicorns and ponies all over it. There's that whole colorful dangly jungle friends mobile for her to look at and bat around with her tiny hands. They're so precious. Sarah's hands. As for the mobile, well, it's all very cute, I suppose, if I must admit it, but the musical arrangement that comes out of that thing makes me want to club small animals to death. Not that I would, of course, but bad music makes a tomty sea red, if you follow. And the mobile's worse than an old ice cream truck. It's not playing now. Sarah's fast asleep, flat on her back. I can smell her baby's breath and feel it when I lean in close. It makes me smile. And she smiles at me, don't you know, and sometimes babbles at me in baby language that I can speak right back at her. Just like with the cats. I don't use no poopy doopy language in her presence neither. She's safe, dreaming whatever secret dreams of babyhood might tickle her imagination until I lift the spell and the family is again free to wake up. I couldn't tell you what's in those dreams. They're secret, just like I said. But I can tell you what isn't, sugar plum. I don't know exactly what went down the first time Sarah got put in the lap of one of Santa's shopping mall temps, but from what I heard when the missus came back with her, Santa ain't nothing but a big red nightmare to her at present. What's that? Is that a hint of night air creeping in with the blue blazes? Alright now, my patience is sorely tested. Someone left the window open a crack. Stupid, careless. But then again, that's what they have me for, I suppose. I pull the window down and give the whole nursery a thorough once over and move on. I can hear the hubby snoring well before I ever make it to the master bedroom room. I shake my head. Dumb son of a. Let the CPAP slip off in his sleep again. I Hustle on over there, march right up to the bed and reaffix that plastic wind dildo to his nose before he croaks from sleep apnea. He's a good guy all around. A good dad. Treats the Mrs. Well too. But let's face it, Benson Rosewood Senior is kinda hopeless. Also, he don't even know what he don't know about putting together a Christmas lights arrangement. But never mind, I covered that already. I have no earthly clue what he'd do without me. As for Lori, the missus, she's sleeping right next to the nightstand with her face turned toward it and that's where the parental end of the baby monitor is. Full color video and audio built right in. Thinks of everything Mrs. Lori Rosewood. She's got the family finances straight, never skips out on Benny's Little League games, and cooks a better than average bowl of Swedish meatballs, which I know because I keep watching over the refrigerator too, if you get me all of this. And she still holds down a full time teaching job too. She's a good Mama Bear. No criticism from me. Never mind that flashlight tag fiasco last year. I stepped back from the bed. I think we're all set. Dad grunts his agreement. Mama Bear waves without turning in bed to look at me. Dead asleep. Both of them. All I know is if one of you don't make my Christmas porridge this year, I'm going to go full on Chucky mode. Mama Bear gives a thumbs up. Back when Benny Senior picked me up from the Home Depot, I made sure that I came with a copy of the recipe. As soon as Mama Bear saw it, she googled Tomty and learned all about me and my porridge. Maybe in her own way, she believes right now, from deep in her own personal dreamland, she rolls over, yawns, but never opens her eyes. They won't remember in the morning, naturally, but I'll still get my porridge, I think. Tradition and all that. She'll put it right out on the porch and probably come to the conclusion that the cat's got it. That's fine by me. The was that. It's the window. Sarah's room. The window. It. It's opening again. Oh no. No. No fucking way. Not on my watch. I'm quicker than I look. Given the proper motivation, there ain't but one thing can open a window on the second story of a house from outside, and that's a human on a ladder. When that happens between 11:30 and midnight on a weekday, it can't mean nothing. Good neither this wasn't one of Santa's elves. It wasn't the Tooth Fairy. This was a kid snatcher, a cradle robber. And there ain't but one way to deal with filth like that. Well, the son of a must have hurt me thumping down the hall because I can hear the huffing and scrabbling of a man. Abandoning all efforts at sneaking and being quiet, he's forcing his way back out through the window from the inside. Hopefully he's slower than the average Joe because though I am faster than I look, I am also a very old tomty and these knees of mine don't bend like they used to. The boots are heavy, got iron buckles and clasps on them. Come on feet. Ain't no tomty worth his porridge. Ever lost a human child before. I cursed myself for a fool. How did I not see the signs? The car that had to be waiting for this scumbag with the engine still running right there on the street. How did I never detect a person scouting this house for days so he could be sure in his predator's heart of the time when the whole family would be asleep. But in his scouting he hadn't detected me either. He'd never imagined that he'd have me running pell mell after him, unafraid for myself and rightly pissed off even more so than I used usually am this time of year. Let him hear me. The family won't wake, not even Sarah, no matter what. Not until I let them. I still have time to fix this. Let him see the thing coming after him ain't human but rather 3ft of 500ft, 70 year old Swedish justice itching to be unleashed on his ass. One thing worthy of note here as I kick in the baby's door and headbutt my way through it. The tomty has the power of bestowing good fortune to families that treat them well and bad luck to families who mistreat them. Just now I've been spending liberally from my bad luck supply for six solid second, which is longer than you might think when you count it out. Trying hard to project misfortune onto the thing in the house, making a break for it. And when I crash back into baby Sarah's room, my prayers are answered. He's still there, half in and half out of the window frame. Got his jeans cuff somehow caught up in the window's slide jam. Imagine that. But he still got Sarah too, lying fast asleep in his arms. We regard each other. My eyes narrow as his go wide like snake eggs about to hatch. In that moment I can't hardly help myself. I slip back into my native tongue before I even know I've done it. He screams back at me. The pasty, sweaty skin of his narrow, evil face goes sour and paler still as I march right up to his pinioned ass. I look around and find the step stool the missus uses to put things up on the high shelf in Sarah's closet and place it in front of the window frame. Step up, I snatch my charge from him, kiss her on the forehead. Then I turn the brim of my hat up and glare at him for a moment only before I put my back to him, hop down, and return her ever so gently to her crib. What the are you? You don't know? The family will sleep through his screaming, but evidently he's beyond caring about pedestrian shit like that. I am Tomti, Protector of the Rosewoods, Avatar of Justice. I am the keeper of your last breath. Once I'm certain Sarah is in a comfortable sleeping position position with all of her little airwaves clear, I return to him. What are you gonna do? Already told you. I yank up the window and push him out of it good and hard so he turns over as he falls to the ground something like 12, 15ft below, and I push the damn ladder after him. I can see his truck down there another 20 or so feet from where he lands with a wholesome crunch right on top of the wise man that brought the gift of myrrh. What the hell kind of wise men blow their entire messiah gift budget on shit most normal people can't even rightly pronounce? I ask you anyway. Good. That'll slow him down, and what I want to do can't be properly done inside the house, much less with baby Sarah present, sleeping or not. But it's still with a rather frantic hustle and bustle that I get my centuries old ass downstairs, noting Benny Junior's Premium Slugger aluminum bat outside the coat closet as I go, taking it with me through the front door. He's bear crawling himself across the yard now, less than half speed from injury. I guess there's a few lights popping on along either side of the street. I come down from the porch, dragging the bat with me, letting him hear it, which was a mistake, because as soon as he does he finds another gear in him after all. Nearly gets right back up on his feet. I lurch forward, propelling myself as close as I can to a proper run as he yanks open the door of his shitty brown F150 hauls himself into the driver's seat and works his keys with shaking hands into the ignition. A blast of New Age country pop music blares out through through his speakers like damnation made song and I'm nearly struck dead where I stand. Oh, but that's worse than ice cream trucks too. That's worse than baby mobiles. That music, that horrible indescribable clamor ought to be reserved for playlists set to repeat in the outermost rings of hell. Still, I manage a whole hold on his back bumper with my left hand as the tires burn rubber and the F150 screams across the otherwise empty neighborhood street. I keep hold, feeling my coat scraped off from under me, listening to the aluminum bat clink over the asphalt as the Predator floors it down, Sycamore first picking up still more speed, then eventually slowing down to something like a normal drive. As he begins to think he must have gotten away, I can hear him talking to himself up in the cab. What the hell was that thing, Miles?
- [117:59]
Santa Claus
I'll tell you.
- [118:00]
Jill Benson
Nothing.
- [118:01]
Santa Claus
That's what it was.
- [118:03]
David
A fever dream, nothing more. You were nervous. You were scared.
- [118:08]
Jill Benson
You can't do right. There was nothing there, Miles. Nothing there.
- [118:14]
Santa Claus
You're just a sick twisted who can't get right.
- [118:19]
David
Never or no time. He slams his palm down on the steering wheel again and again and again, berating himself. It's all true, as I have to admit to myself, managing inch by agonizing inch to pull myself up and into the flat bed while he's good and distracted. And there's a tarp back here. Think I'll just slip under that. Oh true, Miles. You have some right mighty powers of self assessment, I'll give you that. I wait for the drive to end. It doesn't take long and a good thing too. Ain't much for geography and never have been. But this guy lives local. Excellent. Might have been an hour later when I'm getting on my way back home, scratched raw and every inch of me still suffering from being dragged along the street as long as I was ever been dragged along the street by a fecal brown F150 for two and a half miles in the dead of night in December. I don't recommend it. I keep to dark places best I can, but I don't waste no time. I'm already going to miss my Cinemax after dark streaming hour and I've got some cleanup to do. First thing I better see to is this damned bat. Oh my, this thing is a mess. Couldn't be helped I won't get into all the details, but I only used the bat long enough to make sure old Miles wouldn't go anywhere. Bats are like the handheld sledgehammer I used for similar purposes back in the old country. Great for knees and elbows, but you don't need to go all that heavy once the threat's good neutralized. I prefer sharper objects for finishing. Serrated tools like hacksaws, don't you know? Don't ever let it be said old Tomty don't have no Christmas spirit. I decorated the whole ground floor of that bastard's house with his own guts. I decked the halls with that shit. FA la la la la la la la. I'm tired. Bone tired. And here I am, standing post right where I'm supposed to be. Front yard in front of the nativity scene, just south of them useless poles painted like candy canes and right near the street. It's Christmas Eve and I saw to damn near everything that needed seeing to before I let the family get up at the appointed hour. I cleaned up the bat. I couldn't get rid of some of them scratches, but what can you do? There ain't no blood on it and I don't think Benny Jr. Will notice anything amiss. He'll think he scratched it with a good hit of his own and Little League fixed up the crunched wise man best I could. Couldn't save the mer. The missus might take notice, but baby Jesus don't care. Window frame sorted. That window's good. And locked now, too. Got rid of the ladder before resuming my post. Putting it in the neighbor's yard. Maybe they can use a ladder. Couldn't tell you. The only real issue is I'm standing here right next to the street, wearing nothing but a hat, boots, and a bright red pair of garden gnome skivvies that are hanging by a thread just over my unmentionables. And. Oh Christ, here comes the missus now. Great, she's laughing. It's calling over her shoulder. Honey, I think someone got us last night.
- [122:40]
Jill Benson
Oh, someone got us real good. Come look what happened to poor old Tom. Honey, bring your phone.
- [122:47]
David
Oh, this is going on Facebook. I'd closed my eyes from the shame of it. If only I could. Go ahead and laugh, Mrs. And here I spoke up for you not seven or eight minutes ago. And from Benny Senior.
- [123:02]
Santa Claus
Oh my God, you have got to be kidding me. Well, ho ho ho.
- [123:09]
David
More laughter. It's as good a way to close out as I can think of, though all things taken into consideration. Best excuse for my current state there is. Sure beats the truth. There'll be some unpleasant business on the news later today, I reckon. But the Rosewoods aren't the kind of family to let the news run their life. Neither good news nor bad. Last thing I promise. It's Christmas Day. Hope you make the most of it. I did all right in the end. I got this new red shirt with a fancy black vest and green pants. Nice and roomy and. And warm enough for outdoor guard duty. Baby Sarah started up on two feet today. The Bennies, Junior and senior, are doing batting practice with an electronic pitching machine in the backyard. Dusk deepens toward evening and the front door of the house opens. I hear the bowl being set down on the porch. I can smell that extra dollop of butter from here. Well, Merry Christmas to all you silly, helpless, hopeless people out there. If it gets too dark, don't you fret none too much. Old Tomty's got your back. Bet your ass he does. And to all a good night.
- [125:04]
Santa Claus
Oh, now that's a nice story to end on. Did everyone like our three tales this year? A rousing success despite all the problems with our guests. Well, that's all we have time for. I have to get back home. Mrs. Claus is waiting for me. Ooo, you naughty little elf. And what are you going to get up to? Well, trying to catch the last flight home. Suppose the reindeer might help me out if I miss my flight? No one flies in the sleigh other than me, Chuckles. Make your own way home. Well, let's hope our wonderful studio audience gets home safely. Yes. Thank you all for joining us tonight. Watch out for Christmas, Santa, Old Nick and Tomty on your way out of here. Merry Christmas everyone and a Happy New Year to all. That's it for me, Santa. Good night. Sleep tight. Drop the mic. Saturday Night Live is a presentation of the no Sleep Podcast, a subsidiary of Creative Reason Media. Our band leader is Brandon Boone. Sound and lighting by Phil Mikulski, Jeff Clement and Jesse Cornett. Our segment producer is Jessica McAvoy. This show is brought to you by the wonderful support of our Sleepless Sanctuary, the best group of horror loving people from the north to the South Pole and everywhere in between. Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays and a Happy New Year to them all. This program is copyright 2023 by Creative Reason Media, Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respected of authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media. Merry Christmas to all and to all our good night.
- [127:27]
David
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