A legacy presentation from the Mr Trail Safety KunstSchriftArkiv. This originally appeared in The Journal of CryptoAethnology, Winter 1999.
The snow lay in a crisp white blanket on the ground. The trees where shrouded in ice rime and crystals. One's breath hung in the air in silver wreaths. The outlines of the trees were like silhouettes cut by a happy child with way too much time on it's hands with a dull razor. It was so quiet you could hear a bird fart. And smell it too.
But all this was far far away from our hirsute Forest Prince. Where he was living, the semi-tropical air wafted in through the glass louvers, bringing in the warm damp vapors of the great outdoors and carrying with it outside remembrance of his morning pot of coffee and chili.
He stood in the kitchen, with his distinctively shaggy short squatty legs sticking out of a pair of oversize canvas shorts, his rotund gut spilling over the top of his "69" belt buckle he'd found in a bar in Mobile. His aggressively shaggy eyebrows were especially wild, and no amount of tongue-basting could ever get them to lay down properly. Right now his mind was on other matters, as he idly scratched his nuts with the 3-tined steel hand-rake he'd gotten before Halloween. It did a great job on the matted tangles down there.
As usual, finances were looking a bit shaky. His last trip to San Francisco had been a budget bustierre, I mean, buster. That chick's hooters were something else, but sometime it paid to shop locally. The radio was tuned to salsa, which was a low-level buzz. He contemplated going out to buy a paper when the phone rang.
"Mr Prince?" It was Eddie from the temp agency. He had a way with words.
"Yes?" Hope prongs eternal said a wise guy. Once.
"We gotta gig for you" Pause. "All the other Santas are booked, or have called in sick, and we're stuck with you, pal!"
Eddie made you feel wanted.
"So wherezit at?"
Eddie's voice was a rasp. "You, lucky dick that you are, get to be the Santa over at the Biddle-Barrows Young Ladies Finishing School. You know where it is?"
Of course he knew where it was. Spent many a pleasant afternoon in those precincts as a "guest lecturer" of sorts; declaiming Moghul poetry whilst accompanying himself on his fretful oud.
He remembered fondly the looks of rapture that would overcome his dewy young charges as they marvelled, apple-cheeked and perky-nippled, at this seething anachronism who would bat his long eyelashes and then as his short stubby fingers plucked out a complex refrain, then licked his eyebrows in a blinding flash. The young women would stare, slack-jawed, crimson rising in their cheeks, outraged and yet possessed with an uncontrollable urge to snicker. Had they really seen what they thought? Of course they had. But could they quite describe it?...well, no.
His perigrinations were interrupted yet again.
"So you get to put on the red outfit, the beard and the hat and make your sorry-ass way there. This time try not to tool the head-nurse like you did last year at the Imelda Marcos Appreciation Salute, OK?"
"You're our last chance, don't fuck up!"
A click and the dial-tone signalled Eddie's departure and now the clock was running.
As the sun sank low in its usual place, our short-fingered temporary seasonal guest-worker was making his way up the lengthy drive towards the afore-mentioned Academy. The headlights of his distressed Yugo flickered over the imposing double row of oaks lining the gravel drive, draped in timeless Spanish Moss. Off in the distance as the gently curving drive revealed were the twinkling lights of the the Biddle-Barrows Young Ladies Finishing School.
Faint strains of string-quartet music greeted his ears as he pulled up. A trim athletic valet approached the car, but changed her mind once it came into the light and she careened off on a tangent. The Yugo backfired a staccato popcorn-fart, then settled on its springs with a sigh.
Our Prince, ever mindful of his season obligations, virtually leaped from the parked car and bounded up the steps to the portico. His Santa Claus suit was less-than-red, the trousers had a tendency to slid down so he could really get the Plumber's Crack thing going on. They were tucked into the tops of some gold spangled go-go boots.As usual he had a crank-spot down by the knee. It was pretty big. His fuzzy Santa Claus hat was parked at a rakish angle over his bushy eyebrows. His coat was patched an bit short in the sleeves. His pot-belly was insufficiently covered most of the time. He was here!
At the door he was met by the Mistress of Ceremonies, lithe and wily Ms Crepidus, who was determined to keep things well in hand if at all possible. The crank-spot was a foreboding augury of potential disaster. This might be a two-hander at best, you just could never tell.
"Lookin' good, sweets, where's the party??"
He never changed. She felt his eyes on her butt. She turned around and saw that he was putting away a pair of orange and black spiral-lensed X-ray glasses. She'd always wondered. Now she felt her thong sliding s-l-o-w-l-y up past the point of no return. She walked on.
"This way...You'll be sitting on the chair, and answering the girls' questions..."
We had last left our warm-n-fuzzy hero, recently arrived for a an engagement as a Seasonal Santa; following the lithe and wily Ms Crepidus down the hallowed halls of the famed and genteel Biddle-Barrows Young Ladies Finishing School.
Did I forget to mention that he was indeed carrying a lute, so as better to convey the essence of a Euro-centric Yule-fest spirit? I stand corrected, and am the better for it.
Ms Crepidus, you will also remember, had been scrutinized by our Forest Prince with a pair of orange & lack spiralized x-ray glasses that he had found in the back of a comic book. He noted to his satisfaction that she was wearing the Deep-Vee Malibu Buttfloss with the 200lb test.
Our occupationally-united pair now stood at the threshhold of the Yule-decorated ball-room, which in certain respects was a macro-parallel of our dear FP's shorts, ie dim, red and capacious. He was led to an embowered throne, and told to "get comfy, it was gonna be a long nite..."
Ms Crepidus gave him a wink and vanished. Our Prince surveyed the arrangements, and found it good. Not only was he going to be the Designated Santa, but he was also on a seamless so keepsake wallet-sized portraits could be photographed. He was prepared for anything. He brought his Altoids.
In the fullness of time the ball-room filled with the debutante "jeune filles" of polite society, a veritable wash of pulchritude and sassy freshness in the full bloom of estrogen'd splendor. What was once quiet became rowdy with the clamor of voice and animation. Our Prince was in his element; a grouper amongst tuna, a goat among gazelles, a satchel amongst pages. His nostrils quivered, his eyebrows became animated. He adjusted his beard, licked his eyebrows and awaited his first supplicants.
At first they approached him hesitantly, not seeming to recognize the randy old goat beneath his fake white beard. He would solicitously ask them what they wanted for Christmas, and being far from home and their cel-phones, would succumb to the spirit of the occasion. They also obliged him with Hannukha and Kwaanza notions as well, and he was moved excedingly.
Word began to spread and the line began to grow longer. An enterprising fly on the wall would have seen the most remarkable sights through its compound eyes.
Part 3: The Final Reckoning
This is how the story ends. The room was full of the bright and beautiful young ladies of Biddle- Barrows. This was the culmination of the old year, and a final salute to the year before they all went home for Christmas. Lights played off exposed shoulders and bare arms. A mambo band played sly variations on traditional airs and tunes, one where the rhythms cheerfully suggested motions and attitudes that were at odds with notions of holiday decorum.
The lithe and luscious young ladies had demurely waited in line, and each in turn had not been disappointed. The ancient rituals—wheezy and hoary but also vigourously new, a sturdy sapling that grew large and strong as the taproot of communal memory dug deeper in the to core of primal mind. They daintly approached our Forest Prince, sovereign and regal in his faded red Santa-claus pants tucked into his go-go boots. They then gently and oh-so-s-l-o-w-l-y lowered themselves onto his lap. They instinctively relaxed as they felt heat radiating out from our cheery rogue. They wiggled and seated themselves, and confessed their holiday desires. Willow transmuted to hickory.
The wily and alert Ms Crepidus was keeping an eye on our Olde Forest Prince, to make sure that all remained in order. It was killing him, he had the biggest short-n-curly tangle he'd ever remembered. In his reveries his hand closed on the handle of his favorite 3-tined steel hand rake. Seconds of pleasure awaited him.
The lights in the ballroom had gotten dimmer. The room had warmed considerably, and the estrogen'd tension levels had increased perceptibly. For very soon it would be time for the much-awaited Yule Ritual of the Biddle-Barrows Young Ladies Finishing School—The Entwining of the Tree.
The ritual tree stood in the center of the ballroom. It stood a good 20' tall, a fine specimen of evergreen and wood. It had 24 streamers fanning down from the top of the tree, that were lightly secured to the floor. It awaited the maidens.
The room grew quiet. The music stopped. Ms Crepidus strode purposefully out on the floor, and clapped her hands sharply three times. On cue, twenty four of Biddle-Barrows most delectable young ladies in silk and chiffon appeared from the crowd. Each took a streamer, turned their backs to the tree, and demurely curtsied to the silent room.
The congas led with a stately rhythm, and the ladies began to slowly whirl and twirl clockwise around the tree. They would pause in their dance, and then continue, twirling in a contradance, then commence clockwise again.
Our hirsute Couch Cossack was in his element. This display of rhythm and art was totally divine. He discretely scratched himself with his hand-rake. He caught Ms Crepidus appraising his assets. He paused not.
By now the tree had been completely wound about with the streamers. The tree was trussed, and it bulged against its silken bonds. The old FP found himself thinking about a long weekend, a knotted silk cord, and an ancient jade lingam that was timeless. Oh...sighs and whispers!
The drumming had increased in tempo and the room had gone dark without his even realizing it. At the exact moment of maximum arboreal confinement, the young ladies and their streamers now began to unwind at an increasingly faster rate. Now they were practically shimmering white blurs.
He felt a strong hand on his shoulder. He recognized the fine hand of Ms Crepidus. As the drumming climaxed the dancers literally exploded out from the tree into the crowd as the doors blew open and the room filled with the horny young cadets of the Alfredo Stroessner Military Academy.
The horns kicked in and everybody started shouting and dancing. Drinks were knocked back and everyone lost their minds simultaneously.
"I need to see you in my office"
Our Prince reached for his spiralized x-ray glasses.
"You won't be needing them"
He licked his eyebrows in response. A young woman passing by saw this, and stopped slack-jawed as our Aulde FP put his firm stubby fingers on Ms Crepidus' hips and propelled her out of the room via a side exit.
Up the stairs and down the hall. A door opened. A desk beckoned. She was a vision in 4" heels and a tight black, inky black, short leather skirt.
"What are you waiting for...?"
A strong shaggy arm cleared the desktop. Pens went flying. A stapler would never get the chance to be stuck in someone's ass. He swiftly scooped up Ms Crepidus, and then gently laid her down on the desk. It was a good 8' of old growth wood, elephant mahogony. The desk was large too.
A blizzard of clothes flew through the air. In an instant he was buck-nekkid and all business. His stubby hand hovered over an acorn nipple. Her breasts were twin moons. The smell of Yohji Yamamoto perfume mixed with ozone. There was a buzzing sound. An arc travelled from her nipple to his hand. She slipped her hand around his Full-Auto Love Gun.
His head was between her thighs. Couldn't help it. Her thighs. Oh Boy. He talkin' to the Goddess now. She was really sayin' something. He couldn't hear too well. His head was being squeezed like a grape. Things were happening on the other end too. The Little Prince was getting a tongue-lashing. Bad boy. Real bad boy. Come to Big Mama.
His tongue continued it's interrogation. You want it when? Now? Sure? Maybe later? How much later? Want to wait? A little bit longer. For Me.
She answered him, but had to decide that deep divots in the back of his head pulling further in the Goddess Paradigm meant yes. And she was bucking so hard that his head was becoming rhythmically acquainted with the desk top.
Finally she stopped. The steady beat and pulse of music came from downstairs. He shifted.
"Not so fast.."
As he stood up, her heels hooked him around his back and pulled him forward. He was going for the Mothership, the tractor beams had him locked on. He felt himself slide slowly into her. It was a tight fit. She opened her pelvis in a move he'd only read about. She looked up at him and winked.
Her legs slowly locked around his back. He was seated like there was no tomorrow. Thus began the call and response. Mr Happy called for back up, and Team Flexor & Extensor responded. He was in the grip of the Oh-Mi-Goddess now. It was a full court press.
Her grip never let up. Her legs were something else too. Our Wily Shaggy Rogue found himself on the proverbial canoe drifting towards the increasing roar of the mighty Zambezi. His mind began to struggle. The GNP of Bulgaria. The workings of a toll-booth. Sermons heard while he was boy. Pat Buchanan.
He last remembered the moment when the rowboat fell away in a dwindling speck of color. He was going over the falls. All around him was a rainbow of waterdroplets. The crocodiles far below smiled and waved. Life's been good to him so far.
In a moment far from that time and place, he remembered that they awoke as the rosy fingered dawn peeked up over the wine-dark sea. She turns and smiles in her sleep. The sun creeps across her face.
Ms Crepidus rose on one elbow and groggily surveyed the scene. She, lithe and alabastrous, on an executive desk. He, shaggy, smoking a turdarillo. The smoke spiralled up to the ceiling.
"You...me...What the FUCK was I thinking????"
Good question. But damn, it was fun.
She read his mind. Her hand closed on a Swarovski crystal paperweight, which was soon on a direct trajectory towards his head. He ducks, scoops up his Santa duds as the weight connects with the window pane, shatters the glass, and kept right on going into the rosy dawn.
He grins. Damn he loves her style! On the way out he turns, winks licks his eyebrows and departs with a cheery "See you next year Ms Crepidus...and by the way...Merry FUCKING Christmas!"