Gun-totin', Chronic-smokin' Hearse Initiator (ludickid) wrote,
Gun-totin', Chronic-smokin' Hearse Initiator
ludickid

Kringle the Kimmerian

“HO HO HO! And what is your name, champ?”

“Thulsa.”

“Do you have a last name, Thulsa, so Santa can find your house from the mailbox?”

“Doom.”

“Well! Er, ho ho! That should be easy to remember! How many little boys named Doom can there be on your block?”

“Just me and my cousin Vic.”

“And what do you want for Christmas, Thulsa?”

“Snakes.”

“Oh, boy! That’s a very exciting present. Are you going to make them into pets, Thulsa?”

“Pets. Children. Arrows. Meat.”

“My, my. You’re an enterprising soul. You just be careful with those, ho ho ho! Merry Christmas! Be good now! And what’s your name, little girl?”

“Sonja.”

“Look at your pretty hair, Sonja! Why, it’s as red as Santa’s suit, isn’t it? Ho ho ho!”

“Yeah, I guess. Whatever.”

“And what would you like for Christmas, Sonja?”

“A boyfriend who isn’t a total puss-cake.”

“A…a puss-cake?”

“Seriously, dude, the guys around here are all gristle, I can bust their heads like rotten squash. I want a man.”

“Aren’t you a little young to be thinking about boys, Sonja?”

“Boys is right. Fucking bunch of milk babies. Hey, what time do you get off work, there, husky?”

“Ah ha ha HO HO HO! Santa is on the up and up, everyone, get her out of here, who’s next? You there! What’s your name, son?”

“Conan.”

“Conan what?”

“Conan the Cimmewian, black-haiwed, sullen-eyed, sword in hand, a thief, a weaver, a slayer, with gigantic melancholies and gigantic miwth, to twead the jeweled thwones of Earth under my sandaled feet.”

“Well then! That’s a lot to remember. Some kids are just named Smith or Jones.”

“Fwippewies.”

“Uh…okay. Well, what would you like for Christmas, Conan?”

“Um…”

“Do you want a nice ball, so you can practice sports? It’s good to win.”

“Um…”

“How about a pet birdy? Or a nice pony? Riding along the open steppe with the wind in your hair, that sounds fun, doesn’t it?”

“Um…”

“Well, what do you want, kid?”

“To cwush my enemies, see them dwiven before me, and to hear the lamentation of the women.”

“Hmmmm. Gosh, I don’t know if that’ll fit in ol’ Santa’s bag, son.”

“How about an official Wed Wyder Cawbine-Action 200-shot Wange model air wifle?”

“You’ll shoot your eye out, kid.”

“I’ll shoot your eye out.”

“Next!”
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