Someone had made a film at college. Someone only, as I knew her name at the time, but was sickeningly jealous of her hair and boots, and in the years which followed my jealousy became somewhat more focussed around people who could drink copious cups of coffee without diarrhoea-ing on the bus; and thus her name faded from my memory. Someonly? Though my ability to both use and spell onomatopoeia was much greater than hers, her one-time immaculate, perfectly timed use of the pun Santa Claws as the title for her Media film coursework bore directly into the centre of my brain and sat there, festering, rendering my lovemaking lacklustre and my love of the English language austerely lifeless. Unresponsive. Dead.
My own zombie film, compromising entirely of my friends and I running through the town centre covered in blood and screaming for the lives of our zombie children, and grandparents, and undead hamsters, received full marks and was shown as an example for future generations for how to kick ass in the cadaver media market, though I still cringed at the sound of my own voice wailing madly amongst the sea of blood-soaked charity shop t-shirts. Santa Claws however was visceral, gratifying… All She Wants for Christmas is a New Face. It kicked you in the stomach and tickled your jealousy hole, and carved off your skin with a rusty butter knife. It was all any of us ever wanted for Christmas, and on a warm summer day with the blood growing thinner in my veins as a result of too much, or too little, vodka, I found I was holding a spork, which was stabbed acid-deep into the belly of a fat gentleman. It’s funny to say, isn’t it, vodka? Vod-Ka.
Bags of spaghetti and red food dye came to mind as I watched his stomach contents spill over the floor, amongst the red and brown came the occasional slither of yellow, and as the fat bled out of him I couldn’t help but think I might have done him a favour. I sat next to his face for a while and watched as the mass of liquid spread to the far end of the room- the wooden floorboards helping to slide his insides along the ground, instead of just absorbing them up like carpet tends to. The occasional beer mat would begin to float along the stream and I found this desperately droll, and laughed to myself for a while, before I thought this might have looked quite insane. Plus, he was beginning to smell quite a bit dead already, although this may have had something to do with the stomach acid dribbling out of his wound. I thought about apologising both to the man, and to the management, but as he was already bleeding to death I thought it would be rude to waste his time. It wasn’t everyday that I killed someone, at least not for a while. I stepped over the body and made my way out of the pub, and into the fancy dress store.
For the rest of the afternoon I chased people. I didn’t catch many, what with them running for their lives, afterall, but for the few I did catch, we did have a great deal of fun playing the How Far Can Your Eyelids Stretch Game, and Which Appendage is the Most Useless, and Therefore May be Chopped Off Roulette. Though it wasn’t really so much roulette as it was me relentlessly stabbing my spork fingers into people’s legs (I’d call it roulette to add a bit of intrigue). I would eventually let everyone go though, I was supposed to be Santa afterall, or something. They were maimed, but they were not dead; I was kind, but I was not benign. At the end of the day when the sun was still much too warm, I stepped out into the sunshine and took off the itchy beard, and went home for a cup of tea. The police had pulled up outside of the pub and were staring in my direction. I considered drinking a coffee instead, but didn’t know what effect this would have on my insides, as I sat in the back of the police car.