December Prompt: It's Christmas Eve night, and coming
downstairs you see Santa with a candlestick in his hand. Below him lays a dead
reindeer...
I wake up, yawn, stretch, scratch myself, and climb out of bed. I pause, cock my head, shrug, and scratch myself again. What can I say? I itch. What do you want from me?
I shrug on my robe, and head out of my bedroom and down the stairs. Getting to the top of them, I stop. Listen. What was that noise?
Cautiously, I make my way down the stairs, slowing as I get closer to the bottom. As the room below comes into view, I stop altogether, and crouch down, to peer at what may be happening below.
GoodÉ godsÉ
Is that..? It is! What in the hells is going on here?
I leap to my feet and dash down the rest of the way, and across the room to the fireplace before the figure in the room realizes what is happening. There, I grab the poker, and hold it out menacingly.
"What is this?!"
On the floor, aÉ reindeer? It is clearly dead. Living things tend to keep all that blood on the inside of their bodies, after all. Its head, right between the antlers, is caved in. The source of the blood.
Over it stands a man. A suspiciously familiar man. One I see every year, though not necessarily under these particular circumstances. For example, usually all the red is supposed to be on his clothes. His white beard is now splattered with crimson, and his magnificent bulk heaves up and down as he tries to catch his breath.
"Nicky! What in the hells are you doing?! This is my house!"
He has the good grace to look embarrassed.
"Sorry, Vern. The missus kicked me out, and after home, this is the best place to do this."
I lower the poker, shaking my head.
"Look, Nicky, I know you need the ritual blood sacrifice, but if you had to do it here, could you at least have asked first? You know I'm here to help. Wait, kicked you out?"
"It turns out she's tired of scrubbing the floor every year after I'm done. I try to tell her, I say, 'I need to do this,' and 'The sun won't rise if this doesn't get done,' but does she listen? No, she says, 'Well that's all well and good, but I just cleaned this place up, and after six thousand years I need a break,' and she throws me out."
"And now you know why I never married. It's a bitch to do a sacred duty when your loving other half is in the way."
Then, I notice it. "Did you really have to bludgeon it to death with my gold candlestick holder? Don't you have your own?"
He looks away, face a little redder than normal.
"The missus is using it for some fancy dinner she's throwing. By the way, I'm supposed to invite you. It's at the turn of the year."
I smirk at him. "Yeah, sure, I'll be there."
He crosses the room, and sits down heavily in one of my overstuffed chairs. He looks up at me.
"Do you ever think we're getting too old for this? All the changing we have to do, civilization to civilization, coming up with new traditions and keeping up with the old ones? I'm starting to get tired. Not to mention all the weight I've had to gain this last couple hundred years."
"Come on," I cajole. "Where is this coming from? You're young yet. Sure, sometimes it can be tough, but when you're a god of something, it's usually worth it. Besides, I always look forward to seeing what people come up with next. Do you know, there are at least three hundred different versions of me existing in the modern imagination alone? Some of which are female? You think you have it tough? Life really isn't so bad for us."
"Yeah, you're right." He leans forward, rocks back and forth a couple times, and stands back up.
"Besides," I finish, "all things come to an end eventually, people, traditions, everything. Trust me on that. I know this better than anyone."
He chuckles, belly quivering. "Oh, believe me, we all know that. You're the oldest of us, after all. It's no less than what we expect." He glances down at the slaughtered reindeer. "You want to help me finish this up?"
I smile. "Of course. This is my area of expertise, after all. Let me just go get my scythe."
THE END
Word count: 743