‘Twas The Night of the Living Dead Before Christmas
Here’s a little festive collaboration between myself and the me of 2011 (who on December 24th ALSO tried to write this and didn’t quite make it all the way through. He also didn’t have a rockin’ cool beard, but he was still a pretty cool dude.) It’s about Santa and some zombies. Apologies for the occasionally wonky rhyming scheme. Best of the season! -Tom
‘Twas The Night of the Living Dead Before Christmas
A Festive Zombie Tale by Tom McGee
’twas the night before Christmas and all through the town,
Not a creature was stirring, neither to smile nor to frown.
As he made his way across the cloudless starry night,
Santa Claus in his sleigh felt ill at ease; something just was not right.
Landing atop the first rooftop with care,
He unsaddled his bag and shook out his hair.
There is a strange scent to the breeze tonight, he thought,
As he checked his list to make sure no child was forgot.
Only two urchins at this place, he nodded and grinned
An easy start to a night he had hardly begin’d.
Down through the chimneys he flew like a flash,
Appearing next to the Christmas tree’s ample gift stash.
Digging into his bag for loot and for cheer,
He didn’t exactly notice the first zombie appear.
As Santa placed a CD dubbed “Nickelback” in bad Timmy’s stocking,
The creature shambled forward, a fat, red-suited meal he was stalking.
But then Santa heard it, the dragging and groans,
He wondered if it was Timmy, here to atone.
“Too late, young man.” He said, not looking up, “You should have been nicer all of the year,
But since coal is so damn expensive now you get this: here!”
And as he thrust out the disk, the zombie did sway,
Poor Santa Claus just couldn’t give those damned Nickelback CDs away.
“Brains!” the beast cried with all of its might,
And only then did Santa realize he was in for a fight.
“Wait a minute!” Santa exclaimed, noticing its slack jaw,
“You’re one of them zombies from that show that I saw!”
But the creature said nothing, not seeming to care,
Wherever zombies come from, they don’t have AMC there.
“Well shit,” muttered Santa, uttering a rare Christmas curse,
(Though horror fans know: only zombies? Santa could have done worse!)
The creature lurched forth, tongue wagging to-and-fro,
Santa straightened himself up and uttered an Ash-like, “Let’s go.”
He began with a jolly old shove of his hand;
Decapitation by terrible, multi-platinum selling album was the plan.
The CD case hit, full of aplomb and of grace,
As Santa stabbed the stupid zombie right in his stupid zombie face.
And with that hit the creature released such a howl,
CD cases sometimes turn out to be as powerful as trowels.
“I hope that’s your brain!” Santa boomed with some glee,
“And that somewhere Bruce Campbell would be proud of me!”
Then Santa pulled back, with one great mittened fist,
But for all of his beginner’s luck, just then the zombie swayed, and Santa missed.
The fist flew wide and the zombie lurched,
Forcing Santa to fall back toward the fireplace…where a fire-poker was perched.
For not the first time, Santa thanked glory and grace,
That some people still had a real, honest-to-goodness fireplace.
As the zombie closed in, Santa grasped at the poker,
Wishing that along he had brought Walking Dead’s Michael Rooker.
Teeth gnashing, head bleeding, the zombie moved in,
If it still had the right tendons, that zombie would grin.
But lo and behold old St. Nick found the poker in his mitt,
And thus the poor zombie’s head Santa began to mercilessly hit.
And he hit it, and hit it, and hit it again…
Until finally Santa’s hundred-year-old-elf arm felt the strain.
Panting and sweating, Santa let the iron fall,
Muttering an action hero-ey “Merry Christmas to y’all.”
But since zombies are like cockroaches, so large in number,
Over to his bulging bag, Santa began to lumber.
For his night was not through, nor Christmas at all saved…
So Santa dragged out his best zombie-killing glaive.
He had meant it for Bruce, or maybe for Romero…
Oh well, Santa thought, there’s always to-marrow!
[…They can’t all be winners, folks.]
Then with a finger to his nose up the chimney he flew,
The halls to deck with the zombies he slew.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his works,
And filled all the stockings with dead zombie jerks.
Up and down the lane-way he went,
And from nave to chaps, the zombies he rent:
The Wilsons’, the Davis’, the Ferguson’s, and more,
He killed each and every zombie; through their corpses he tore.
When finally, blood-soaked, from head down to toe,
He arrived at the house of a fella named Moe.
“Dammit, Santa!” Moe yelled from his porch, “Where ya been?
I’ve already killed fifty-five fucking zombies…what a scene!”
And to this the gore-soaked Santa merely sighed,
“I’m Santa Claus, motherfucker, and I just re-killed everyone who has ever died.”
Moe had not considered this horrible task,
But he still had one thing more of Santa to ask.
“Fair enough, Mr. Claus, and I’m sorry to ask, it’s true,
But you don’t happen to have a zombie cure in that sack, do you?”
And at that very moment, Santa had such a fright,
For it was then that he saw Moe’s infected zombie bite.
“I’m sorry, dear Moe,” Santa said with a frown,
“You’re on my nice list, only forty five names down;
“And whilst my gift this year might seem as though I’ve lost track…
My gift for you, dear Moe, is to make sure you don’t come back.”
And with that, Santa sank his blade deep in Moe’s forehead,
Ensuring that no more zombies would rise before bed.
With a satisfied nod, Santa stowed his weapon away,
Having learned a double meaning of the term ‘to sleigh.’
He’d left a path of destruction both wide and deep,
And now was the hour that he could safely head off to sleep.
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like a festive heat-seeking missile.
It had not been the Silent Night that he’d thought,
Nor did he deliver all the presents (that all the parents had bought),
But dammit, he thought, this was a Christmas for the ages,
A zombie slaying Christmas for the history pages.
He’d fought the good fight and killed all the ghouls-
Would that he could have stopped those Umbrella Corp. fools!
But what was done was done, and indeed so was he,
After placing a decapitated head atop the gore-soaked tree.
And to the twice-dead zombie horde he yelled ‘ere he drove out of sight,
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good zombie-free night!”