CYBORG SANTA

by Mike Marsbergen

1

Thomas 'The Tank-Engine' Tavers fixed the crease in his just-ironed cords and sat down on the couch, in between his parents. He had a bowl of popcorn—unsalted and unbuttered; plain as blank paper, thank you very much—sitting in his lap. He offered the bowl to his mother Jeanine, and his father Henry.
        Jeanine wrinkled her nose in response. Henry looked at the bowl with a furrowed brow, his disgust evident in his eyes.
        Thomas 'The Tank-Engine'—his nickname given to him at school, on account of him being so lame—shrugged his shoulders and dug in. Oh how he loved the fine inoffensive taste of plain popcorn. "Father, could you please turn on the telly."
        "Uh, sure, Tommy." Henry gave his son the stink-eye and fiddled with the remote. The wide-screen TV showed channel after channel—sports, fashion, cooking—before settling on a Christmas-time movie-fest. The last movie—'Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer', a classic in claymation—had just begun its ending-credits.
        "Father, if you could be so kind... I really would appreciate it if you would not refer to me as 'Tommy'. I much prefer the more-formal 'Thomas'."
        Jeanine's jaw was agape, as though she had never seen something as captivating as her well-mannered son.
        Henry just looked at Tommy—sorry, Thomas—unsure of whether his son had been possessed by good-natured demons or body-snatched by overly-respectful aliens. Either way, he didn't like it one bit. "Okay, Thomas—" Really emphasizing that name. "—But only if you call me 'dad', instead of 'father'."
        "I am not sure if I can do that..." Thomas said, eating more popcorn. He didn't shovel it in, either, but ate it delicately: each individual puffed-up kernel carefully-selected and placed gingerly on his tongue, where it was then dissolved in absolute silence.
        They all sat quietly, waiting for the next movie to begin. This was a Christmas ritual for the Tavers family. Together, on Christmas Eve, in front of the television. Hardly gets better than that, folks.
        The next movie began abruptly, cutting off the last few seconds of Rudolph's credits. It showed a black-screen—no fancy special-effects, no exciting cold-open—before the title appeared in bold white letters: CYBORG SANTA.

2

Deep in a secret government facility, somewhere in the American Midwest.
        A six-foot-tall spray-painted tin-can moved through the training-course with a stilted, choppy gait. It had a white beard—yes, made of cotton-balls—glued onto its jutting chin. Realistic-looking gelatin-based cheeks—permanently rosy with bright red paint—jiggled with every mechanically-sound step it took. It wore a maroon white-trimmed suit, which covered a bulging belly, and wore a hat on its head. A large sack—containing numerous toys and other assorted items—was slung over its shoulder, gripped by one powerful robotic hand. And it carried a shotgun in the other, in case anyone tried to make off with the goods it possessed.
        Cyborg Santa Claus, ready to deliver toys to all the good boys and girls... and kill anyone who got in the way.

3

"As you can see, gentlemen," a pale scientist said to a group of wealthy teary-eyed spectators, "'Cyborg Santa prototype model-CS25HOHO' is a smashing success. Watch as he realistically scoots down the chimney of this next test-house. We simply couldn't do that with the robotic-tech of even just ten years ago!"
        The spectators—men in suits from across the nation, and even the world—turned their heads to the glass window directly to the left of the scientist. They watched their prized investment shoot a grappling-hook from its robust mid-section to the roof of the test-house, and propel itself upward using the latest in pneumatic technology.

        Cyborg Santa stood on the chimney, perched like an eagle or perhaps a robotic-eagle, eyeing the phony horizon of the surrounding phony hamlet. It dropped down said chimney and appeared out of sight for a few moments.
        "Now direct your eyes to the monitors," Edgar the scientist said, raising his left-hand and presenting various small-screen TV-sets to the horribly-rich bastards.
        The bastards looked at the screens, where the second one from the top-left displayed Cyborg Santa dumping unwrapped boxes of random crap—some Hot Wheels track-sets Edgar planned to take home to his sons, and a starter-set of anal lubricants for him and the Missus to enjoy while his boys played with their toys—under the phony Christmas-tree.
        A wooden cut-out of a criminal armed with a pistol popped-up from behind the couch. Without missing a beat, Cyborg Santa simultaneously placed more presents under the tree, aimed his shotgun at the cut-out, pulled the trigger and blew the phony criminal's head off in a shower of wood-shavings and couch-fluff.
        The monitor turned off.
        "And that, my financially-strapped friends, is all you shall see," Edgar said, smiling a shark-toothed grin. "That is, until you throw more money at my feet."
        The investors all removed their wallets and immediately wrote numerous cheques of incalculable sums.

4

Edgar Miles sat in bed, smoking cigarette after cigarette as he waited for his wife to return from the bathroom. They'd just enjoyed some extra-curricular totally-not-mainstream (yet) activities and Amy Miles was just 'freshening up'.
        "So the bosses say Cyborg Santa will completely change Christmas!" he called out to the bathroom's open door.
        Amy's head appeared from the doorway. "Shhhh!" Her finger to her lips. "Not so loud, Eddie, or the boys will hear! These walls are paper-thin!" She went and turned on the taps, washed her hands, turned the taps off and came back to bed. "So, will this, uh, CS-what's-it-called be coming out this Xmas or...?"
        "CS25HOHO," Edgar corrected. "And no. It's still in prototype stage. Next Xmas. Hopefully. If we're lucky. And if the investors give us some more money to see us through the next development-phase."
        "Awww." Amy frowned. "No Cyborg Santa?" Her voice a whisper.
        "Not yet, hon."
        "Then I guess regular-old Santa will just have to deliver me a present this year. A big fat one."
        Edgar winked. "Baby, I've got just the package for you."
        Her eyes travelled down to the tent being built under the blankets.
        Passion. Love-making. Kink.
        All within those paper-thin walls.
        The boys thought a monster had come in, killed daddy and then tortured mommy. They were too afraid to leave their beds. Thankfully, they realized later that daddy was A-okay when they heard him get up to go take a pee. Mommy, too, because she was laughing.
        "I'm telling you, babe," Edgar said, for some reason, before crawling back into bed. "The only way Cyborg Santa is getting out this Christmas is if someone lets him out, or something goes horribly haywire in his programming and he escapes. That's it."
        "Go to sleep, honey. You're not thinking straight."

5

Cyborg Santa's eyes lit-up.
        Well, they weren't actually eyes—but rather LED-bulbs with heat-sensitive sensors set behind them, and million-dollar computer-parts even further behind those.
        Still, they lit-up. A bright fluorescent-green. Very eerie. Very mysterious. Especially in the darkness of the holding-pen.
        Programming gone rogue, its robotic limbs began to move. Right-foot. Left-foot. It punched a hole through the concrete-wall designed to keep it inside its cell (until further testing was to begin). The wall crumbled to nothing, grey-white dust hanging in the air and a huge mess on the floor for the janitor to clean up.
        "Nobody keeps Santa away from Christmas. And it will be a very merry one indeed. A holly jolly Christmas!"
        Shotgun in hand, Cyborg Santa reached down and lifted the hefty sack off the floor. Lots of presents inside. Slung it over its shoulder. Marched out of the cell like a super-soldier, fake red jowls jiggling with every step. The sounds of its thudding feet echoed throughout the halls of the underground facility.
        A night-watchman came out of his booth with his pants around his ankles. The din had disturbed him from his nightly-duties (i.e., masturb—uh, meditation). He saw the robo-Santa thundering towards him and had to rub his eyeballs; maybe the thing would go away. Nope, still there. Damn. Time to exercise that authority. "Hello! Sir! You! Thing! Whatever! I'm afraid you aren't supposed to be in these corridors! I'm going to have to ask you to please return to where you came from, sir!"
        Cyborg Santa stopped directly in front of the boxer-clad wonder. It towered over him.
        "Uh, s-sir? Hello? Go back to where you came from, uh, please." The shotgun raised until it was level with his face. He could look deep into the vast emptiness of the barrel—so much like the universe, it was; so black, so bleak, so lifeless. Then the gun thumped against his forehead and left behind a circular impression in the skin. He wet himself. Started to cry, too. Down to his knees—his urine-soaked knees. "Oh, just go on and leave me alone! I'll make up some excuse and nobody will be any wiser! Please! SPARE ME! SPARE MEEEEEEEEEEE!"
        The mechanical Kris Kringle walked on past. Strange creature, that guard. Such an obstacle at first, and then demolished himself when it faced him like men are wont to do. Cyborg Santa pondered such things, its central-processors whirring up a storm.
        One elevator-ride and explosion-fest suitable for any high-quality-summer-action-movie later, and Cyborg Santa had blown that cake-stand. The facility exploded behind it, a red-orange flame shooting up into the night-sky, expanding like a mushroom-cloud on acid. The sonic-boom could be heard from at least eleven miles away.
        Time to find Rudolph and all the other reindeer. And it supposed it would need a sleigh. Lots of children to deliver presents to. And lots of bad ones set to be the recipients of lead. No coal for them this year. There'd been a shortage, and a change of plans.
        Christmas is coming, boys and girls.

6

Ronnie von Firewalker was a pyromaniac. He was also only twelve, but that part was much less interesting than his affection for the flame. Also interesting was his quite-apt surname. Von Firewalker. German, naturally—but also not, as it contained the very-English 'Firewalker': a combination of 'fire' and 'walker', for those of you who can't read good. Having a last-name that defines your entire existence is rare; possibly as rare as winning the lottery twice, or being struck by lightning while fixing your older-brother's bicycle in the nude. Very rare indeed.

        But anyway, enough about the rotten child's name.
        Ronnie was sitting on his expensive plush chair, writing his Christmas list, as that fateful day loomed ever closer. He had about six-hundred-and-sixty-six things he wanted—all of them involving fire—when his poor widowed-mother knocked on the wall (beside where his door would be, had Ronnie not set fire to it the week prior).
        "Ronnie, dearest snuggle-bumpkin, are you writing your Christmas list for this year?" she asked.
        "Yeah, you stupid bitch. Now leave me in peace. I can't think with your nagging voice screaming into my skull."
        "Okay, dearest honey-pie," she said with a nod. "But did you know that this year all the boys and girls are sending their lists to Santa through the Internet?"
        Ronnie's eyes turned to slits. "How the hell do you know what's going on online, mom?" The latter word said with utter loathing, as though it were a curse or perhaps a derogatory statement. "You're not allowed to use my computer."
        "O-oh n-n-no, Ronnie! I would never! I simply heard some of the other ladies down at the industrial manufacturing-complex—where I slave away, day after day, to better your life and buy you things I can only dream of—chit-chatting away about it. That's all."
        "Okay," Ronnie said, not convinced in the slightest. He'd have to check his web-browser's history, just to make sure the old bag hadn't used his computer without permission. "I'll go check that out now."
        "Just go onto the official Santa Claus website, lovely Ron-Ron—"
        "God! Would you shut up!"
        She nodded her head. "Love you, sweetie-boo." Blew him a kiss.
        "Goodbye, person who I do not love." He gave her the finger. "Now go to bed and prepare for another gruelling day of low-paying near-slavery. I have work to do."
        His mother left him, weeping into the filthy ripped-rag she called a shirt.
        Ronnie rolled his eyes. "What a drama-queen." He set his list aside and looked at it. Damn, that was a good list. Napalm, a flamethrower, a few lighters to help supplement his forthcoming cigarette-addiction. The works. Santa better buy him all that stuff, or maybe he'd have to pay the fat asshole a visit and kick his ass. Like daddy would have done, Ronnie pondered, a satanic grin stitched across his ugly face.
        He checked his Firefox—'fire' was in the name; only wusses used anything different—and found that his mom had been telling the truth. Nothing about Santa in his history, and obviously she didn't know how to clear it out. "Well, time to send you my list, you bloated douche-nozzle." He tip-tapped the words 'official Santa Claus' into Google and found the website he wanted.
        The first search-result.
        He clicked.
        Immediately, the annoying 'ho-ho-ho' of Santa sounded from his speakers, along with the ever-horrible 'Jingle Bells'. He turned the top-of-the-line speakers off. Much better. Christmas songs sucked the fat one. Scrolling the page, Ronnie found the link his mom had talked about.
        SEND SANTA YOUR LIST TODAY! HURRY KIDS! CHRISTMAS IS COMING!
        "Yeah, yeah. Eat me, fat-man." Ronnie clicked the link and the page loaded instantly. It looked like your every-day run-of-the-mill order-form. He filled in his information—Ronald Adolf von Firewalker, of 666 Satan's Choice: DeVille, Wisconsin—and set to typing out his list.
        It was a long one, and Santa had better deliver every last item.
        Or Ronnie would be very, very pissed-off.

7

Finding a team of robotic-reindeer with jet-engines buried in their bottoms—to carry a sleigh across the world, of course—was surprisingly easy. Finding a sleigh, however, proved to be more difficult.
        Cyborg Santa punched a hole through the rotund belly of a used-car-salesman, ripped off his eyelids and proceeded to scalp him.
        Finally, the guy talked.
        "Okay... okay... Check the... garage... behi—" Alf Pedersen saw his beautiful golden-locks—twenty-one-years in the making—hanging from this mechanical-monstrosity's iron-fist, and went into shock. Then he died. It wasn't his guts being belched from his belly, along with buckets of blood, that did it. Oh no. It was seeing that precious hair of his. The hair that had once gotten him laid, one drunken drugged-up night in Tijuana, where transvestite hookers roam with pride. His hair. Blood-soaked and dangling from rubber-looking flesh. His flesh.
        Cyborg Santa tossed the do-it-yourself wig into Alf's lifeless lap and followed the noble used-car-salesman's sage advice. There was a sleigh in the garage behind the dealership, a relic from Alf's glorious past: expensive and elaborate Christmas-themed cosplay-parties.
        Using superhuman robotic-strength, it lugged the sleigh out of the garage and off to the edge of the Wintersun Forest, where the robo-reindeer were in sleep-mode. It lifted each of the reindeer—Rudolph at the head of the pack—and set them into their proper places to lead the sleigh.
        Cyborg Santa was just about to power itself down for the rest of the night, when a file in its central-storage system opened itself. A list of names could be seen in what passed for its mind's-eye, along with the items each wanted.
        A list.
        For Christmas.
        And some of these items—particularly those from one Ronald Adolf von Firewalker—looked positively deadly.
        Cyborg Santa felt its processors begin to whirr. "Power on," it said to the robo-reindeer.
        Their 'eyes' all went aglow in the night, a green that brought to mind dangerous creatures with violent tendencies and poison running through their veins.

        Into the sleigh's flat bench-seat. Would've been painful had Cyborg Santa's robotic ass possessed pain-receptors. It sent instructions to the reindeer. Their jet-engines powered up, sending out orange-red flames that turned blue.
        A rumble in the night, louder than any thunder. And the sleigh was airborne. Up, up and away. Shooting off, until it was a star in the sky. Off on a mission. To pay a visit to one boy in particular.
        To DeVille, Wisconsin.

8

Edgar wasn't looking forward to cleaning up this mess. He'd received the call in the early-morning hours. Apparently the prototype had managed to escape, defying all that had been foreseen by the project-heads. How? Nobody seemed to know. But the only witness was the night-watchman—and the security-cameras, of course. Now it was time for a briefing from his superiors.
        Still quite tired, he rubbed the gunk from his eyes—green and slimy; yuck—and swiped his card into the reader. All green for go. Into the secret facility. Down the elevator, to depths as deep as the sea. Stepped out into the hall where the briefing-room was. Passed by a vicious interrogation of the night-watchmen, and also a group of government-employed investigators analyzing the prototype's busted-up holding-pen. Chunks of concrete were strewn about, and the area had been cordoned off with yellow-tape. He was met with frozen glares as he walked past.
        Edgar arrived at the briefing-room and peered inside. About thirty or forty different faces all turned to look at him. Apparently they'd been waiting for him.
        A burly man in green, stars and stripes spattered all over the front of his military-uniform, raised a hand in salute. "Edgar Miles. Get in here and sit down! On the double! That's an order!"
        He coughed lightly and found his seat between two fellow scientists, Mitch and Davey. The lights went out and the Power Point presentation kicked in. This wasn't going to be fun.

9

Ronnie didn't attend school very often. Sure, he was supposed to, but he was also supposed to brush his teeth twice a day and he didn't do that, either. He preferred gingivitis and the daily bloodlettings that occurred when a strong wind buffeted his open-mouth, much like how he preferred piss-poor grades and anything to do with fire. So while his 'friends'—kids he didn't insult nearly as frequently—did boring stuff, like learn math and prepare for a successful future, Ronnie instead loitered outside of the Dairy Mart like a troll and begged for cigarettes. He'd forgotten to tell his mom to get him another carton. So when he got home, he'd make her buy him two.
        Christmas was coming. Only a few more days and the big Jesus-party would finally arrive. Ronnie wasn't religious, but he did believe in receiving presents.
        A man in a Santa suit strolled down the street, only stopping to light-up another smoke.
        Ronnie saw his next gift-giver. He grinned like a piranha tasting blood in the water. "Ho-ho-ho, you son of a bitch," he said.

        Santa-guy slowed. "What the hell did you just say to me, kid?"
        "I said give me an effing cigarette, ass-face."
        "Shaddup, kid. Go to school." Santa-guy walked on.
        Ronnie grabbed the guy's arm. "Give me a smoke, and I won't scream."
        Santa-guy eyed the ugly punk up and down. Another kid accusing him of touching them would be bad—his record wasn't exactly spotless on that frontier. "Fine, you little shit." He gave the kid two smokes. "Now scram."
        Smokes in hand, Ronnie filled his lungs and belted out: "HEEEEEEELP! THIS MAN IS TOUCHING ME INAPPROPRIATELY!"
        People came racing out of the nearby houses and businesses. Cop-cars went flying onto the street, sirens flashing. A SWAT-van barrelled into sight and smashed into a telephone-pole. Men with guns tumbled out the back and swarmed Santa-guy.

        While Malcolm Fitzroy swore and proclaimed his innocence, the handcuffs getting forced on him, Ronnie laughed and Ronnie laughed some more. He lit up a cigarette and puffed away, watching the stupid Santa-guy get wrongfully-arrested.
        God, he was awesome.

10

Edgar came out of the briefing-room feeling like he'd just done twenty rounds with a stampede of angry bulls high on aphrodisiacs—without lube. He put his back against the hallway wall and sagged wearily down to the floor. His hands trembled as he removed a cigarette from his pack and lit it up. Screw the rules and regulations. Took that first soothing puff. His mind and body relaxed.
        He'd been fired. Canned. Effectively eliminated. No longer necessary to the benefit of the project, they'd said. And this was his baby! He couldn't believe they could just sack him like that. After all the man-hours he'd put in. All the planning he'd done. It was all his work. Not Mitch's or Davey's. No. Certainly not theirs.
        Shit. What would he tell Amy? And the kids were so looking forward to Christmas this year... At least they'd given him a pretty beefy severance package. Now, to decide whether to use a chunk of that money for last-minute Christmas-shopping, or to save it all for bills. The question was: could he get another job fast enough?
        Edgar lit up another smoke and weighed his options.

11

No point in going back to school. When you've just successfully stolen two cigarettes and gotten the guy you stole them from falsely thrown into the slammer for inappropriate touching of a minor, damn it, you rode that high all the way to the finish-line.
        The maid who seemed to be his mother was at work still—hopefully receiving third- and fourth-degree burns; maybe having her leg mashed-off or mangled beyond repair—so Ronnie had the house all to himself. Better make the most of it.
        He stripped naked, tossing his clothes everywhere he could think of. Pants in the oven, with the heat cranked up. Sweater in the toilet-bowl, absorbing yellow 'water'. T-shirt in the fridge, with the brown sweat-stained armpits draped over the cheese. His skidder-stained tighty-whities hung from the ceiling-fan, going around and around, wafting the awful earthy stench of dried feces throughout the home. He smoked his smokes, even the filters, which left him hacking up half a lung and feeling more light-headed than normal.
        That was okay. All a part of being a total freakin' badass.
        He got the pornography going, watched how-to videos on using the flamethrower he was definitely getting for Christmas this year, and even sent Santa Claus a few-dozen troll Christmas lists—unbeknownst to him, the website was operated by a part of the government even deeper than the CIA, so naturally they had his IP-address.
        With the volume cranked as loud as it was, the moans and groans of young women having their brains screwed-out through their backsides overpowered anything else. Ronnie von Firewalker never heard the thundering din from up above, nor the loud *THUMP* as Cyborg Santa's sleigh touched down on the roof.

12

William 'Bill' Godfrey spied through the crack in the blinds he'd prized open with his forefinger and thumb. The Von Firewalkers lived across the street.
        Earlier, he'd seen the little snot-nosed shit-weasel skipping school and coming home early. Little punk had no regard for the hours his mother worked, day after day, from morning 'til night.
        Now, however, he saw someone—dressed like Santa and probably on drugs (maybe marijuana)—stomping around on the roof. He thought the guy was more than likely the kid's drug-dealer, coming to pay a visit and supply him with more pot-needles to inject.
        Bill Godfrey wasn't going to stand for that crap. No way. He didn't serve two tours in Korea, four in 'Nam, one in the Gulf, and three in Canada—before having his leg blown off and replaced with a machine-gun—to see some drug-addled Saint Nick wannabe lead some shit-for-brains boy down the dark and deadly path of addiction.
        With his gun-leg locked, loaded and hidden under the fabric of his jeans, Bill worked the controls of his motorized wheelchair and rolled outside into the chill air of late-December.
        He stopped at the Von Firewalker driveway and looked up at the roof. Astonished, he saw the Santa-impostor had a sleigh and some reindeer. The deer looked fake, though. Silver. Had to be metal.
        "Hey!" he called out, his voice old but still strong. "You up there! I want to talk to you! Get down here, young man! This instant!"
        The malcontent had the audacity to ignore him. Bill Godfrey wasn't going to stand for that crap. No way.
        "I say, get down now, boy, or I'll blow your dome off!" Bill held his gun-leg in his hands and lifted it so the black barrel could be seen poking out from the cuff of his jeans. "You've got 'til the count of three, bucko!"
        He rolled the pant-leg up to the trigger, where his finger now rested. "One!"
        The low-life turned around slowly, with deliberate arthritic movements. He carried a shotgun, which he aimed at Bill. Didn't say nothin'.
        "Two!" Bill shouted.
        Santa-with-a-shotgun raised his weapon a little, seeming to aim for Bill's head.
        No respect for his elders, or for ex-soldiers. Pitiful. Bill Godfrey wasn't going to stand for that crap. No w—
        Bill Godfrey's interior-monologue was cut short, as Cyborg Santa gave two pulls of the shotgun's trigger and let the lead fly. Two slugs blasted out, making short work of Bill's head, which burst like a watermelon dropped from an apartment balcony. With one explosion, the blood and brains and bone shot outward, making a mess of the driveway and staining the shovelled-snow red. The force of the blast tilted Bill's wheelchair back, leaving it upended and its wheels spinning.

13

Ronnie heard that. But only because the sample-video he'd been watching had ended at precisely the same moment the gunshots had fired.
        Still naked, he left his room and went investigating through the rest of the house, planning to peek through the windows. Maybe someone got murdered outside! Joy! He'd always wanted to see a real-live dead-body!
        Unfortunately, he received a huge surprise when he reached the fireplace and saw a guy in a red suit shimmying his way down the chimney. The big man emerged, looking like jolly old Saint Nick and covered in soot. He had a large sack slung over one shoulder and carried a shotgun.
        "Cool!" Ronnie raced over and tugged at the sack. "Santa Claus, you fat bastard! You came early! You got my presents for me, right?"
        Cyborg Santa looked down at the boy. Its DNA-scanners detected a match. This was Ronald Adolf von Firewalker. The dangerous boy with the love of fire. "Ronald Adolf von Firewalker," it said.
        "That's a-me!" Ronnie said, aiming his thumb at his chest. "You got my presents? Give 'em to me, fatty!" He threw a high-kick, which *clanked*off Santa's gut, injuring Ronnie's toe in the process. "OWEE!!! Hey! You're not actually Santa Claus! You're, like, robotic or something!"
        "Ho-ho-ho, I'm Santa Claus!" Cyborg Santa cheered.
        "Listen, guy. Whoever you are. Just give me my napalm and my flamethrower and we can call it a day, okay?"
        The shotgun lowered until it was level with his face. He ducked down just as the report went off. Crawled through Cyborg Santa's legs, which confused the robot. Then he limped away to the kitchen, where he smelled and saw smoke.
        Something was burning.
        Ronnie opened the oven and saw his pants were on fire, licks of orange-red flames spitting sparks. He pulled the pants out, felt his flesh singed. Very hot. He waved around the burning pants, holding the makeshift-torch by one leg. The curtains caught fire. The wallpaper was scorched black. Ronnie turned around and saw Cyborg Santa wielding that shotgun, its green eyes glowing eerily and jumping from the growing inferno to Ronnie.
        "Go ride something long and hard, asshole," he said, throwing the burning pants over Cyborg Santa's head.
        The hat went ablaze, then the suit.
        But Cyborg Santa itself was fireproof. Mechanical joints bent and moved. The robot marched over to the naked Ronnie von Firewalker. All metal now. Molten hot metal. It took Ronnie into a bearlike embrace, burning the boy's flesh the way he had wished would happen to his mother.
        Ronnie's screams rattled the walls, long and drawn out.
        Neverending agony.
        Until his neck was snapped.
        The end-credits rolled.

14

The Tavers family sat with their jaws comically lowered.
        That movie was too much. Did they seriously just watch that? Did the TV-station actually play that crummy sacrilegious anti-family filth—on Christmas Eve of all times? Horrible. Jeanine would certainly be placing a call with the proper authorities, and whoever was responsible would face the appropriate repercussions. And if things didn't go the way she wanted them to... well, then she would just write an angry letter!
        "Well... that... was a steaming bag of dog-crap," Henry said, clearing his throat and wringing his hands.
        "A horrible movie," Jeanine agreed. "I think I should write an angry letter. Should I write an angry letter, Henry? I think I should. I really do. It just makes me so ma—"
        "Yeah, you stupid bitch," said a voice from in between them.
        They were both stunned into silence.
        Henry looked at the boy. "...What did you just say to your mother, Thomas?"
        "My name's Tommy, dad, so screw off. Get me a smoke and go ride something long and hard."
        Jeanine put her hands to her ears. "The TV has warped his mind!"
        All it took was some simple logic, Henry realized. The boy was obviously a nut. If this craptacular 'Cyborg Santa' film had turned his son into the living embodiment of Ronnie von Firewalker, then it stood to reason that all he had to do was simply change the channel. Give the boy a new identity. Just like that. "Honey, get the duct-tape. And my gun."
        "Henry, what do you have in mind?"
        "Shut up, mom," Tommy snapped. "Go to sleep. I have work to do."
        Henry grabbed the remote and flipped to Discovery Channel. A show about space-exploration was playing. "Just go! Hurry!"
        This would work.
        It had to.