Santa Claus Conquers the Homophobes Read online

  Praise for Book One

  of The Santa Claus Chronicles

  "The only two rules in Santa Steps Out are that everything is sacred and nothing is sacred. I wish I could hope to ever attain one-thousandth the perversity of Robert Devereaux's least toenail clipping. I also wish—despite its enticing/cautionary subtitle—that this Santa story might be read to children everywhere on Christmas Eve."

  —Poppy Z. Brite

  "There are scenes from this book that will haunt me forever. I know I'll never innocently or absent-mindedly suck on a candy cane again. Reading this book made me want to bitch-slap Robert Devereaux. So icky, yet so magnificently rendered."

  —Elizabeth Engstrom

  "The kind of fairy tale that could make Walt Disney burst from his cryogenic ice cube and go on a mad killing spree. Hard to describe, impossible to categorize, and great, wicked fun to read! Make this book one of your holiday purchases, sit down by the fire and read it aloud to the family. Well...maybe not the whole family...but at least the ones who are already too screwed up for it to make any difference. Heh-heh."

  —Ray Garton

  "A delirious slice of Nabokovian porno whimsy. Wholesome, savory, weird and blasphemous, all at the same time—just like the best sex. I believe in Robert Devereaux."

  —Tim Lucas

  "Let Robert Devereaux shimmy down your chimney and you'd better watch out—Santa Steps Out is as twisted as the stripes on a candy cane."

  —Norman Partridge

  "The first time I read a Robert Devereaux story, I knew that his keepers had been spiking his oatmeal. Santa Steps Out is evidence that they've drastically upped the dosage. A wildly erotic fable tracing the consequences of Saint Nick's seduction by the Tooth Fairy, it is by turns sexy, hilarious, horrifying, magical, gross, compassionate, appalling, brilliant, sophomoric, irresistible and infuriating...and the only prospect more daunting than turning each page to see where the shameless Devereaux plans to take us next is looking forward to the inevitable shrieks of dismay from those unwary readers who expected something with a cuddly safe G Rating."

  —Adam-Troy Castro

  "Once upon a time we believed: In Santa, the Tooth Fairy, and magic. And then we grew up. Well, Robert Devereaux has given all that back to us in Santa Steps Out. As promised on the cover, it is a Fairy Tale for Grown-Ups—full of magic and terror, death and miracles. It is also so much more. Santa Steps Out gives us a glimpse behind the placid scenery we thought we knew as children...and what a glimpse it is! So, grab a cup of hot cocoa, snuggle up in your warmest blankie, and settle back for a reading experience the likes of which you've never had. One warning should accompany this book, however: KEEP THIS and all other dangerous objects OUT OF THE REACH OF CHILDREN!"

  —P. D. Cacek

  "In its violation of our sensibilities and our cherished childhood icons, in its topping of its over-the-top scenarios, Santa Steps Out manages to be at once fascinating, funny, and enlightening. Devereaux's most outrageous achievement is that as he destroys our childhood myths, he rebuilds them in a twisted yet equally magical and compelling way."

  —Jeanne Cavelos

  "Exactly the kind of dangerous book that a small press should publish: the kind that makes mainstream publishers sweat."

  —Hank Wagner

  "Robert Devereaux is a master of vivid scene-setting, especially gory scenes and sex scenes. There is a lot of sex in this book—mostly happy, lubricious sex that is sometimes downright amazing. Prepare for a strange and stimulating ride when you hop in the sleigh with Santa and witness all his adventures."

  —Fiona Webster

  "Never until now have so many sacred childhood deities been subjected to such vile reinvention, in what has to be one of the most perversely hilarious books ever written. For all the ribald humor and naughty goings-on, Santa Steps Out is actually a surprisingly cynical tale (with a final line that beautifully bastardizes Dickens) that flays alive those childhood images used to pacify us and keep us in line, and shows them to be a soporific sham."

  —Brian Hodge

  "What's truly disturbing: seeing these childhood symbols degenerating into monsters. By the time Mrs. Claus is exacting her revenge with the help of Santa's elves, and the Tooth Fairy and Easter Bunny are tearing each other apart in an act of sexual congress, any comfort we may find in these figures is way out the window."

  —Thomas Deja

  "Santa Steps Out is breathtaking. It's almost life changing. A novel so refreshing and inspiring to read that it breaks down the walls of genres and sits comfortably outside of everything."

  —Andy Fairclough

  "Devereaux handles the postmodern and religious aspects of the story deftly and delicately, establishing an air of peace despite all the chaos of the plot and thematic concerns. A piece of real live literature, treated beautifully and with delicacy and great benevolent-but-black humor, and I'm just humbled at the wicked genius of Robert Devereaux."

  —Mehitobel Wilson

  "Beyond the apparent sensational surface of cultural iconic jockeyings for satisfaction and succor, Devereaux gradually unveils levels of mythic significance. A perfectly sincere, seriocomic exploration of myth and taboo, sexuality and relationships, and the evolution of the godhead. Yes, Virginia, there really is a Robert Devereaux."

  —Edward Bryant

  "Due to Devereaux's artful writing, I found myself totally emotionally engrossed in the detailed scenes of sex and violence. Oddly, there is a strong positive tone throughout the story. Love and healing are depicted in blasphemous and kinky scenes, showing that sex is intricately woven into human life and does not deserve to be isolated far away from the other parts of life. A vivid and at times disturbingly powerful link to our youth."

  —Robert G. Buice, Jr.

  "Even as I roared with laughter, I felt the perverseness of the guilt which tinged my enjoyment with an edge of danger, and yes, even fear...fear that I had finally transgressed beyond hope of redemption in the eyes of the God to whom all is owed, if Catholic school is to be taken seriously and literally. While this insanely raunchy, funny, thrilling, tragic, and occasionally cute and silly fable is entertainment of the highest order, it also jabs hard at convention and at the traditional—and it succeeds in momentarily and artistically turning your world topsy-turvy. Robert Devereaux, whose shining work I've lauded before, rises so far above the next level here that he is literally flirting with the kind of immortal Art label we generally reserve for the classics—and I mean the likes of Oedipus, Homer, and Euripides."

  —William D. Gagliani

  "Devereaux breaks every mold imaginable, and he does it with élan, and with an unabashed glee."

  —Monica J. O'Rourke

  SANTA WRESTLES HIS ALTER EGO

  Santa and Pan fought grip for grip and fall for fall. This was a wrestling match without rules. They raked one another’s flesh, opened wounds, tore out hair by the roots, tattered garments. And the garments untattered, the hair resprouted, the wounds closed, and the flesh healed all in an instant. They grunted and swore, the rage high in Santa, the concentration maddeningly cool in Pan….

  Santa couldn’t shake thoughts of Wendy. His new strength trumped resignation and gave him hope. If he triumphed—but it must be soon—he sensed he could somehow use what he learned to rescue her. In this rescue might also be found a way back from death.

  Pan pretended to falter, then dove at Santa and lifted him up, pinwheeled him about with dizzying speed, and flung him far into the gray air. Santa sprawled supine, staring for an instant at the stars high above before Pan fell heavy on him and pressed hard against his shoulders. The stars, it was unmistakable, had begun to lose all lu
ster.

  The match went on, neither combatant able to pin the other. Santa failed to see how this might ever end. They would wrestle interminably, and Wendy would die. He had to win. The will to do so charged his sinews with new reserves of energy, reserves maddeningly countered by the savagery of Pan’s attacks. His throat constricted by Pan’s chokehold, Santa managed to gasp out, “Michael!”

  “Ah,” said Pan, “you'd call upon Hermes, who parades as an angel of the Lord. Well, let him come. He’ll not help you, but fall himself into a trap….”

  Also by Robert Devereaux

  Deadweight

  Walking Wounded

  Santa Steps Out: A Fairy Tale for Grown-Ups

  Caliban and Other Tales

  A Flight of Storks and Angels

  Deadolescence: A Tale of Love and Sacrifice

  SANTA CLAUS

  CONQUERS

  THE HOMOPHOBES

  Copyright © 2008 Robert Devereaux

  ISBN 978-1-60145-538-3

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Booklocker.com, Inc.

  2008

  SANTA CLAUS

  CONQUERS

  THE HOMOPHOBES

  Robert Devereaux

  For Victoria of course

  PART ONE

  Saving Jamie Stratton

  Chapter 1. Immortals Out of Balance

  IT HAD BEEN the best Christmas ever.

  Never had his deliveries gone with greater efficiency, in hovel and manse, by modest sprig or beneath towering Douglas fir. His reindeer, never flagging, sprang straight into the air, every takeoff smooth and belly-tickling, every landing soft and on point. And in each house, the living room air was infused with parental love—at times begrudgingly bestowed, grown-ups being what they were—for the children.

  Headed home at last, Santa sat high in his sleigh and cracked his whip over the glistening backs of his reindeer. Form’s sake only, those whipsmacks, for his team longed for home as much as he did, eager to be led to their stalls for a brisk rubdown, a well-deserved meal of aspen shoots, willow buds, and berries, and a long regenerative rest.

  “Look lively there, Comet, Cupid,” called Santa, casting a kind eye upon them. “Well lit, my lad, well lit,” said he to his lead reindeer. Lucifer’s tail flicked proudly, the branchwork of his antlers glowing lightning-white in all directions.

  As they neared the North Pole, stepdaughter Wendy’s sleigh emerged from a cloudbank on the right. Spirited Galatea of the milk-white fur and beacon-green nose pounded her hooves against the darkness, bringing Wendy even with Santa as they glided in swift tandem through the gathering dawn.

  “Morning, sweetheart,” said Santa, his loving words carrying effortlessly to her ears. “How did the visits go?”

  Wendy hesitated.

  Then her face brightened.

  “They were wonderful,” she said. “The kids woke, as always, a little disoriented and confused. But they quickly came around and hopped on board to join me in flight, asking question after question as Galatea drew us on. Each had at least one talent; several, scads of them. But all were delighted at what I showed them of their future triumphs. One little girl, Bethany Zander from North Spokane, clapped her hands and said, ‘That’s me all right, that’s me all over.’ She'll be a gifted physicist.”

  Santa’s bold round laugh boomed out. “Bethany’s pure gold. She’s got extra stars beside her name on my niceness list.”

  Thus did Wendy unfold the highlights of her hundred visits to good little boys and girls, her words dancing over the crisp jingle of sleighbells.

  Ahead, Santa spied the protective bubble that enclosed their community in the mildest of winters. “Thar she blows, darlin’. Home, sweet home. Magic time, off with you.” Santa’s gesture brought them out of the expandable time that allows millions of visits in a single night, a time used as well by the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny, and the Sandman.

  Fierce floods of snow flew scattershot against his team.

  Galatea lowered her antlers into the storm, her nose’s powerful gleam transforming the flurries into a mad scatter of emeralds.

  When they pierced the protective bubble, the snow turned at once random and feathery. Wendy pointed ahead in wonder. “Look, Daddy. We’re almost home!”

  Their runners brushed the treetops, raising mist-clouds of snow dust behind them as they flew. A swirl of dark dots in the commons resolved into individual elves. Over the mica sheen of the skating pond Santa and Wendy passed, then over the elves’ quarters, the periwinkle-blue stables, and the workshop’s fire-engine red, swiftly eclipsed by the gingerbread house and the cottage where Santa and his family made their home.

  Rachel and Anya waved excitedly from the porch.

  Santa felt such love for them, Anya his mate since their mortal days in Myra, Rachel only newly come into their lives. Though he took much joy in his annual trip around the globe, to be parted so long from his beloved helpmates tempered that joy.

  Santa yielded the lead to Wendy, coming in. One final sweep above his helpers, their shouts rising in fountains of elfin delight, and the runners swept down to kiss the snow and bring them to a smooth stop.

  Swarming in, the elves lifted him and Wendy on a surge of hands. Thrice about they carried them, high above their heads, then wrestled them good-naturedly to the ground and at last brushed them off and delivered them to the fond embraces awaiting them on the porch. This, thought Santa, was surely heaven on earth.

  Yet something nagged.

  Something was out of place.

  Try as he might, he could not fix upon what it might be. He reviewed his deliveries. Everything was in order there, no child overlooked, no gifts switched or omitted.

  What was ever so slightly off?

  Consternation bedeviled him.

  Could Wendy have—?

  But Santa suddenly found himself overwhelmed by visions of his darling children the world over, snug in their beds and being so perfectly behaved it sent wave after wave of giggles rippling through him. How blessed he was in his task of making them happy!

  His momentary upset no more than the shadow of a memory, Santa surrendered to the sea of mirth that surrounded him.

  * * *

  The Tooth Fairy squatted near the twisted cedar at the northern tip of her island, pelted by raindrops the size of dimes. Water fell from her necklace of blood-flecked teeth, struck her belly, and trickled down her thighs.

  Tonight, she had finished her visits early—the eating of teeth, the excreting of coins—and awaited now the return of her sons in their night-black Santa suits, their eyes brimming with lust, their throats disgorging tales of ruffian waifs chased down and gobbled up.

  Taking in the gray horizon and the dull thud of waves, she raged against heaven’s constraints. Try as she might, she could not again cross paths with the miscreant who called himself Santa Claus. Since their affair, broken off eight years before, such path crossings had been strictly forbidden. Nor, in punishment for her misbehavior, could she feel, once inside their bedrooms, the least menace toward the brats whose teeth she claimed. Done and de-coined, outside their bedroom doors, only then was her hatred given free rein. But vile thoughts went no further than the thresholds of those doors, leaving the gap-toothed rug rats untroubled in their sleep.

  Bitter triumph that.

  Zeus had disallowed wicked thoughts toward children on the day he blasted her womb with thunderbolts. A moment later her imps, from Gronk to Chuff, had blatted fat, bloody, and deformed from her charred sex. But the moment Zeus vanished from the sky, she labored to defy his injunction. It h
ad taken years. She had started on the island and gradually pushed the geography outward. Seven years later, her hatred stretched to the outsides of house. Six months more and the boundary had advanced to the bedroom’s exterior. Beyond that, her efforts had failed. It left her choked with fury.

  Then there was the North Pole. Something was shifting up there. She could sense it. Stirring and perturbations in that inbred little community might give her ingress. If she could no longer have the once king of the satyrs sexually, then she would destroy him.

  Pan had once been hers, seduced and ensnared when their paths crossed one Christmas Eve. With each secret tryst in home or hidden hut, he had regained the goatish desire of old and deceived the fir nymph Pitys, who had flesh-doughed into a withered kitchen wench of a wife. Then had come his denial of their lust, followed by his ardor for that Rachel mortal, a tantalizing taste disappearing down the Tooth Fairy’s gullet. She had turned the woman into a giant coin and made her daughter suffer. Then the big blowhard in the sky, Zeus hidden behind white beard and robes, had pressed Pan back inside Santa, de-satyrized the elves, unsexed the Easter Bunny, and plagued her with thirteen stench-ridden brats.

  She had always detested children. But atop the mountain of despised brats crawled the vicious brood Zeus had got upon her.

  A dark blot appeared on the horizon, a faint buzz in her ears. Its pattern of flight belonged to her firstborn, the sleekest of a fat lot, the smartest of her witless bastards. As he took on form, three more blots stained the gray dropcloth of the sky, then nine more.