Chapter 26 — In which Tiny Peter & the Mouse Girl Discover a Spy in Santa’s Workshop
“I believe in God, the Father Almighty, creator of heaven and earth, and in Jesus Christ, his only Son, our Lord, who was conceived by the Holy Spirit...”
Between the dark giant’s fingers a rosary slowly revolved, bead to bead, and there was a silver crucifix at the apex. For a moment Peter was a little upset that she was only sneaking around to say prayers, but then he remembered the Holy Spirit was bringing the Christmas apocalypse. Every elf here and Santa as well was not a Christian but a disciple of Odin.
“Holy shit,” Peter whispered. “Holy fucking shit!”
“What?” the mouse girl asked.
“She’s a mole!”
“So what? My step-cousin is a mole.”
“No! She’s working for the enemy! She’s a dirty, rotten Christian!”
As the penitent elf, traitor to all things Christmas, communicated telepathically via rosary with the Holy Spirit, the hellfire had a phantasmagoric and ghoulish effect on her silhouette. And her eyes had all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming— dreaming of wishing people ‘happy holidays’ instead of ‘merry Christmas,’ whilst on ‘winter break’ instead of ‘Christmas vacation,’ at the most sacrilege place to be in December— the tropics. Truly an antichrist-mas.
In the wake of her criminal prayers, the logs hissed and spat cinders at her. A dying ember scuttled across the floor like a bowling ball of sparks. Peter watched as the glowing nugget of wood charred the delicate fibers of a Persian rug. Then it erupted into a tongue of flame. Quick as quicksilver Peter rushed out to stomp the fire away— but while putting out an ember may be as easy as gently resting your boot down upon it— it is considerably more difficult while mouse sized. You try extinguishing a soccer ball dipped in napalm. See how difficult it is. Just don’t let your parents know about this experiment.
As he stomped and stomped and lay down to smother it with his body the mouse girl hissed, “Get back here! Get back! What the fuck are you doing?”
He wrestled with the ember until it burned him, then he released it, found it extinguished and himself unhurt. His clothes were charred but in tact, and he triumphantly jumped for joy. Santa’s workshop would not burn down tonight!
But that gleeful moment was interrupted by an ominous shift in the atmosphere. The traitorous whispers had ceased. Something silent and dreadful hung in the air, like a devious girlfriend secretly reading your text messages. When Peter looked up he saw her— the hulking silhouette of the Catholic elf— slowly… so slowly…. twisting her head and gazing down upon mini-Peter.
Her face was all shadow, but her two elven eyes reflected catlike at him. The giant lifted herself into the stratosphere of the room. Now doubled in her terrifying size, she reached behind her back and revealed a great wooden croquet mallet. Her eyes blazed with murderous intent.
“Run! Dumbass! Run!”
Wham! Blammo! Cantankadoo! What thunderous destruction! What an insane frenzy of swings! No knick-knack nor inanimate nutcracker escaped the murderous whirlwind of hammer smashes! Shattered lamps and shards of snuff boxes flew overhead in a hurricane of twinkling knives! Peter zigged— and zagged— and hit the deck— as the deadly instrument whooshed through the air like a fighter jet and slammed down beside him— a croquet mallet the size of the Eiffel tower.
[Royal Road Royal Road Royal Road Royal Road Whypstopher Pippinsticks Royal Road Royal Road Royal Road Royal Road]
Nothing is more deranged and terrifying than a Christian with a blood lust. They believe in the lost commandment: thou shalt not live another day. The Leatherface elf shrieked like the world’s angriest pussy cat, and huffed and puffed in a fit of rage. It was as if she forgot how to breathe.
And elsewhere in the dorms, where the normal elves slept all snug in their beds, the battle of the drawing room could be heard in all its bloody fury. But elves are heavy sleepers, you know. It takes at least a bucket of ice water to wake them from visions of sugar plums dancing in their heads. So they slept on in heavenly peace— snoring adorably with gentle whistle sounds singing from their elven lips.
And the homicidal game of Wack-A-Mouse-Sized-Peter waged on! He dove to safety under an ottoman— but it was flung away like a trailer in the midst of a vengeful tornado! Once again exposed he fled in terror— the terror of being squished into a pancake! The wooden floor which once felt so solid, sprang up and down like a trampoline and sent Peter flying head over ass!
The mouse girl, still undetected, thought she could distract the giant and give Peter time to escape. She expertly scaled the side of a coffee table and discovered a shako’d nutcracker soldier among a bowl of chestnuts. She jumped onto the edge of the bowl and catapulted the nuts onto the floor. They clattered the rolled across the room— a delicious booby trap sure to topple the surefooted psychopath.
One wrong step, and the colossus elf was windmilling her arms crazily and doing the splits, then she crashed down with all the violence and cacophony of an imploding building. Flat on her stupid Christian back she groaned, and Peter escaped towards the door.
The giant turned her attention to the tabletop mouse girl. With rodent-like agility the diminutive girl leapt onto the sofa and squeezed herself down between the cushions, but they were ripped up and flung across the room. The mouse girl dashed down to the floor. The giant stomped after her. Each footfall was an earthquake. Dust erupted from fissures between the floorboards. Peter looked back and saw the mouse girl running left, then right, then left, then right, each time barely escaping a deadly crunch under the giant’s boot. She needed help. Peter looked around for a weapon, a diversion— anything!
The mouse girl, amid her wild scramble, pushing herself to run faster and dive harder, made a fatal error! A single misstep, and she tumbled flat on her face. Helplessly, she rolled over and watched in terror as the shadowy monster lifted her foot. There was no escape. Her little mouse life flashed before her eyes— putting her baby tooth under her pillow for the tooth fairy, the bitter tears when quitting the violin because she was no good, her first kitchen raid with her friends and laughing at the hapless elf that chased after them.
There was still so much she wanted to do! She never learned to speak Occitan! Or went to mouse Paris! Or got married to Leonardo DiCheesio! Like an atom bomb, the boot came crashing down on top of her. But then there was a flash of light, a squeal of motors, and the crunch of poor mouse girl against floor never came. She opened her eyes and found stopped above her the deadly sole, halted atop a remote controlled car— a crazy looking dune-buggy Lamborghini abomination full of LEDs that only a five-year-old boy could think was cool.
“Grab on!” Peter shouted.
Her tiny mouse hand took hold of the toy car, and when the giant lifted her foot, Peter— death gripping the plastic wheel— stomped down on the gas pedal. The car dragged the mouse girl away and crashed into the wall. Unfazed, she took off towards the door on all fours, and Peter followed after. They ran together down the unlit corridor. A burst of wind ripped across the hall as the giant flung the door open. The chase was on.
For every 100 steps they scampered the giant closed the gap with one huge stride. With all the baritone fury of a t-rex the psycho elf roared at the two tiny fugitives. Peter looked back and saw the boots aiming for the mouse girl’s tail, missing by mere millimeters. So he yanked her tail away to safety, much to her shock. And they dove head first into safety of the mouse hole.
On just the other side, Peter saw an enormous eyeball peering back at him, and he nearly screamed at the wobbling gelatin cornea, but instead he scrambled back and out of its horrible sight. The mouse girl and he gasped for air as Olympic sprinters often do after being chased by axe wielding maniacs. Relieved to be alive! Peter’s whole body shivered with fear. They sat together, he and the mouse girl, and waited for the adrenaline to wear off, and their thundering hearts to rest.
The mouse girl turned to him and said, “Hey. My name is Squee.”
“That’s a… name.”
He was going to say ‘That’s a cute name,’ but then he thought, ‘No.’ He searched briefly for a different adjective but couldn’t think of one, so his compliment was left unfinished.
And then Peter’s heart quickened again, because Squee leaned in and kissed him. His first kiss— while conscious. And it was with an adorable mouse girl. Her lips were soft. When she placed her hand on the back of his head some kind of primal instinct within him awakened. How simple it was to upgrade a simple smooch to a deeply romantic mouth massage, just by holding onto his head.
Peter thought this was too good to end, so he stopped for some air and then went back in for more. He didn’t care that he could accurately taste her last meal— it was a kiss! Something that only guys with girlfriends could ever know! A kiss! A kissy kiss! With tongue! And saliva! And faces mashing together! It was so hot! Holy shit! You virgins don’t even know! She sucked the air out of his lungs! He felt her teeth on his tongue! Ordinarily these things are associated with dentistry and not eroticism, but wait until it happens to you! It’s amazing!
Peter hugged Squee close against himself. His face buried into her black hair. Her mouse ear right before his very eyes. What a twist! A hundred and fifty pages in and the story suddenly veered off toward Team Squee! Imagine the angry readers double checking the book title and saying, ‘What the hell? Is Santa not going to be Peter’s girlfriend in this story?’ Love is an unpredictable thing! And to all you dilly-dalliers out there waiting for graduation to let some girl know how you feel: it’s first come first serve.