Sure, it has been a while, but I've been getting loaded with homework, I have drama club almost everyday, and I just got a Wii yesterday. Yes, it's been hectic in my life. And in the past week, I haven't done much. This bit of the novel, which took me a week to do, normally should've taken two days, but it's just as good. Check out Santa's savior. Who? None other than... Never mind, you figure it out.
Channel Four
“We now bring you back to the eleven ‘o’ clock news with Richard Flemming. Richard?”
“Thanks, Kate. You’re such a doll. Wait, where is my cappuccino with that teensy bit of French vanilla flavor on the top? Huh? What do I pay you for, Kate? Do I work for you? No, I don’t! And if you expect me to…”
“You’re cappuccino with that teensy bit of French vanilla on top is on your desk, sir.”
“Boring,” sighed an elderly woman, watching television in her home.
Her husband had been on vacation for almost two days now, and it was lonely without him. He was so – oh what’s the word – jolly, that’s it.
However, to pass time and keep her mind off of her husband, she watched hours of television. She had never watched much TV, but figured they had one and she needed to catch up on current events anyway.
At first, she was baffled of the reason why she couldn’t attend her companion’s vacation. She was told by her husband that he’d be inviting a friend and that they wanted a boy’s night out. Unfortunately, it had been almost two nights since their return and she hadn’t received any phone calls.
It didn’t stop there, either.
She was heavily against drinking and her husband was intoxicated in Las Vegas. If that’s not enough, on vacation, they were robbed by local gangsters.
The woman changed the channel.
Channel Five
“Hello, I’m Opal Carefree!”
“And I’m bored,” grunted the aged woman, and with that, changed the channel once again.
Channel Forty-One
‘In a perilous time, many have fears, many taste fears, and many have pancreas pain. But one man decides to take a risk and charge head-on into these uncertainties. It’s the next sensational action-adventure film about a hero we all know and love, except this time, there’s a twist.’
“Oh my gosh,” said a man in disgust, with a slightly feminine voice. “Is that a yellow top with brown jeans? Eww! And you know that yellow shirt looks like a moldy lemon?”
‘Ricardo Simone is…’
“Don’t eat that French fry! You’ll get fat.”
‘…Indiana Germs.’
“It’s time to face the Diabolic Dust Bunny, but first I need to put on my Microbe-Protection Suit!”
The old woman shook her head. “People these days: they take something great and make it horrible.” She changed the channel back to the Eleven ‘o’ Clock News.
Channel Four…again
Richard Flemming had his arms neatly on his desk, as well as his cappuccino with the teensy bit of French vanilla on the top. It was in a coffee mug that said #1 Anchor.
“In other news,” he started, “people have reported seeing Santa Claus as well as Rudolph staggering in the Las Vegas streets.” He began laughing as he was talking. “This just in, they’re on the freeway right now trying to get a ride to the North Pole. I’m sorry, but who wrote this stuff; it’s preposterous!”
The older woman was glued into the television.
Richard began to calm down. “We have Michael Cropper in Vegas to give us more details on this strange happening.” He put his headphones on. “Michael?”
Michael picked up the transmission in Las Vegas and responded, “Hey Rich.”
“So have you seen any traces of Santa or Rudolph tonight?”
“Yes, I have. They’ve been walking across the streets, asking people for a ride to the North Pole because they were robbed of their sleigh apparently. They said gang members took it, however, they refuse to give any names and…”
The elderly woman suddenly stood up and turned off the TV. “I have to go save my husband.” She was Mrs. Claus.
Five minutes later…
“Well, first I had a drink of egg nog and I fixed up a delicious batch of lemon squares, but now I’m ready to save my husband! But I’ll need help.” She scratched her chin. “I know! I’ll call the people in my book club; they always have great ideas.”
Another five minutes later…
“Beatrice, sweetie, it’s not that I don’t care about your comments on ‘The Van Gogh Code,’ it’s just that I’m just a little anxious. My husband is stranded in the city and… Yes, I know the author put too many similes in the novel, dear, but… I know he cut of his own ear and almost bled to death, but I need your assistance in rescuing my husband.” She listened to her book club friend blabber on. “Oh, you’re interested?”
Soon she was phoning all of her fellow book club members, and practically all of them decided to facilitate. Mrs. Claus deduced the best way to get together was a meeting at her home.
The book club associates were almost entirely elves, which makes sense because not many humans would go freeze in the North Pole just to participate in a book club. The others remaining were Eskimos.
And just coming from me to you, Santa hates the bitter cold. He and his wife always put their heater on, actually.
The pleasant old woman had a strict code of setting out food before having any get-togethers. She placed a gigantic bottle of egg nog on a small coffee table in her sitting room, as well as the lemon squares she’d baked. She also made sure that her home, let alone the singular room, was spotless.
Soon enough the guests had arrived. After getting situated, after everyone sat down, Mrs. Claus began. “Have any of you watched the news recently?”
“Yes,” they all responded.
“However,” Cyndra, a fussy British elf started, “their lack of prepositional phrases concerns me.”
Another elf looked confused. “No, you got it all wrong. It’s not descriptive enough, that’s the problem.”
“I believe their extended use of conjunctions is very pitiful,” explained an Eskimo.
Soon the three began to shout at one another, and one elf even threatened to take this misunderstanding outside. Just as the Eskimo was about to hit one of the elves on the side of the head with its coat sleeve, Mrs. Claus screamed.
Everyone remained silent and dormant. In the hushed air, one woman hesitantly reached out her arm to snatch a lemon square. But her arm was immediately slapped.
“Gladys that hurt more than getting stabbed by the tip of a porcupine’s prickly back,” she said quietly.
“That was a poor metaphor,” she whispered back.
Mrs. Claus cleared her throat and raised her voice. “Everybody, be quiet!” she exclaimed, panting. Her audience was silent and at the point where they were petrified to move. Soon after, however, the elderly woman snatched an inhaler that she kept in her pocket at times in case of emergencies. She deafeningly sucked in oxygen.
This definitely took away effect from her brutal words because her many of her book club friends were forcing themselves not to laugh.
“They should put this in a novel,” said Beatrice. “It would really add humor and hilarity to it.”
Cyndra shook her head. “I say the gag is tad clichéd. Said person yelling at said person is not very preposterous. It sounds like that of something a thirteen year old would find silly. Though, I find it quite pointless.”
Mrs. Claus scampered out of the room in disdain.
Beatrice held up “The Van Gogh Code”. “I brought this in case anybody wanted to discuss it. I always keep a spare with me.”
Before anyone could answer, Claus reentered the room pulling in a gigantic white board. On it, in blue marker, were drawings no one could quite identify. She also carried a small pointer stick and smacked it on the board. “We leave at midnight."
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