Santa Claus Conquers the Third Reich: Prologue

Santa Claus sat, dirty and naked, in the corner of an otherwise dark and empty cell. His sleigh had been gunned down on Christmas Eve, over Auschwitz. A confusion of reindeer corpses, wreckage, shouting in German, presents strewn across the landscape. A sack had been shoved over his head, and he had been taken, by truck, to… here. He was deep underground now. They had shaved off his once-proud beard; only a few straggly white wisps remained. Santa Claus had no sense of time in this dark underground hell, but judging from the amount of yuletime magic still in his veins (sapped every day by Nazi doctors with long syringes), he guessed that it was sometime in March, maybe April.

Muffled arguing, in German, on the other side of a heavy iron door. A slot along the bottom slid open and a bowl, scant drippings of gruel inside, was shoved through. Not just gruel; runny mush barely fit for a dog. Santa had consumed untold meals of the stuff since being incarcerated. Weakly — he could scarcely move — he crawled to the bowl, hungrily lapped up the stuff inside, even licked it clean like an animal. His milk-and-cookie days were long behind him. He threw the bowl aside and crawled back into his corner, head drooping. It was almost pitch-dark inside the cell, the only light a sliver of illumination along the bottom of the door, but Santa did not mind. Santa liked the dark.

An untold period of time passed after the meal. Santa drifted in and out of consciousness. He struggled to stay above. A faint fire burned inside him; it would have to be soon. There was just enough Christmas magic still in his veins. If only… the door opened. One of the Nazi doctors, syringe in hand, glinting in the flood of light, white lab coat flowing, entered, accompanied by a guard. Santa squinted, struggling to make out the general features of the silhouettes approaching. The guard clutched a lethal-looking submachine gun in both hands. The doctor… the nervous one, younger than the rest. Yes. He would work. A glimmer of hope rose in Santa’s soul. He sat very still.

“Herr Santa,” the doctor spoke in good English, “it’s that time again, Herr Santa.” The guard grunted in German. Santa eyed the approaching human form. “Oh, Herr Santa, you wouldn’t believe the things we’ve been able to do with your… generous donations. The kind of power…” He giggled nervously. The doctor crouched down over Santa and grabbed his arm. “Now, I know you’re too weak to move…” he trailed. He tied a piece of tubing around Santa’s arm, preparing to draw blood. Their faces were very close.

Now. Now was the time. Santa inhaled deeply. This man would work. He suddenly leaned in, and intoned in a deep voice:

“Do you believe in Santa Claus?”

The young Nazi doctor stared. His eyes widened, glimmered for a fraction of second, and his mouth fell open. “Herr Santa…” he nervously sputtered.

But it was enough. He believed. Santa exhaled mightily from his nose. This was it. The smallest surge in Christmas spirit, combined with what final reserves of elfin magic he now summoned, was enough. Enough for his final stand. Santa’s arms bulged, and the tubing around his arm snapped. Swiftly, he snatched the syringe from the doctor’s hand, grabbed him, and sprang with frightening speed to his feet, swiveling the doctor around. The guard screamed in anger at Santa, pointing his weapon. The doctor shrieked. Santa plunged the syringe into his neck, pressing hard on the plunger.

Immediately, the guard opened fire. Using the doctor as a human shield, Santa shouted and rushed forward, pushing the doctor with immense strength into the guard, toppling him. His weapon clattered to the floor. Santa stooped and grabbed it. Outside, shouts in German, a pair of footsteps running down the hall. Santa stood, gun ready. Two soldiers appeared in the doorway, brandishing pistols. “Mein Leben!” one of the them shouted. But Santa was too quick.

“Christmas came early, bitch,” he spat, and squeezed the trigger. A spray of bullets flew out of the barrel of the gun, saturating the guards. They jerked and twitched with each fresh bullet, and finally crumpled to the ground. Pools of blood, bright red, collected everywhere along the polished blue of the stone floor. The gun in Santa’s hands clicked emptily. He released the trigger, discarded the weapon, and slumped. He was weak now. He limped over to the guards, picked up a pistol in both hands. This was it. He had only his wits to help him now. He staggered into the bright corridor…