’Twas the night before Rift-mas…
’Twas the night before Rift-mas, and all through the house,
Not a peripheral was clicking, not even a mouse.
The laptops were laid by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Oculus soon would be there.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While virtual sugar-plums danced in their heads.
And mamma in her Daydream, and I in my Gear,
Had just settled Into the Further for the blood-curdling Insidious VR experience from Emmy-Award winning digital content studio Secret Location.
When deep in VR there arose such a clatter,
I tore off my headset to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Pulled open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the crest of the new-fallen snow,
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When what to my wondering eyes should appear?
But an old wooden sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer.
Could it be true? Were my eyes playing tricks?
Surely St. Oculus wouldn’t travel like this.
His sleigh should be graphite, detailed with chrome.
Not this weather worn wreck standing outside my home.
The only explanation? I was still in VR.
This man an illusion, tech taken too far.
“Hey fat man!” I bellowed, “I know you’re a lie!”
“Your latency’s showing! The jig’s up. Nice try!”
His round face looked up, remarkably rendered.
His features impeccably shaded in Blender.
“All that I’m trying, is to bring you good cheer!
We’ve come from the frosty North Pole to be here!”
His AI was impressive. Was that speech recognition?
His eyes tracked my movement, somehow locked on position.
The Rift SDK made NO mention of this.
I rifled a snowball, that narrowly missed.
“So you’re, like, some kind of AR thing, I take it?
Projection mapped costume? You’re probably naked!
You’ve got some nerve, pushing fake presence on Christmas,
But you can’t fool them all, pal. I work in the business.”
The imposter, it seemed, could tell he was bested.
“You think I’m not REAL?! Well, you got me! You guessed it!
So I’ll do as you wish. You happy? I’m leaving!”
The big man was rattled, his barrel chest heaving.
“But I leave you with this, and please listen closely,
You’re a cynical man, and you’ve offended me grossly.
But as a wise man once said, and you need be reminded:
“Those who don’t believe in magic… will never find it.”
With that the man mounted his noble old sleigh,
And gathered his things to set off on his way.
His voice echoed out as his reindeer took flight,
“Merry Rift-mas, you creep, hope your year’s out of sight.”
Written by Marty Flanagan
