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Festive Fun


by day Stuart Orford by night Dark Lord's scribe
Mar 22, 2012
Mercia, UK
As the title suggests. Just for fun, pick a festive short story, poem or carol and mess about with it to add your own peculiar flavour. I'll start off with my version of 'Twas the night before Christmas' (if you want to use this festive fave the go ahead).

If I don't say it nearer the date... happy holidays to one and all.

The Dark Lord and Minion's Christmas Adventure

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all thro’ the blockhouse,
All the creatures were stirring, even a damned mouse;
The traps were set by all the entrances with care,
In the hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there;
The goblins were hidden beneath rancid straw beds,
While visions of cruel weapons danc’d in their ugly heads,
And Minion in his cowl, and I in my steel cap,
Were selecting our weapons in readiness for a scrap—
When out in the courtyard there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my dread bed to spy what was the matter.
Away to my dark portal I flew like a flash,
Chanted the spell and threw up some bone ash.
In the portal the moon shone bright on fresh fallen snow,
Giving a horrible lustre of midday to objects in show,
When, what to my red raw eyes should appear,
But an armoured sleigh and eight war reindeer,
With an ominous driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it was the deadly St Nick.
More rapid than vipers his coursers they came,
And he gibbered and cackled, and screamed them by name:
"Now! Crasher, now! Chancer, now! Trancer and Fixin,
"On! Ramit, on! Stupid, on! Blunder and Blitzen;
“To the top of the tower! Across the wide wall!
“Smash away! Smash away! Smash away all!”
As sheets of flayed skin that before the wild hurricane fly,
When torn from the wall and mount to the sky;
So up to the keep top the coursers they flew,
With a sleigh full of weapons — and mad St Nicholas too.
And then in an instant, I heard on the roof,
The prancing and pawing of each iron spiked hoof.
As I dispelled the dark portal, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dress’d in scraps of fur, almost naked from his head to his foot,
And those few bits all tarnish’d with dried blood and soot;
A veritable armoury was hung on his back,
He was the stereotypical barbarian, a right maniac.
His eyes — how they narrowed! His scars: how menacing,
His ears like battered cabbages, his nose twitched a reckoning;
His frostbitten lips were drawn back in a scowl,
Warping the tattoo of a skull that adorned his right jowl;
The blade of a dagger he held tight in his teeth,
The pommel of which in the shape of a funeral wreath.
He had a weather worn face, and a muscled belly,
His aroma though was quite off, indeed, very smelly.
He was tall and solid, a right hardened nut,
We were ready though to kick his barbarian butt.
A twitch of his eye and a crick of his neck,
This wouldn’t be some dance in a discotheque.
With a guttural growl he went straight to his work,
Lashing out with a horrid hammer and a deadly dirk.
The Minion swung a blow that took off his nose,
Whilst I chopped low and sliced off a few toes.
He sprung back to the chimney with a piercing scream,
But fell afoul of Norman the Troll with his two-by-four beam;
We heard his exclaim ere he fell outright,
“Cursed Christmas to you all, and to all, a damned night!”
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