The Ever-Loving Virgin Prince

My fellow men and women,

As I stepped outside the house Christmas morning, I found quite a surprise. Lying face down in my neighbor’s yard was the bullet-riddled corpse of Santa Claus. You know, this is exactly the kind of thing that happens when you put a nation in hysterics with a level orange threat warning during Christmas. People worried about imminent terrorist attacks tend to shoot first upon hearing the sound of footsteps on their rooftops. I’m guessing that’s what happened to old Santa.

Santa’s body was in pretty sorry shape. Gophers were nibbling on it when I found it, and based on the size of some of the bites, I’d guess the reindeer tried a bite or two as well. Based on the fact he was in my neighborhood, and judging by the rate of decomposition, I’d guess that Santa probably started inhaling lead pellets sometime around 2:10 pacific time. Boys, girls, eunuchs, and hermaphs, those of you that didn’t get your presents from Santa this year, you know who to blame. The culprits are our unelected president and his band of fear-mongers.

Cursing the short-sightedness of the Republican right, and our country’s increasingly third world dictatorship change in nature, I dragged Santa’s stinking carcas inside my house and threw it on ice. He was stiff, pale, and missing significant chunks from his body, but I figured that maybe with some transplants, surgery, cybernetic implants, some fresh blood, and a dip in the regeneration tank, I could get old Saint Nick back up and running. A huge bucket of stem cells never hurts either.

I sent young Bjorgen the servant boy off to gather up parts for the operation. He started to whine in his funny language, something about abominations and not knowing where to go for parts. I handed him the list for the required items and organs and shoved him out the door. It was better that I didn’t know where he got the items from, again, plausible deniability is one of my closest allies.

Bobo the Virgin Chimp busied himself picking his body free of parasitic organisms, and afterwards scrubbed himself clean with soap and water before getting into his O.R. scrubs. I’ve trained Bobo very well in the art of proper medical practice. Bobo looked very professional in his face mask and rubber gloves. I’m sure if you’d seen him, you too would have been overjoyed to see him with a scalpel.

Bjorgen returned with a big bucket filled with parts. Eyes and ears and internal organs, it was like Christmas all over again. I picked up the bloody bucket and dumped the contents all over an ice filled tray as if I was checking through the spoils of a Christmas stocking.

“Oh boy! A spleen!” I cried out as I sifted through the parts. I continued looking through the goods, realizing I only had soft, mushy fleshling parts. To Bjorgen I yelled, “Bjorgen! Where are my hydraulic joints? Where are my microchips and batteries? Where are the parts for Santa’s rocket-boots? Take this $50 dollar bill and get ye to a Radio Shack, or failing that, a Computer Latrine!” And with that, I shoved Bjorgen back out the door.

Upon the young lad’s second return, I was ready to get to work First, I attached Santa’s new arm. It was covered in tattoos and I figured it either must have come from either a Hell’s Angel or one of the Stray Cats. It was large and muscular and it looked strangely out of place attached to Santa’s flabby form. I then got to the task of replacing Santa’s damaged internal organs. Though devoid of bullet-wounds, his liver was sorely in need of replacement, moreso than anything else. Finally, I got to work installing Santa’s new eyes. His new pair came from two donors, my DNA scanner revealed. One from Lisa “Left-Eye” Lopez and the other from Aaliyah.

After installing Santa’s first new eye with a little “T.L.C.” , heh heh heh, I went to install the second eye and noticed it was a dead eye. “Bjorgen, you fool! This eye is worthless! You grabbed the wrong one!” I yelled at my servant boy as I tossed the worthless piece of soft matter at him. It stuck to his forehead with a wet “thud”. It was too late to search for any more parts, I had to finish the surgery, and by damn, if the entertainment industry could keep Keith Richards up and running, then surely I could get Santa back up on his feet. Even if they were propane-fuelled jet-feet.

Improvising, I hollered to Bobo, “Bobo, fetch me the webcam from on top of the computer! Santa’s going to have himself laser-eyes! Your late-night peep shows will have to wait for a few days.”

My faithful ape did as he was told, returning to my side with the spherical camera in hand. After making a few modifications, I installed the electronic eye in his socket, pushing wires through the soft matter of his head and connecting them to a microchip soldered to his brain.

“Ha ha! The laser-eye functions!” I cried out in delight as I removed the frostbitten stumps that Santa had once called feet with my hacksaw. Tightening the bolts on Santa’s new titanium jet-feet, I decided the time had come to reawaken Santa. But first, a brief dip in the rejuvenation tank. After a half hour, I pulled the lever on the tank, dumping Santa on the floor amid a puddle of pink muck.

“Vakey, vakey,” I said in my best German accent as I thrust a live wire into Santa’s chest, singeing his chest-hair and causing Santa to jump up like a man possessed.

“I’m back!” cried Santa, “Ho ho ho! Crush kill destroy!”

“Hmmm… must be a microchip error.” I thought to myself. I couldn’t help but marvel at Santa 2.0 in all his new-found splendor. He was a sight to behold with his glowing red eye and bullet-proof legs.

“Thank goodness I was able to revive you, Santa.” I told the obese cyborg, “I thought for sure you were a goner.”

“Dear Virgin Prince, I thank you for your efforts, but now I must be off. I have a lot of catching up to do. In gratitude, I have placed Christina Aguilera’s phone number in your stocking. Now I must leave to shove a bag of coal in the president’s ass. Hmmm… let’s make that a crude oil enema. Away I go, machine justice to all!”

With that, Santa flew off on his rocket-boots while I ran to the phone and started digging through my socks.

There you have it little ones, The Virgin Prince has saved the day once more. Next Christmas Eve, you can count on Santa flying across the sky once more, led by a familiar red glow, his laser eye. He’ll know when you’re sleeping and when you’re awake, he’ll know if you’ve been bad or good because his new eye can see heat-spectrums, and the dark means nothing to the new Santa. He can still see you. He can still find you.

Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince