a very Lapkin Xmas
June 11th: A cave system somewhere in Afghanistan. A man sits tied to a chair. He is badly beaten and there are small pools of blood at his feet. He fades in and out consciousness. There are armed men on either side of him. Somewhere in the distance there is the sound of gunfire. It continues intermittently, each time drawing closer. Finally, the men decide to investigate only to be gunned down a few steps away from the opening to the room.
Nap Lapkin turns the corner, his hands clutching a M4A1 5.56mm Carbine. Across his back is strapped a XM2010 Enhanced Sniper Rifle and at his side is holstered a Beretta M9 .45 caliber pistol. His camouflage fatigues are covered with blood and an assortment of splattered brains and other vital organs.
“There you are, McClellan,” Lap snarls and moves quickly to begin cutting him free.
“Nap...” the man stammers through broken teeth. “I told them. They got it out me. I’m sorry.”
“You fucking pussy,” is all Nap can say before the man blacks out. Napkin scoops him up and begins the long walk back to the cave’s entrance.
December 18th: An elementary school on the outskirts of Williamsburg, Virginia. Nap Lapkin turns the corner, his hands clutching a M4A1 5.56mm Carbine. Across his back is strapped a XM2010 Enhanced Sniper Rifle and at his side is holstered a Beretta M9 .45 caliber pistol.
Since his recent return from space, Nap had been on a killing spree of epic proportions. Wherever he was sent, the bodies piled up. His superiors thought a PR visit might be just what the doctor ordered.
“Hello, kids. My name is Nap Lapkin,” he offers up in a friendly tone as he makes his way to the front of the classroom. “I’m here today to discuss holiday safety.”
Immediately, a boy thrusts his hand skyward. Nap calls on him.
“My dad says we shouldn’t call it ‘holiday’ safety; we should just say Christmas.”
“Oh, does he? Why is that?” inquired Nap.
“Because we have to keep Christ in Christmas. It should be about Him.”
Long pause.
“Oh really? I wonder if your dad knows what a complete moron he is.”
The teacher sitting at her desk in the corner promptly spits the coffee that was until recently about to make its way down her throat back into her cup in an exaggerated manner. Nap suddenly has all the children’s complete attention.
“Billy or Timmy or whatever your name is, are you aware that your boy Jesus wasn’t born on December 25th? Or even in December? Because he wasn’t. If your dad or your priest says he was, they’re either stupid or lying to you. Looking at you, I’d guess it’s both.”
When I inferred that the teacher’s coffee was destined to return to her cup in its entirety, I really meant most of her coffee. Some of it decided against that scheme and instead ventured north into her nasal cavity, preventing her from bringing Nap’s informative observations to an abrupt end and instead causing her to cough and wheeze and roll her eyes inside her skull.
Suddenly, half a dozen small hands rocket upwards, each student eager to bombard Mr. Lapkin with some question or observation. He waves them all off.
“I know what you’re going to ask.” For the next few lines, his voice goes up in pitch in order to mimic the prepubescent children around him. “What about Hanukah? What about Ramadan? What about Kwanzaa?”
The children lean forward, anxious for clarification.
“They are also all 100% horseshit,” Nap offers bluntly.
“Now... back to holiday safety.”
At that moment, a man in a black suit and black sunglasses barrels into the classroom, completely unaware and seemingly oblivious to the educational information that is being imparted. He rushes forward and whispers the following into Nap’s ear: “The North Pole is in play.”
Both exit the room without another word. Thankfully for all involved, Nap has somewhere else to be.
“Satellites picked up what appears to be an explosion at the North Pole. All contact with Santa has been lost. The workshop is dark.”
The message crackles in Nap’s ear as the articulating tracks of his Tucker Sno-Cat moves him through the frozen terrain. He will be at the North Pole soon and he has no idea what to expect. Ever since the extremists had acquired the location of Santa’s secret lair, the government had been warning Ol’ St. Nick about the dangers of allowing his workforce to be infiltrated by Muslim elves, but that jolly bastard wouldn’t listen.
“Ho, ho, ho, that seems a bit racist.”
Nap will be the first in. He was instructed to assess the situation and report back. There are teams of Special Forces approaching the location from every angle to act on his reconnaissance. He was given strict instructions not to engage unless engaged upon.
When he was given that order, everyone in the room paused for a moment and then burst into laughter.
In the distance, he sees a cheery red glow. As he approaches, it becomes apparent that the rosy glow is coming from various buildings on fire.
Let me take a moment to point out that as a writer, it’s difficult to tell a story that involves Nap Lapkin AND is a Xmas story. I will try to throw in “cheery” and “rosy” when I can, but from here on out, I can’t promise you more than that. If you decide to continue reading, it’s on you.
Nap puts the Sno-Cat in park and slips out into the cold night. Strewn across the white landscape are burned corpses of elves. Their festive green outfits soaked in blood and gore. The stench of their carcasses drifts across the new-fallen snow. Nap steps over a tinsel-coated hat only to realize that there is still an elf head occupying it.
He sprints for the largest building in the compound... where the toys are made. The ornate front door is badly damaged and hangs awkwardly from a single remaining hinge. Nap kicks it inward and enters, his hands clutching a M4A1 5.56mm Carbine. Across his back is strapped a XM2010 Enhanced Sniper Rifle and at his side is holstered a Beretta M9 .45 caliber pistol.
His radio again bursts to life. The Night Stalkers have reached the stables.
“You know Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen. Comet and Cupid and Donner and Blitzen?”
“Yes,” comes the reply.
“They’re all dead. Copy.”
Just then, Nap’s world explodes into chaos. He dives behind an overturned bench and narrowly avoids a hail of bullets as towel-headed elves poured forth from a variety of doorways surrounding the main entranceway. His gas operated, air cooled, magazine fed, selective rate, shoulder fired Carbide returns fire and nearly cuts one of his assailants in half as he makes his across the ruined workshop. Muslim gibberish and gunfire fill the air as Nap is finally able to find a short respite by ducking into what he hopes is a large room with many exits.
It’s more of a closet than a room. Devoid of exits, he feels of rush of panic as he realizes he might be trapped. Outside, he hears the group of ignorant Hajjis creeping forward and cutting off any means of escape.
“This is not how I imagined going out,” Nap thought to himself as he reloaded and prepared for his last stand.
What I should have mentioned before is the enormous stained glass window above the doorway depicting that famous Xmas Eve where Rudolph led Santa’s reindeer team through the fog that threatened to cancel Xmas. Easily ten feet across. It’s about to play a big role in the story, so my apologies.
I bring it up now because just as Nap is peeking around the doorway of his closet/room to see how many elves he is going to have to dispatch, the nose on the stained glass Rudolph begins to glow very brightly. Then his whole head and then the whole window.
And then a motorcycle comes crashing through it.
Nap wastes no time in bursting out of his closet/room and using this distraction to his advantage, his M4A1 5.56mm Carbine singing his favorite song. The rider of the motorcycle lands in the middle of a group of elves and spins out wildly. He regains his feet almost instantly and launches himself into the fray wielding only a machete.
When the last elf is cut down, Nap looks the leather-clad stranger up and down, glistening elven intestines coiled around his machete, and says “It can’t be...”
But it is.
“Chance Goodrod?!”
“One and the same, Napkin” says Jeff Goldblum.
When the fireworks die down a bit, Chance saunters up to Nap and casually throws an arm around his shoulder. “I see I arrived at just the right moment.”
Nap laughs and says “I had things under control, Goodrod.”
“No, I mean about all the anti-Muslim sentiments expressed in what otherwise would have been a delightful holiday story.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” says Santa as he walks up to them both. “Hajji? Really, Nap?”
“How did you know I was thinking that?” asked Nap, clearly confused and annoyed. That explained a few “naughty lists.”
“The term Hajji refers to a Muslim person who has successfully completed the Hajj to Mecca. It is a term of respect,” said Chance, trying not to sound like he was lecturing a man with such an infamously short fuse.
“No worries, Nap. All’s well that ends well,” said Santa.
“But all the toys have been destroyed. There will be no gifts under the tree this Christmas.”
“Oh, you’re right about that, Nap. Christmas is definitely fucked this year,” said Santa- his eyes how they twinkled!
“Santa!” exclaimed both Nap and Chance.