It was Christmas Day, 2010. One year had passed since the expiration of Christmas Cop. He was molested awake by his very own stench. Thick make up collapsed atop his rapidly decaying face. Maggots, worms, and every creature in-between feasted on his body. It was gross, and oh my sweet dear Lord, that unbearable hoobastank®. He tried to cry out, and was greeted with profound silence. This sucked. He tried to move. He was met with the equivalence of silence for motion.
He was relieved that he wasn’t in extreme pain. It defied logic in that good way. He was beyond numb. This must be what gas feels like.
He was in a cheap coffin in a cemetery warehouse with two other crates. Here’s what happened. It was a very cold winter. The cold undiggable ground did not soften until late May. This caused a backlog of bodies to bury. Since no one bothered to visit the grave of Christmas, he was relegated to the land of poor and forgotten corpses.
He was thankful for the darkness. It reminded him of good old days long ago, the only memory of his parents. It was a Christmas day. He was five. His parents were old-school waltzing in the kitchen (not to be confused with new-school waltzing which is euphemism for overly tight corsets, urine, and three to four construction workers) as dinner cooked behind them. Steam covered the windows. Comfort and joy filled Christmas.
Through the years, Christmas lost track of this true meaning of happiness. Instead, he was well versed in abandonment and despair. In particular, he remembered a game they would play. His father had learned it from his grandmother in Smoulderia. It was called Nüstälgia Fahrvergnügen, literally translated, chase, then drive the silhouette away. There were no rules, in the same way water flows or gravity breaks. It was the only time Christmas experienced bliss. Soon after, he forever parted ways with laughter.
Christmas was afraid to cry. He had an intuition that it would be accompanied with excruciating pain.