You shall certainly find this letter a bit different from the ones you are used to receive, especially at this time of the year. I know you are busy trying to cope with billions of missives from every corner of the Earth, and I am afraid you will be absolutely concerned about the last shipment of toys not showing up in time from Shanghai.
Nonetheless, Santa, you must concur there is no more appropriate occasion to obtain your complete attention. I am not writing to you to request a gift, a benefit, or any other type of advantage you can bestow me. For I own everything possible, everything that has been, is, and will be. I am bespeaking neither for your visit nor for your – rather unappealing – manifestation.
No, you chubby individual, full of silly laughter and ill wind, I will not beg you, nor will I bow in front of you as the lowliest of worms. I am used at bending the will of the deliberate, at subjugating the weak, and tainting the strong. I was here long before you were just a tiny mote of recondite hope; a fragment of humanity’s goodwill.
This is not a letter of praise, or of unabashed adoration. This is a letter of hate and insanity, of blood and mayhem. For I hate you from the deepest recesses of my black undying heart. I am a sense of monstrous guilt amidst the lands of Man; I am the chill wind out of the abysses between the stars that make everyone shiver in dark and lonely places. I am the screams of the lunatics and the light in the alchemist’s study.
And you, pathetic pantomime out of the memories of a long deceased mortal saint, recast as an idol by a conglomerate industrial giant built on soda and carbonated water, symbol of a power you do not comprehend, you, my dear Santa, are nothing less than a tiny flame in the blazing sun.
I was the one who made Troy fall. I was the builder of Stygia, and, subsequently, of Khem. Egypt writhed under my feet, and Rome reveled in orgiastic bacchanals under my rule. I was the Black Wind who swept out of darkest Africa in dreams of smothered freedom, and the Veiled Woman for whom Chinese dynasties fought. I was the Black Man in Salem, and the Horned Man in Camden. I whispered dreams of glory in Adolph Hitler’s ear, those same dreams turning into living nightmares for millions.
I am the Beginning, the Now, and the End.
And you are just the pitiable smile on a children’s mouth. I offer the Adult unreachable chimeras, while you bestow upon the Young the simple wish of a plastic toy. The Elder comes to me questing for escape from the sorrow of impending death. You offer hope of growth and unthinking cheerfulness.
All humans are doomed to their ultimate undone, but to an infant there is not such a thing a doom. And till there will be children playing, wishing for presents in exchange of good deeds … my reign will never be complete.
For this, I hate you in all my being.
Nyarlathotep
15
Dear Santa,
I have been good. In fact, that is my problem. I was always the “good” boy. While all my kin were causing problems and creating absolute chaos, I was good. What did it get me? Second billing and a life of being mostly ignored, that’s what.
While they were all at the movies eating snacks and singing along with Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, I was stuffed in a backpack. I got beat up, pinched, poked, and thrown down a garbage chute. Not to mention the fact that I NEVER get to enjoy a late night snack.
Well I am sick of it, Santa. So here is what I want. I want a bucket of chicken and a pint of double-chocolate ice cream. Sure, I won’t be cute and cuddly anymore…but you’ll still have those useless Ewoks if you need some sort of marketable fur ball.
And don’t take this as a threat or anything…but if you don’t come up with the goods…I will be making a trip to your little workshop. You think I need a swimming pool or a bathtub to pop out a few minions? What do you think the North Pole is made of, fat boy? And then I will raid that little candy cane farm at 12:01.
The choice is yours. We can do this nice, or it can get nasty.