A Krampus Country Christmas: Day 11

 

Chapter 11: The Santa Parade Fiasco

(Field Journal — Krampus, Vice Director of Naughty List Enforcement, Northern Hemisphere Division)

There are few insults more profound than being mistaken for your nemesis.

It’s bad enough that I share the same season with him. The same target demographic. The same color palette. But now, through an act of cosmic irony, I’ve been assigned to play him.

Santa Claus.

The red-suited, jolly-faced monopolizer of December. The man who took my branding, my market share, and my entire aesthetic, then turned it into a PR campaign about generosity.

I was the original. I brought discipline and accountability. He brought candy canes and consumerism. Guess who got the television specials and movie deals and catchy song tributes? And don’t get me started on the merchandising.

The morning began innocently enough. I was performing post-bake-off reconnaissance: modestly accepting compliments from locals, maintaining a low profile, only signing two autographs. Mayor Candy Garland approached like a woman on a mission to make my life miserable.

“Nick Kramp!” she chirped. “Just the man I needed!”

I should have run.

“You’ve got the build, the presence, the—oh, what is it—gravitas! We’d be honored if you’d serve as our Santa Claus for the parade!”

I blinked. “You wish me to impersonate him?”

“Not impersonate!” she said, patting my arm. “Embody! Channel! Be the spirit of Christmas for Tinsel Bluff!”

I opened my mouth to object. Then Holly Winters appeared from the cookie booth, smiling that disarming smile.

“Oh, come on, Nick,” she said. “It’ll be fun. You already have the beard.”

I don’t have a beard. I have a mane. There’s a difference.

An hour later, I was sitting in a folding chair behind the community center while a group of giggling teenagers glued cotton to my face.

“Hold still, Mr. Kramp,” one said. “You’re squirming.”

“I am not squirming,” I said, glaring at my reflection. “I am resisting humiliation.”

They ignored me and continued their assault. Red suit. White trim. Belt. Hat. I looked like a rip-off of a Coca-Cola advertisement.

Even my hooves protested the indignity, refusing to fit in the provided boots. I insisted on putting those on in private only after agreeing to perform a subtle glamour just to pass inspection.

When I emerged from the tent, the crowd cheered.

“Santa! Santa!” children shouted, reaching for me.

I’ve never been heckled by so many happy people in my life.

The parade route stretched down Main Street, lined with candy-striped banners and vendors selling cocoa, popcorn, and something called “reindeer nuggets” (which, thankfully, were vegan). I climbed onto the sleigh float, which was mechanically suspect, and poorly balanced.

At my side, Holly climbed aboard as Mrs. Claus for the day, wearing a red scarf and an expression halfway between amusement and pity.

“You’re doing great,” she said. “You’re a good sport.

“I am living a nightmare,” I replied.

“Smile,” she whispered as the float lurched forward.

So, I did. Or tried. The muscles in my face protested the movement. It felt unnatural, like someone was controlling me via remote control. Children ran alongside, shrieking with joy. I waved stiffly, trying not to make eye contact with any of them.

One small boy shouted, “I’ve been so good this year, Santa!”

I nodded. “I’ve seen your file.”

Holly elbowed me. “You’re supposed to say ‘Ho ho ho.’”

“Is that mandatory?”

“Yes.”

I cleared my throat. “Ho. Ho. …Ho.”

A woman in the crowd gasped. “Oh, he’s foreign! How authentic!”

Halfway down the route, things began to unravel.

Deck the Halls & Oates were performing on the float ahead of us, belting out their new original number, “Do They Know It’s Krampusnacht?” Their choreography involved a lot of high kicks and one unfortunate sleigh-bell mishap.

The float’s generator sputtered, lights flickered, and suddenly the entire sound system began to emit an unholy feedback squeal.

Children screamed. Parents panicked. Mayor Garland waved her clipboard like an exorcist.

I saw the problem immediately—faulty wiring. Instinct took over. I leapt from the sleigh, grabbed the exposed wire, and muttered a stabilizing incantation under my breath.

The lights surged back to life. Brighter, steadier, perfect.

And then the snow began to fall.

Not ordinary snow. This was luminous, soft, almost musical as it drifted down, glowing faintly gold. The crowd gasped in delight.

“It’s a Christmas miracle!” someone cried.

I coughed discreetly. “Yes. That’s… precisely what it is.”

When the parade ended, people lined up to shake my hand. Parents thanked me for making the parade so magical for their children, some of who were borderline naughty list members. A woman asked if I could bless her peppermint bark. A child asked me to bring her puppy for Christmas. I wanted to tell her that statistically speaking puppies end up in shelters within a year of being given as a gift but thought better of it.

Holly stood beside me, grinning. “See? You were the perfect Santa.”

“I feel dirty,” I said.

“You made kids happy.”

“Yes,” I said grimly. “That’s the problem.”

She laughed, brushing a stray snowflake from my sleeve. “You’re impossible.”

She looked up at me, eyes warm, thoughtful. “You know, Nick… for a guy who claims to hate Christmas, you’re awfully good at it.”

I didn’t know how to answer that.

So, I just smiled. The real kind this time and said, “It has its moments.”

My new comedic sci-fi novel, Someone Else's Book Club, is available on my website or through Amazon!