Meat Santa
By Jesse McKinnell
Timmy peeked his head out of the curtains separating his shack from the street. The bat, that his father used to combat the packs of wild dogs, clattered to the pavement. Overhead, the first flakes of artificial snow were swirling and piling up with the trash and burnt out cars.
“What’re you doing Timmy? Close the sheet.” His dad pulled him back inside, and picked up the bat. He took a look around the barren street before closing the curtain.
“Dad, it’s snowing.”
“I know. Right on schedule.”
“It’ll be Christmas tomorrow.”
“I know.” He kicked the small projector in the corner and the Christmas tree fluttered back to life.
“I haven’t told Santa what I want yet.”
“He knows.”
“How?”
“He just does.”
“Then why don’t I ever get what I want?”
“Because you have unrealistic expectations.”
“I heard Santa is down at the market, and you can sit on his lap and tell him what presents you want.”
“Oh yeah? Says who?”
“Kids. They talk about it at Education Camp. I’m the only one who hasn’t been already.”
“Is that so?”
Timmy nodded his head, and showed his father the whites of his eyes.
“How much is it?”
“It’s free.”
“Nothing is free.”
“This is. Santa doesn’t need credits. He has elves.”
His father slumped into an ancient recliner and cracked open a can of Contentment. He sipped the foam, and gulped out the first quarter of the liquid. Timmy remained by the door, batting his eyelashes, working himself up to tears.
“Oh, alright. But you better be back before it gets dark. Christmas Eve or no, the dogs will still get you. Understood?”
Timmy clapped his hands and jumped with joy. “Thank you Dad! I promise!”
He bounded out the door, leaving his father to re-hang the curtain, and tore down the street. The pavement was slick with the piling snow and he skidded around a corner towards the mass of tents that made up the market. A few vendors were scattered about, hawking their wares, to the few shoppers who hadn’t already spent all of their weekly credit allotment.
Timmy trained his sights on the red and green tent with its flashing lights. For the first time, since the last of the round-ups, there was no line. He scurried to the entrance and pressed the buzzer to be let in.
A humanoid with pointed ears and luminescent skin peeled back the drape. It smiled. “Are you here to meet Santa?”
Timmy gulped. No one at Education Camp had told him that the Market Santa was an android. He remembered the training from his father.
“Are you meat?”
The android tilted its head. “I am one of Santa’s helpers. Would you like to meet him and tell him what you want for Christmas?”
Timmy had been well-coached on the behavior to watch for. The androids’ programming would not lie, but they would obfuscate and avoid whenever possible. The trick was to be persistent.
“I’m only supposed to talk to people who are meat. Is Santa meat?”
“Come see for yourself.” The elf stepped back and revealed an enormous human shaped mass of white beard and red cheeks, stuffed into a red suit with faux-cotton trim. A stocking cap was pulled down to the tops of its eyes. It sat on a throne, astride a pile of small toys.
“Come! Come! Come in and talk to Santa!” It boomed, eyes glowing with seasonal cheer.
Timmy stepped through the threshold with trepidation, noting when the elf closed the entrance behind him. Santa picked up a holographic bat-ball game and placed it on his lap. The toy twinkled in the light, and Timmy’s pulse quickened at the sight. He approached Santa slowly.
“Come sit on Santa’s lap.”
Without asking, the elf picked Timmy up with one hand and placed him gently on a red clad knee.
“What is your name, little one?”
“Timmy.” His mouth felt dry. He licked his lips, watching as a hologram of Chet Davis smashed a ball through three plate glass windows. Wiring clicked audibly in Santa’s head.
“Timothy Granger, age eight. Father, Tobias Granger, age forty-one. Mother, deceased. Is that right?”
Timmy nodded. “Santa are you meat? I’m only supposed to talk to people who are meat.”
Another synapse click in Santa. “Merry Christmas, Timmy. I have a present for you. Do you like bat-ball?”
Timmy nodded.
“Of course you do. It’s your favorite isn’t it? Have you been naughty or nice this year?”
“Nice.”
Santa boomed out laughter. “I bet you have. But before I give you this present, I want to be sure. Do you go to Education Camp?”
Timmy nodded, and Santa ruffled his hair affectionately.
“Good boy. And like all good boys at Education Camp, have you memorized the list of mortal sins against the State?”
Timmy had in fact, just the week prior, committed the last one to memory. He recited all eight of them to Santa with pride.
“Good boy! You certainly are on the nice list aren’t you.” Santa chuckled. “Now, one last little test to make sure. Has your father, Tobias, committed any crimes against the State?” Santa smiled, and the dimples on its cheeks deepened. Santa held the toy to Timmy, close enough for him to touch it. Chet Davis’ handsome face reflected in his eyes.
“He has, hasn’t he?”
“Are you meat?” Timmy asked timidly, his hands shaking as he reached out for the game.
“You don’t have to say it out loud if you don’t want,” Santa said. “Just whisper it into Santa’s ear, where only Santa can hear. Tell Santa the secret.” It placed the game in Timmy’s lap.
Timmy’s palm sweated as he clutched the little cube. He took a deep breath and …