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Rated: E · Fiction · Satire · #1911634
A Christmas satiric tale.
From the meridian down, it was to be roasted like a chicken sausage into a pressure cooker, thousand Celsius degrees about.  Or that was the thermal sensation, at least. It always started to itch every single thing on him, especially the gloomiest corners of his body. The clothes was narrowing more and more at every stop and his belly was getting swelled monstrously.  And not that wasn't always swollen, but in the hot the swelling only was getting worse. Besides, there were not even one chimney from you could go inside down.  That didn't make your work easier at all.  The dwellings were small, narrow,  some of them just about to fall down in pieces, and a lot of roofs was plenty of holes and cracks.  The mildest touch of the sleigh would make them collapse and hohoho, merry and last Christmas.
Not even think about magic powders. They always worked better in a proper environment, that is, cool, snowed and white.  But all over those places there wasn't a single snow feather or a cool breeze, not on that time of the year, and the powders used to moisten to such an extent that they tended to fail in the most inconvenient moments.  Not even in the big mansions, equipped with proper and roomy chimneys, he could be sure by those latitudes: a night he had got stuck inside one of them by nearly two hours!  He didn't know in what damned minute he had come up with the idea of extending his perimeter to the rest of the globe, neither that ritual of entering from the roofs and chimneys.  He must have been quite bored that day, or enthusiastic.
That is why he avoided staying a long time by regions like those.  He used to park the sleigh on a slope or a not far hill and then walk down to the most acceptable houses according its weigh and width, leave one or two gifts, and to lead his feet just a little bit down, quick, faster as the heat became unbearable inside of the clothes.  Before the end of the night, he used to put in a hurry his steps in order to get back to the North and refresh himself with a good cold air breath and a drink in the rocks.  Ah.  Better.  And then fell asleep, grateful of the big markets, the consumerist eagerness and the lack of faith, which made less notorious his segregating negligence.
© Copyright 2013 Horacio Lobos Luna (lobosluna at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1911634