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The psychiatrists have examined your quirks. It is their opinion that, although you are not particularly dangerous to society, your delusions may nevertheless result in some harm. Why take that chance? They still think you’re Froot Loops. They keep you for further observation, but only as a formality. As one might suspect, the institution you’re in is rigid. It’s nowhere near the stereotype of a mental institution with lax security, where anyone could escape with just a little effort. Anal retentive to the core, they take the maintenance of code quite seriously. In fact, it seems you could hardly escape through any non-magical means.
Presumably understanding this, Jerry Falwell’s voice now rings in your ear. It is a legitimate communication, rather than some newly formed schizophrenia. “What sort of mess are you in now?,” he croaks, his voice almost as fat as his face. You tell him that you screwed up, adding, “But I was received here as a mere crazy person. Before long they will probably transfer me back to the streets, because of budget cutbacks.” “Okay,” Falwell says, “But for Jesus’ sake, you better get out of this without much fuss!” “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” you tell him.
You look at the hospital menu screen, which is bright blue and hard to read. You look at your arms, notice how muscular they’ve become from carrying bags of presents to charity organizations. Then you think of how fascinating your new life is. Points worth considering, no doubt. Still, this is your life?
You wonder who is going over the pages back at the Santa station. Who is updating the Nice and Naughty logs? How are the Elves doing? Have any of them escaped? Also, what about all the unread Santa letters? You wish you were up to speed, and it’s not like you hate all the children in those letters. “Jerry,” you say. “Jerry!” He picks up your signal. “What is it?!” “You know what I was trying to do, right?” “Of course I do!” “Well, I’m not sure you really do.” You cough. “See, I was trying to give Trevor Richards the ol’ Scarlet Letter treatment.” “Yes. And? I suppose you have something against that, do you? You little hack! Need I remind you that this is spiritual warfare! God doesn’t want us screwing up, or sitting around with our thumbs up our bums!” You sit still for a few seconds, until some bottled up resentment uncorks. “Just blow me, Mr. Falwell.”
“Okay,” an orderly says, weirded out by your random word ejaculation. After a few moments, he says, “It’s time for bed.” Your nose is bleeding again, no doubt due to Mr. Falwell, but you hardy notice or care. Neither does the orderly. You think of all the kids who believe the list is real, and wish you could tell them that it really is. You also wish you could travel to India like the Santa Claus myth would have you do. However, in reality you are mostly stationed in one place — one stupid, boring place. You fall asleep before very long. However, you wake up back in your factory house bed, surprised as heck.
Date: January 19, 2017. 9:17 AM. I found packaged in the latest Toy Box one of the cutest stuffed animals! So precious is this toy that I almost dread to give it away! I’m not one who copes properly with such a loss, either. Not anymore, anyway. Tim Ackland might receive this little critter, though. This little, winking puppy is quite impressive. Yes, quite impressive indeed.
You look at this entry with confusion. Are you Santa after all? That sounds exactly like something Santa would write. You look in the mirror.
In other news, there are staffers here for the wall today: Elves put in charge of constructing a bigger, better wall to prevent each other from escaping, from stealing. The walls won’t do much about the occasional stolen toy, but that hardly matters. Let them play with toys during their little breaks, if that’ll keep ’em busy. No, the walls are about a greater piracy that an elf might commit — the outside piracy of souls. Some of these little shits feel compelled to sneak out and do evil, and you can sense it. Falwell calls it “rare,” but insists that it does happen.
(…To be continued, unless I die first…)