Robot Santa: The Further Adventures of Santa's Twin by Dean Koontz Page A
Authors: Dean Koontz
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gwizzels, and zocks,
he quickly and silently opens both locks.
He enters the kitchen without a sound.
Now chances for devilment truly abound.
He opens the fridge and eats all the cake,
pondering what sort of mess he can make.
First he pours milk all over the floor,
pickles, pudding, and ketchup-and more!
He scatters the bread-white and rye-
and finally he spits right into the pie.
A t the corkboard by the phone and
stool, he sees drawings the kids did at school.
Emily has painted a kind, smiling face.
Charlotte has drawn elephants in space.
The villain takes out a red felt-tip pen,
taps it , uncaps it , chuckles, and then,
on both pictures, scrawls the word “Poo!”
he always knows the worst things to do.
His mad giggles continue to bubble,
while he gets into far greater trouble.
He’s hugely more evil than he is brave,
so then, after he loads up the microwave
with ten whole pounds of popping corn
(oh, we should rue the day he was born),
he turns and runs right out of the room,
because that old oven is gonna go BOOM!
H e prowls the downstairs-wicked, mean-
looking to cause yet one more bad scene.
When he sees the presents under the tree,
he says, “Time for a gift-swapping spree!
I’ll take out all the really good stuff,
then box up dead fish, cat poop, and fluff.
“In the morning these kiddies will find
coffee grounds, peach pits, orange rinds,
old stones, mud pies, and rotten potatoes,
hairballs, dead fish, and spoiled tomatoes.
Instead of nice sweaters, games, and toys,
they’ll get slimy stinky stuff that annoys.”
Charlotte and Emmy are up in their beds,
dreams of Christmas filling their heads.
Suddenly a sound startles these sleepers.
They sit up in bed and open their peepers.
Nothing should be stirring, not one mouse,
but the girls sense a villain in the house.
You can call it psychic, a hunch, osmosis,
or maybe they smell the troll’s halitosis.
They leap out of bed, forgetting slippers,
two brave and foolhardy little nippers.
“Something’s amiss,” young Emily whispers.
But they can handle it-they’re sisters!
D own in the living room, under the tree,
Santa’s evil twin is chortling with glee.
He’s got a collection of gift replacements
taken from dumps, sewers, and basements.
He replaces a nice watch meant for Lottie
with a nasty gift for a girl who’s naughty,
which is one thing Lottie has never been.
Forgetting her vitamins is her biggest sin.
In place of the watch, he wraps up a clot
of horrid, glistening, greenish toad snot.
From a package for Emily, he steals a doll
and gives her a new gift sure to appall.
It’s slimy, rancid, and starting to fizz.
Not even the villain knows what it is.
The stink could stop a big runaway truck,
it’s such gooey, gluey, woozy-making muck.
I n jammies, slipperless, now on the prowl,
the girls go looking for whatever’s foul.
Right to the top of the stairs they zoom,
making less noise than moths in a tomb.
They’re both so delicate, slim, and petite,
and both of them have such tiny pink feet.
How can these small girls hope to fight
a Santa who’s liable to kick and to bite,
who has a chocolate-cream pie for throwing,
and a fearful ray gun that’s softly glowing?
Are these girls trained in Tae Kwon Do?
No, no, I’m afraid that the answer is no.
Grenades tucked in their jammie pockets?
Lasers implanted inside their eye sockets?
No, no, I’m afraid that the answer is no.
Yet down, down the shadowy stairs they go.
The danger below, they can’t comprehend.
This Santa has gone far round the bend.
He’s meaner than flu, toothaches, blisters.
But they’re tough too-they’re sisters.
I n the front room, at one of the trees
the bad twin of Santa is on his knees,
giggling as he stuffs another gift box
with a few pairs of his smelly old socks.
He snorts and he chortles with evil glee
and mutters, “No one will know it was me.
“They’ll blame my brother, Chris Kringle,
and then next Christmas
he quickly and silently opens both locks.
He enters the kitchen without a sound.
Now chances for devilment truly abound.
He opens the fridge and eats all the cake,
pondering what sort of mess he can make.
First he pours milk all over the floor,
pickles, pudding, and ketchup-and more!
He scatters the bread-white and rye-
and finally he spits right into the pie.
A t the corkboard by the phone and
stool, he sees drawings the kids did at school.
Emily has painted a kind, smiling face.
Charlotte has drawn elephants in space.
The villain takes out a red felt-tip pen,
taps it , uncaps it , chuckles, and then,
on both pictures, scrawls the word “Poo!”
he always knows the worst things to do.
His mad giggles continue to bubble,
while he gets into far greater trouble.
He’s hugely more evil than he is brave,
so then, after he loads up the microwave
with ten whole pounds of popping corn
(oh, we should rue the day he was born),
he turns and runs right out of the room,
because that old oven is gonna go BOOM!
H e prowls the downstairs-wicked, mean-
looking to cause yet one more bad scene.
When he sees the presents under the tree,
he says, “Time for a gift-swapping spree!
I’ll take out all the really good stuff,
then box up dead fish, cat poop, and fluff.
“In the morning these kiddies will find
coffee grounds, peach pits, orange rinds,
old stones, mud pies, and rotten potatoes,
hairballs, dead fish, and spoiled tomatoes.
Instead of nice sweaters, games, and toys,
they’ll get slimy stinky stuff that annoys.”
Charlotte and Emmy are up in their beds,
dreams of Christmas filling their heads.
Suddenly a sound startles these sleepers.
They sit up in bed and open their peepers.
Nothing should be stirring, not one mouse,
but the girls sense a villain in the house.
You can call it psychic, a hunch, osmosis,
or maybe they smell the troll’s halitosis.
They leap out of bed, forgetting slippers,
two brave and foolhardy little nippers.
“Something’s amiss,” young Emily whispers.
But they can handle it-they’re sisters!
D own in the living room, under the tree,
Santa’s evil twin is chortling with glee.
He’s got a collection of gift replacements
taken from dumps, sewers, and basements.
He replaces a nice watch meant for Lottie
with a nasty gift for a girl who’s naughty,
which is one thing Lottie has never been.
Forgetting her vitamins is her biggest sin.
In place of the watch, he wraps up a clot
of horrid, glistening, greenish toad snot.
From a package for Emily, he steals a doll
and gives her a new gift sure to appall.
It’s slimy, rancid, and starting to fizz.
Not even the villain knows what it is.
The stink could stop a big runaway truck,
it’s such gooey, gluey, woozy-making muck.
I n jammies, slipperless, now on the prowl,
the girls go looking for whatever’s foul.
Right to the top of the stairs they zoom,
making less noise than moths in a tomb.
They’re both so delicate, slim, and petite,
and both of them have such tiny pink feet.
How can these small girls hope to fight
a Santa who’s liable to kick and to bite,
who has a chocolate-cream pie for throwing,
and a fearful ray gun that’s softly glowing?
Are these girls trained in Tae Kwon Do?
No, no, I’m afraid that the answer is no.
Grenades tucked in their jammie pockets?
Lasers implanted inside their eye sockets?
No, no, I’m afraid that the answer is no.
Yet down, down the shadowy stairs they go.
The danger below, they can’t comprehend.
This Santa has gone far round the bend.
He’s meaner than flu, toothaches, blisters.
But they’re tough too-they’re sisters.
I n the front room, at one of the trees
the bad twin of Santa is on his knees,
giggling as he stuffs another gift box
with a few pairs of his smelly old socks.
He snorts and he chortles with evil glee
and mutters, “No one will know it was me.
“They’ll blame my brother, Chris Kringle,
and then next Christmas
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