Santa Claus Conquers the Homophobes by Robert Devereaux Page B

challenging but to bring on the unforeseen. Despite the exceptions of the Easter Bunny’s priapic expunging and various resurrections, there were certain elaborate mosaics it were best not to rework, once the tiles were laid in.
    But this day, the Father was in a giving mood. “If Santa really wants to complexify his life, so be it,” he said.
    The Son, surprised and unsurprised, said, “Good. That’s as it should be.”
    “For me, nothing is impossible.”
    “True, Father.”
    “I’ll throw him this one sop.”
    “He’ll be grateful.”
    “As well he might.” God gazed about in annoyance. “Where’s our bumbler?”
    “I appear.” The archangel Michael bloomed full-blown before the throne, haloed and holy. His look bore, as always, a hint of contrition at having allowed Santa and the Tooth Fairy to cross paths while the Father vacationed nearly three decades before. His Hermes side had been tucked back inside, though not as deep as prudence might dictate.
    They allowed Michael access to Santa’s prayers, the one now unreeling and those that had previously flown to heaven.
    “Here’s your chance,” said the Father, “to get back into my good graces. You have carte blanche. Devise a plan to attack this problem, then implement it. Maintain modesty of purpose, and don’t overreach. Is that clear?”
    Michael said it was. Then he bowed and forelocked and hosanna’d and hallelujah’d his gratitude until God waved that away.
    “But...” said Michael.
    “Go on.”
    “Isn’t fixing all four of them more than is strictly necessary? Why not just the parents? Or one parent?”
    “Do you dare question my will?” God’s robes billowed and grew dark. His eyes flared with righteous fire.
    “Calm yourself, Father. Michael, it’s simply that Santa so loves these mortals, not the child alone, that he wants them all fixed.”
    Michael had gone white and cowering, not daring to speak another word. Had he a bladder, it would have been voided.
    Then the Father gave over all threat. “My Son, in whom I am well pleased, speaks true. We are stopping with these few.”
    Fret fell from the archangel, who vowed every effort—carefully considered this time—to carry out the divine will. He bowed and rose on a wing and a prayer, then dropped intently earthward on his mission.
    “Will he be all right?” wondered the Son.
    God looked askance. “I think we both know the answer to that! ”
     

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter 7. Angelic Bumbler Makes Good
     
     
    MICHAEL WAS BESIDE HIMSELF WITH JOY. The opportunity for any of them to annunciate came but rarely. Why, the number of angelic annunciations all told could be counted on two hands; the ones he had been involved in, on a couple of fingers.
    Moreover, if memory served, this was the first time any of them had annunciated to immortals. The one made by Gabriel to the Divine Mother had occurred during her mortal years, so that didn’t count.
    The Father had simply said, without fanfare, “Go do it, Michael.” Now here he was, hurtling earthward, his wings alternately buckling for a dive and catching astral currents to slow and direct his descent.
    As he approached the earth, there came thundering into his soul mortality’s great mumble and murmur, its hopes and fears, snips of envy and anger, each slothful tomorrow-is-time-enough, lustful I’ll-seduce-her, and greedy that-object-will-surely-complete-me. Mortals were a confused bunch, a riot of weeds punctuated by random lilies and roses, their potential massively wasted except for the few and far between. Such inertia pulled them all in every wrong direction. And too many errant impulses moved makers of critical decisions. The planet’s survival lay in the hands of madmen.
    In one sense, then, naught but cacophony.
    In another, the most complex interweaving of patterns possible.
    The paths of righteousness in heaven were uncluttered by such diabolical chokeweed. Yet its