Rangifer Santacus

Santa’s reindeer are thought to be a subspecies of the genus Rangifer. How and why this particular subset became genetically different from their free-range cousins is the focus of many scholarly tomes. What is known is that, imbued with magical powers involving flight (and in rare cases, a nose capable of bio-luminescence), they have found a safe haven with an enigmatic fat man who lives in an undisclosed location in the north. That he’s poker buddies with the Generalissimo comes as no surprise to anyone.

According to Wikipedia, the domestic reindeer, commonly seen in Scandinavia, Russia, and Iceland, are known to eat moss, leaves, and grasses, but from time to time are capable of digesting lemmings, eggs, and mushrooms. Females range from 130-370 pounds, and males from 220-700. At a height of nearly six feet (and in some cases more), reindeer have been domesticated for centuries, yielding milk, meat, and hides for clothing. Some have even been used for transportation, though Santa’s herd seems to be one of the few bred specifically for this purpose.

Santa’s current herd is descended from a group of eight reindeer found left on his doorstep in 1823. They spend most of their year in the lap of luxury, dining on fine baked goods and imported tequila. Santa lent us two of his more reliable off-season mounts, a sixty-year-old female named Montezuma’s Revenge and a much older bull named Rudy.


Generalissimo: Come, my comrade in arms! We ride! Literally!

Walter Thurman: Ah, crap.

(The author steps up to the female, named Montezuma's Revenge. She's much taller than her species should be, owing to her extended lifespan and her diet of caviar, Pop Rocks, and anabolic steroids. She's been saddled by one of the caretakers, a small man named Egg whose command of English -- any other language for that matter -- seems to be minimal.)

GEN: Get on!

WT: (Struggling to get his foot in the stirrup) I'm trying.

GEN: We are burning daylight! And cab fare!

WT: Huh?

(The author gets in the saddle, only to remember why he hasn't ridden a horse sine the disastrous High-ho Silver Incident of 1987.)

GEN: Let's ride! Heeee-ahhhhh! (The Generalissimo and Rudy blast off into the night, a trail of yellow fairy dust in their wake.)

WT: Okay...Let's go, Montezuma. (Nothing.) Do I have to use your full name? (Nothing.) Dammit, Monty, let's go!

(Montezuma's Revenge snorts, farts, then leaps into the sky. The author grapples with the reins, nearly tumbling backward onto the hard pack snow. Within seconds, they have caught up to the Generalissimo and Rudy, who are doing loops high above Anchorage.)

GEN: Let us play follow the leader! I'll go first!

WT: Please, no.

GEN: You are pulling too hard on the reins! She requires a gentle touch, like a lover! It really is much easier with your eyes open!

WT: (Mumbles something that the tape doesn't catch.)

GEN: Left! Right! Left again! Up! Down! Shake it all about!

WT: (Gurgling sound on tape.) Where's that damn bag...

GEN: You are looking a little green, my young friend! You forgot to take your pill!

WT: I took four of them.

GEN: Quiet! Look! Below! A felony in progress!

WT: Where?

GEN: There!

WT: Those are kids playing in the snow.

GEN: They are fighting a great battle! We must assist them in this, their time of need!

WT: It's a snowball fight. Didn't you ever have a snowball fight when you were a kid?

GEN: Quickly! That one side is losing!

WT: They're kids you nimrod!

GEN: Yeeeee-ha!

Two hours later, after posting bail...

WT: You owe me five grand.

GEN: I'm good for it!

WT: That's on top of the ten grand you owe me from the last time.

GEN: Speak to payroll!

WT: Where are the reindeer?

GEN: Impounded!

WT: Impounded?

GEN: Indeed!

WT: Santa's gonna kill us.

GEN: Not if he doesn't find out!

WT: Uh, doesn't he know who's been naughty and nice?

GEN: Urban legend! He receives regular updates from the world's parents, and of course, the CIA!

WT: The CIA sends Santa updates?

GEN: Of course!

WT: Let's just get the reindeer and go back.

GEN: Indubitably! Come! The North Pole awaits! Ha-ha! And a Merry Christmas to all, and to all, a good night!

1996 Volvo 850R wagon

I tossed him the keys. Looking back, this was a mistake. In fact, pretty much everything about this was a mistake.

“Get in!” the Generalissimo cried. I did as instructed. I vaguely remembered my last test drive with him, which meant I had my seat belt on before I even shut my door.

We’d decided to do the first few tests in cars we had easy access to. The first, obviously, was the Generalissimo’s Lamborghini LM002. The second was in my car, a 1996 Volvo 850R wagon. She had 72,000 miles on the clock and I’d just gotten her back from the dealer after two grand in engine mounts, struts, and sway bar installation. On the upside, she was driving like a dream. Then I gave a crazy man my keys.

He had on his dress uniform, the green one with all the shiny buttons and ribbons and the gold braids hanging from the epaulets. He looked like something out of a bad eighties movie, ready to conquer a neighboring country. He cranked up the Volvo. The turbocharged five cylinder engine wasn’t as smooth as you might expect. Less of a kitten’s purr and more of an adult cat trying to purr while you’re standing on it. Not that I’ve done this before. Not that they can prove.

“Hold on!” he said. He put the gear selector in Drive and dropped the e-brake. I closed my eyes and said a prayer. Not sure if the Big Guy was listening.

The front wheels clawed at the asphalt. The screeching scared a man out walking his dog. I waved. He dove behind a tree. I think we had a real connection.

I bought the Volvo to replace our previous Volvo wagon, which was destroyed in an accident not long after we moved to town. Its carrying capacity in volume is quite high, but in weight is quite low, owing to its sport suspension and lowered stance. The handling is nimble if a little disconnected at anything under twenty miles an hour. Above that, and it comes into its element.

“Gate! Open!” he yelled.

“It’s not voice activated!” I said.

He slammed on the brakes. Very good brakes, even if the rear rotors were warped.

“I must have a word with your building superintendant! How can one dash away to fight villainy if the gate does not open on command?!”

“I don’t spend much time fighting villainy.”

“No!”

“Yes.”

“Come! Let us commence!” He bashed the throttle into the floor. The tires spun and we bounced out of the driveway, narrowly missing an oncoming municipal bus.

“Please don’t kill me please don’t kill me please don’t kill me—”

“I would never injure you intentionally! How is your concussion?!”

“Fine.”

“I salute your healing powers!” He let go of the wheel and tried to salute me. I grabbed the wheel as we went around a curve. The sign said it was a twenty-five zone. A quick glance at the speedometer told me we were well over twice that. But the wagon held on. Its understeer was excessive, but so was our speed. We ended up in the opposing lanes, slipping and sliding like we’d gone dancing on black ice.

“I must insist on doing my own test drive, if you do not mind! But I salute your enthusiasm!” He saluted, again. Thank God we were on a straight section of road.

I liked my car. It was not the fastest, nor was it the prettiest. The red paint was fading in spots from being parked outside, and the interior was starting to smell. The Alcantara in the seats has lost some of its fluff, one of the headlights was cracked, and my fuel gauge was off by about two gallons, but it was mine. Well, it was.

We ended up in the valley, cruising at ninety in a school zone. It was a Sunday, but still. He passed cars on the right and the left, even on twisting two lane roads. He didn’t say much until we reached out designated turn around point. He pulled to the side and parked.

“Your conveyance is to be applauded. While not a wagon man myself, I understand the allure. It would be, if you chose, a fine vehicle in which to fight crime and deliver justice. I give it four mustaches.”

“Four mustaches?”

“Indeed!” He was back to yelling.

“Out of how many?”

“As many as necessary!”

He spun the wheel and got us back on the road. He got us up to some excessive amount of speed, then his cell pone rang.

“Hello! You have reached the Generalissimo! Please state your business in ten words or less!”

Even over the roar of the engine I could hear the other person. It was his counterpart, the Generalissima.

“Greetings, my love!” she said.

“My pet!”

“How goes your adventure!?”

“Swimmingly!”

“I have begun preparations for our nourishment!”

“Outstanding! Twenty steps!”

“Steps?” I ventured.

He put his hand over the phone. “Her work on dinner has put her twenty steps ahead of me. Would you like to say hello?” He held out the phone.

I looked up. “Tree!”

“You could have simply said no!” he said.

Bang.

As the smoke cleared and I regained my bearings, I felt my upper lip. The blood was mine. So was the headache.

“Well!” he said. “The airbags work!” He looked like a million bucks. Not so much as a scratch on him. I couldn’t say the same thing for the car.

I liked that car.

Lamborghini LM002

Welcome to the Generalissimo’s first post. Please, whatever you do, no flash photography.

GEN: Welcome!

WGT: Thanks, I think.

GEN: Safety first!

WGT: (I click my seatbelt) Tell me a little about your car.

GEN: This is a 1991 Lamborghini LM002! I rescued her from a tragic fate at the hands of an evil oil tycoon! He made the classic mistake of giving her to me! Fool!

WGT: Um, okay. What I meant was—

GEN: Hold on! We ride! Ha ha!

WGT: (author crosses himself) Oh sweet Jesus.

GEN: I did not realize you were Catholic!

WGT: I’m not.

GEN: I salute your willingness to remain open-minded!

WGT: (author grabs the wheel as the Generalissimo actually salutes) GAAAAHHHH!

GEN: That’s the spirit! (He retakes control of the vehicle) I find aggressive driving to be one of life’s great joys!

WGT: That’s a bicyclist!

GEN: Indeed! He should be more careful!

WGT: You were in his lane.

GEN: Or was he in mine! We may never know!

WGT: He was going the other direction.

GEN: Look! A rapscallion!

WGT: It’s a tow truck.

GEN: He’s stealing that car! We must give chase!

WGT: It’s a tow truck.

GEN: Hold on! We must right that which is about to go wrong!

WGT: GAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!

Twenty minutes later, after the police report has been signed and we are free to go the audio file continues.

GEN: Honest mistake!

WGT: Was not!

GEN: Was too!

WGT: Can we get back to your review?

GEN: Indubitably! The LM is the finest conveyance the world has ever seen!

WGT: How does it drive?

GEN: I’ll show you!

WGT: Please, no...

I have no memory of ending up in the ditch. In fact, I have no memories of the last two days, or my admission to the Emergency Room. All I have are the mp3 files from my voice recorder to tell me the tale. For the next five minutes, all I can make out is whimpering. At one point, someone begins to weep openly. Pretty sure that was me.

GEN: You have survived! I salute your fortitude! (he salutes)

WGT: (pressing the morphine button) Go away.

GEN: Alas, I cannot. You have, my compatriot, performed a great service to this nation. Your willingness to be at my side as I give in to my passion for the automobile honors me. I am, as always, your humble servant.

WGT: (mashing the morphine button) Where’s the nurse?

GEN: I have good news!

WGT: They gave you that MRI I keep begging you to get?

GEN: No! I have secured your release from this facility! If memory serves—

WGT: It won’t.

GEN: We never finished our road test! Come! We ride! Ha ha!

WGT: (gurgling sound)