| \
                                  |  \
                                  | | \
                           __     | |\ \             __
     _____________       _/_/     | | \ \          _/_/     _____________
    |  ___________     _/_/       | |  \ \       _/_/       ___________  |
    | |              _/_/_____    | |   > >    _/_/_____               | |
    | |             /________/    | |  / /    /________/               | |
    | |                           | | / /                              | |
    | |                           | |/ /                               | |
    | |                           | | /                                | |
    | |                           |  /                                 | |
    | |                           |_/                                  | |
    | |                                                                | |
    | |      c   o   m   m   u   n   i   c   a   t   i   o   n   s     | |
    | |________________________________________________________________| |

 ...presents...     My Life as Santa's Rubber-Clad Love Slave
                                                        by Scott Christensen

           __//////\   -cDc- CULT OF THE DEAD COW -cDc-   /\\\\\\__
 Est. 1984   \\\\\\/  cDc paramedia: text #377-12/15/2000 \//////   Est. 1984

    __    _   _    __     _   _    __       _   _      __    _   _      __

                                In The Beginning

     The other elves and I used to speculate about what went wrong with Santa
Claus.  Jolly Ol' St. Nick must have spent one too many years staring at the
blinding snow or living through those long interminable stretches of night
and day that you get at the North Pole.  Whatever it was that drove him over
the edge, nothing could have been so horrible as to prompt the depravity he
eventually exhibited.

     The first time we saw an indication of the madness was when Santa told
us we would be getting new work clothes.  We were excited because we had been
laboring in the same clothes for maybe one or two hundred years.  When the
giant crates arrived, all the elves gathered in the main workshop.  Santa
opened the crates with a crowbar and out spilled all manner of, what I later
learned was, S&M/B&D clothing.  Rubber outfits with strategic areas cut out.
Leather chaps and underwear.  Things with chains on them.  Masks with
zippered mouth openings.  We gaped in shock then laughed nervously.  Santa
rarely made jokes but what else could this be?

     He spoke at length about how hard we worked and how he wanted to reward
us.  He claimed that we would be much more comfortable and these clothes
would be "less constricting."  I did not know what to think.  Santa had been
a father and a mentor to all the elves.  Our lives at the North Pole, pract-
ically living in that famed workshop, were rather sheltered.  Santa had
never led us astray so if he said that this is what we should be wearing we
could not think but to go along with him.

     The subsequent few weeks were awkward and embarrassing but we elves are
a malleable people.  We soon acclimated to the new clothing and resumed our
toy making.  With the shop better heated, I even grew to enjoy the feel of
leather and rubber against my skin.

     About six months after the new "uniforms," Santa began to discipline the
elves much more harshly than he had in the past.  First it was a vicious
verbal berating whenever we did something wrong... and Santa always found
something wrong.  These were scathing horrible experiences by which Santa
systematically broke our will and our desire to question his decisions.  Then
came the whippings and electric shocks with cattle prods and battery clamps,
but by that time we were so overwhelmed we could offer no resistance in any

     He took to randomly torturing the reindeer by shocking their antlers.
He made the elves tie them down with massive chains and poke at them with
pool cues.

     Our work deteriorated and our output of toys diminished.  Luckily, Santa
had long since stopped caring about that.  He traipsed in one day with, as he
said, "a bold new plan."  We were to create a line of Christmas sex toys.

                                 The Dark Years

     Saint Nick had a cocaine habit.  It got so bad he would fly down to
Miami weekly to pick up a kilo.  The reindeer were sick and haggard from
constant flight and Santa kept Blitzen doped up on heroin for no apparent
reason.  Dancer died of heat stroke while waiting in the pounding Miami sun
for Santa to complete his transactions.  Santa just unhitched the corpse and
flew back home, leaving Dancer's body to rot on the street.

     To come down from the cocaine high, Santa would load up five or six
elves and fly off to a strip club where he would cry into his beer and a
stripper's naked behind about the cruel fate life had thrust on him.
"Nothing is fair," he would scream out.  Then he would shove another twenty
into the dancer's crotch and down another bottle.

     He would make us drink beer until we would vomit by threatening to leave
us in what godforsaken hellhole he had chosen to spend the day carousing.
A couple of us tried to escape on these trips but we were always caught by
that magical man.  And when we were caught, the nightmare had just begun.
Weeks alone in a pitch black room with only the occasional scraps of food
tossed into the cell through a hole in the ceiling was the best you could
hope for.

     I spent an entire month in one of those pits.  When I got out, Santa was
so pleasant that his request I be in one of his Christmas pornos with Mrs.
Claus seemed almost normal.  All of the elves knew that as long as he was
directing his movies he would be calm.  That calm was a heaven-sent time of
peace.  I eagerly accepted.

     Santa directed the movies clad only in a red leather g-string that cut
under his massive belly, a pair of black thigh-high boots, and a beret.  He
would walk around screaming into a megaphone although the room was only
twenty feet on each side.  When he was filming we were required to call him
"Woody Allen of the North Pole" under the threat of unbearable punishment.
The last film Santa made was an ode to bananas with the now-infamous scene of
thirty-two naked elves heaped up in a giant mass, dressed as revolutionaries,
raping the captured dictator to death.

     Life at the workshop went from horrible to worse.  Santa stopped any
pretext of being a part of Christmas but he would not let us stop construct-
ing the Christmas sex toys.  Giant mounds of the devices were soon scattered
all over the frozen wastes surrounding the shop.  They grew and grew over the
years until satellite imagery regularly mapped them as small hills.

     My most vivid experience of that time is when the evil, drugged, sex
crazed Santa partied with M------ J------ and a bevy of cancer-ridden nine
year old boys.  Santa had invited J------ and his little friends to the
workshop to rest in his newly constructed "playroom."  No one to this day
knows what horrors befell those children.

                              How the Reindeer Died

     One particularly bad night, Santa called the entire population of the
workshop in to the barn that housed the reindeer.  He spoke at length about
how television was destroying civilization while drinking from a bottle of
Jack Daniels.  His soliloquy rambled from topic to topic - the European
Monetary Union, the game of squash, why he liked Cathy Lee Gifford, Oreos.

     Finally he wound down.  We stood silently, grateful we would be able to
leave soon.  Suddenly, he called Rudolph over.  It was, we thought, to be
just another random act of degradation.  Rudolph went to him and Santa
ordered the reindeer to stand still no matter what happened.  Then Santa
removed a huge battle-axe from beneath his cloak.  The punishment for
disobeying was to be severe, he exclaimed in his loud guttural voice.

     The jolly fat man walked in front of the terrified reindeer with the
glowing nose.  He removed his cloak, leaving the axe in his right hand.  He
turned around and dropped his pants.  Then Santa sat on Rudolph's bright red
beaming nose.  Santa Claus called to his wife to look into his mouth and tell
him if she could see any light.  This is when Prancer snapped.  The enraged
reindeer lunged at the squatting epitome of Christmas and attempted to gore
him with his sharp antlers.  But the psychotic Santa was too quick.  He cut
Prancer down with one blow of the mighty axe.

     All the other reindeer rushed Santa in a desperate act of revenge, but
they were doomed.  The half-naked man swung the axe furiously and in what
seemed like an instant it was all over.  There were reindeer parts scattered
throughout the barn.  Blood covered the walls and soaked the floor.  As pun-
ishment for what he perceived to be mass treason, he fed us nothing but
uncooked maggot-covered reindeer meat for weeks.


     Santa had taken to sitting in a green vinyl recliner watching television
for days on end.  He grew his hair out into dreadlocks and topped his head
with a large black knit cap adorned with yellow, green and red stripes.  His
beard was a sooty grey spotted with chunks of decaying food.  His unwashed
clothes reeked of alcohol, feces, and vomit.

     Consuming handfuls of Prozac like they were M&M's was his favorite past-
time and he would do this until his heart burst.  He would chuckle a bit,
then grab another forty pills and a bottle of beer.  Such piddling problems
did him no physical harm, being the magical and nearly immortal creature he

     We knew the only escape from this rung of hell was to utterly destroy
the insane Santa.  The problem was: how?  A being that can devour pickle
barrels full of cocaine and heroin laced with LSD and walk away is a
formidable foe.  No traditional attack would work.  What we needed was a
miracle.  What we got was a high-yield nuclear warhead smuggled out of
Kazakhstan by the Russian mafia.

    .-.                             _   _                             .-.
   /   \           .-.             ((___))             .-.           /   \
  /.ooM \         /   \       .-.  [ x x ]  .-.       /   \         /.ooM \
-/-------\-------/-----\-----/---\--\   /--/---\-----/-----\-------/-------\-
/lucky  13\     /       \   /     `-(' ')-'     \   /       \     /lucky  13\
           \   /         `-'         (U)         `-'         \   /
            `-'              the original e-zine              `-'    _
      Oooo                    eastside westside                     / )   __
 /)(\ (   \                       WORLDWIDE                        /  (  /  \
 \__/  )  /  Copyright (c) 2000 cDc communications and the author. \   ) \)(/
       (_/     CULT OF THE DEAD COW is a registered trademark of    oooO
          cDc communications, 1369 Madison Ave. #423, NY, NY 10128, USA   _  
  oooO        All rights reserved.  Edited by Grandmaster Ratte'.   __   ( \
 /   ) /)(\                                                        /  \  )  \
 \  (  \__/       Save yourself!  Go outside!  Do something!       \)(/ (   /
  \_)                     xXx   BOW to the COW   xXx                    Oooo