By Louis-Ferdinand Celine
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Santa says. All of the two dozen snowmen we made today are now alive and heading towards the house. The snowmen in our neighbor’s yards are also coming to life and crossing the street. The coffee birds circle above, searching for more snowmen in the area. “Yeah,” I say. ” ☺ Upstairs, Nora and Angelica are putting on slippers. Decapitron has holstered the twins to her back but didn’t bother changing out of her green reindeer fetish outfit. “The snowmen, they’ve . ” I begin. She snaps her fingers to hurry me up.
One of them slices into a snowman out front, melting a hole through its icy head. The coffee bird settles inside of the snowman’s brain, causing a mist to pour out of its eyes and skull. Then the snowman comes alive. It is the one with pineapples on its head like spiky bunny ears and phone cords dangling out of its body like tentacles. The face on the snowman starts to move. Its mouth hisses. The phone cord tentacles flap into the air as it begins to slide across the snow towards the house. More coffee birds penetrate the snowmen outside, bringing them to life.
The twins on her back scream with excitement. ☺ The outside battle cries dim into silence. All I can hear is Santa’s muffled voice yelling at me to get him out of there. 38 Instead of pushing, I try pulling. I put all of my weight into it and he pops out of the chimney into my lap. Sitting in my lap, he looks up at me and smiles. Then I realize how short and plump he is. His flesh feels more marshmallowy than it does sausagey. ” he says to me, looking around the room at the dead snowmen. “My wife went after them,” I say.
Death on Credit by Louis-Ferdinand Celine