The Christmas Tale of the Misunderstood Son
Christmas morning, 4:43am. Timmy's foot tested the air, found it just warm enough by wiggling his toes. Small giggles - no, tiny giggles, Timmy giggles, fluttered down under the covers. And now one eye and one nose carefully surveyed the dark stretch from bed to door. Gauging, calculating all the factors involved in Christmas mornings. Suddenly a cowlick popped out like a miniature cluster of antennae. Then out of the cocoon tumbled in a bundle the little imp and apple of his daddy's eye, Timmy the Great Warrior. And as with any great warrior, he had studied the battlefield, knew his enemy, was prepared to exploit his weakness. He was prepared for victory.
Obi Wan slippers, shielded by the Force from any traiterous noise. Darth Vader saber, imbued by the Dark Side with power unimaginable. Xvid goggles to enhance his X-ray vision. Deception, soldier, distraction, isolation, elimination. He didn't understand these words, but he was a soldier born and instinctively knew their strength, their rightness. 4:52am he crossed the soft and warm carpet, listened at the door with his field medic stethoscope, and finally entered the hall.
The tree, and thus the presents, was the tremendous distance of two rooms away. Living room, then kitchen must be crossed before attaining his goal. Failure was not an option. 'Victory before all else, then honor will follow.' He wasn't sure what honor was (well, not exactly) but he had a very clear idea of victory.
"Purpose and determination, soldier. Do you know what that means?" He had looked on the internet, and even looked in his father's big and heavy dictionary-book but had never really decided just what that meant. But some answers weren't to be found in searching. Some came fierce, and some came hard. "Yes, Sir! A soldier without purpose and determination is a dead soldier, Sir!" Even when Timmy's tongue got wrapped or twisted, these words always made his father smile. And if there was anything that Timmy knew, it was that his father should always smile.
But Timmy knew quiet, and Timmy knew stealth. The living room was crossed without tripping any motion detectors, or triggering any heat sensing devices. His personal body shield served him well. Kitchen attained, quick replenishment of field rations - peanut butter cookies, sweet heavy egg nog with an extra brownie for his power-belt. And then, with a smile, he counted 5,4,3,2,1, zero. From his bedroom came his voice calling out in terror, "Dad, dad! There's a man in my room! Dad, help me!" Over and over. "Daaaadddyyyyyy!" Slam! Feet running. Heavy sleep-filled breathing. Timmy took another cookie and held his breath, held his heart. Closed his eyes tight, tight, tight. His Xvid goggles suddenly turned black as space between the stars. Bright light exploded through the wall then dimmed back to Christmas morning dawn.
With a small jump and a small fist clutched over his head, Timmy whispered, "Yes!" Then he carefully placed his goggles on the counter and poured two glasses of egg nog. Putting a napkin under each, he carried them into the Family Room. His mother sat beside the Christmas tree, knees tucked under her chin, happy eyes looking at her son. "Merry Christmas. Let's open our gifts."
By the Bay
Christmas morning, 4:43am. Timmy's foot tested the air, found it just warm enough by wiggling his toes. Small giggles - no, tiny giggles, Timmy giggles, fluttered down under the covers. And now one eye and one nose carefully surveyed the dark stretch from bed to door. Gauging, calculating all the factors involved in Christmas mornings. Suddenly a cowlick popped out like a miniature cluster of antennae. Then out of the cocoon tumbled in a bundle the little imp and apple of his daddy's eye, Timmy the Great Warrior. And as with any great warrior, he had studied the battlefield, knew his enemy, was prepared to exploit his weakness. He was prepared for victory.
Obi Wan slippers, shielded by the Force from any traiterous noise. Darth Vader saber, imbued by the Dark Side with power unimaginable. Xvid goggles to enhance his X-ray vision. Deception, soldier, distraction, isolation, elimination. He didn't understand these words, but he was a soldier born and instinctively knew their strength, their rightness. 4:52am he crossed the soft and warm carpet, listened at the door with his field medic stethoscope, and finally entered the hall.
The tree, and thus the presents, was the tremendous distance of two rooms away. Living room, then kitchen must be crossed before attaining his goal. Failure was not an option. 'Victory before all else, then honor will follow.' He wasn't sure what honor was (well, not exactly) but he had a very clear idea of victory.
"Purpose and determination, soldier. Do you know what that means?" He had looked on the internet, and even looked in his father's big and heavy dictionary-book but had never really decided just what that meant. But some answers weren't to be found in searching. Some came fierce, and some came hard. "Yes, Sir! A soldier without purpose and determination is a dead soldier, Sir!" Even when Timmy's tongue got wrapped or twisted, these words always made his father smile. And if there was anything that Timmy knew, it was that his father should always smile.
But Timmy knew quiet, and Timmy knew stealth. The living room was crossed without tripping any motion detectors, or triggering any heat sensing devices. His personal body shield served him well. Kitchen attained, quick replenishment of field rations - peanut butter cookies, sweet heavy egg nog with an extra brownie for his power-belt. And then, with a smile, he counted 5,4,3,2,1, zero. From his bedroom came his voice calling out in terror, "Dad, dad! There's a man in my room! Dad, help me!" Over and over. "Daaaadddyyyyyy!" Slam! Feet running. Heavy sleep-filled breathing. Timmy took another cookie and held his breath, held his heart. Closed his eyes tight, tight, tight. His Xvid goggles suddenly turned black as space between the stars. Bright light exploded through the wall then dimmed back to Christmas morning dawn.
With a small jump and a small fist clutched over his head, Timmy whispered, "Yes!" Then he carefully placed his goggles on the counter and poured two glasses of egg nog. Putting a napkin under each, he carried them into the Family Room. His mother sat beside the Christmas tree, knees tucked under her chin, happy eyes looking at her son. "Merry Christmas. Let's open our gifts."
By the Bay
posted by the Bay at 10:35 AM
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