A Frozen Disaster

The year was – nobody knows. In some place that may or may not have been a rock floating in space. There lived a crocodile, an unspectacular crocodile, one of many. He had a talent that no others in his family had. Said crocodile, upon consuming its prey, would learn from them. He became a little bit smarter with each thing it ate, causing it to become ever more curious to explore the gourmet world and savor new tastes.

There also existed wizards. One such individual in a pointy hat and shoes on a magical flying carpet, was crossing a river one day, when the carpet sighed.

“What’s wrong?” said the pointy hat wearing individual, adjusting their hat in what they had hoped was a gesture of wisdom.

“Nah,” the carpet replied in a sassy tone that only an enchanted, sentient, mythical object could.

“You never brush me, I am done with being mistreated.”

With that, the carpet abandoned its magical self. After turning into a familiar, floppy, useless, basic carpet, it plummeted down into the river.

The wizard landed in the water with an audible splash. In turn, all the river-dwelling murder logs, also known to people as ‘crocodiles’, were alerted. The murder logs began approaching the wizard who had in turn pulled their hat off and held it above the water, desperate not to get their fancy hat wet. The wizard cursed in spells that flung around and created a rainbow and a tiny rain cloud, that proceeded to wet the hat that the wizard tried desperately to keep safe from water.

“Awh man, my hat…” the wizard groaned, watching the tip sag as the fabric got wet. What happened next was a sort of gruesome chaos that even the gods, with their infinite wisdom, decided was best left to imagination. All we know: by the end of it there was a crocodile wearing a pointy hat, another one that sported a very fashionable pointy shoe, yes, a single one. There were whispers that spoke of the last one – one that wore the robes. Though we’ll never hear more about this one, probably for the best.

The first croc to savor the wizard named himself Azu Bazu crocodile the great devourer of all things tasty and edible. His name was much too complicated for most wizard crocodiles though, so he just settled on Azu Bazu, or ABC for short. However, to Azu’s disappointment, the wizard hardly was wise, and the crocs were left to ponder the meaning of life on their own.

They sat in a cave, cozily nestled beside an active volcano – debating the meaning of life. The location could only be described as – comfortable and warm. One day there was a rumble, it remembered that it was late to causing chaos and commotion among the inhabitants of its caves.

The tremor broke some rocks lose, revealing a secret chamber of secrets, as if a single secret wasn’t secretive enough. Within said chamber, ABC and his company of not-so-wise crocodiles found an ancient tome that laid upon a pedestal.

Naturally, as beings with the collective wisdom of a river rock – they decided to lay their paws upon the magical artifact of unknown origin and power that had been hidden for centuries.

Upon devouring the tome, a meal far wiser than their last – they found themselves brimming with newly acquired intelligence and wisdom, which led to conniving. They plotted for days what was the best to be able to lure food into their cave without having to so much as lift a tail. An evil plan came to fruition at last – freeze the world over and silly humans will seek warmth of their own accord.

Decades passed in permafrost. The older generations adapted to it, the newer generations knew nothing else, and the trees – well trees just stood there. Amongst the newer – snow generation, were Chris and his sister Mas. Their lives will matter soon enough, but for now – let us focus on the sound of chopping.

Knee-deep in snow and draped in red, a fashion sense that could best be described as ‘questionable,’ or ‘not very good for survival,’ was a man hard at work, swinging his massive axe side to side. His groans echoed through the frost-ridden forest as he slashed and assaulted a tree. That was prior to his attack – was simply minding its own business just chilling around.

The man in question was John McNane, a very particular lumberjack known for his sense of justice and love for Christmas. He was also known for his unfortunate faith of being mistaken for being obsessed with Chris and Mas. It was a common misunderstanding among the village folk when he’d talk about how much he loves Christmas and the joys of them, the holidays that is. He was a toymaker and a carpenter, a man with a big heart, and an even bigger axe.

The tree finally gave in, breaking with a loud creak and hitting the ground with an even louder thud. As it lay there, cold and broken, it thought it heard someone speak.

“Time to go,” spoke a rumbling and echoing voice.

“Was I a good tree?” asked the tree, probably.

“I am told you stood there for decades, like all the others, so… I think yes.”

It wasn’t exactly the kind of reassurance a recently murdered tree was hoping for, in their final moments, but it was better than nothing.

Back to the kids whose lives now matter, and soon they’ll matter even more. Chris was a naïve boy and a proud self-proclaimed expert in being a kid. He thought he was well experienced in his chosen career, having 11 years of experience to back up his claims. In the bed on the other side of the room was his sister, Mas. She was less experienced and wasn’t as much of a veteran as he was. With a mere seven years under her belt, she was still learning.

One morning Chris woke from his slumber to a pained groan and a cough from his sister. She was, unfortunately, experiencing what the adults call a ‘sick day,’ and had to take a day off from her work. As Chris jumped up to his feet and rushed over to her side, he gasped. Her face was bright red like Rudolf’s nose, and her body was shivering from the unbearable cold. She was sick.

Chris had rushed to her aid with the grace of a newborn giraffe, stubbing his toe on the chair and almost falling head-first into a bucket of something that the gods asked me to refrain from providing details about. He knelt by her bed, holding her hand in his.

“Mas!” he called out, his voice filled with seriousness, which was rare for a professional child that he was.

Mas groaned weakly, her teeth clattered as her body shivered from the unbearable cold. It was like a dancing team of Irish step-dancers, her teeth created a rhythmic beat. For a moment Chris got lost in the rhythm, but then remembered that he had to be the adult here.

“What’s wrong?” he called out.

“Chris, I don’t feel so good,” she whispered.

Chris felt her forehead, she was burning hot, and he felt content for a moment. In this land of perma-frost, the warmth was welcoming, but soon regained his composure. With all of his collected wisdom of eleven years, he thought hard, very hard. In fact, he thought so hard that the cosmic thought particles somewhere very far away collided, creating a whole new world that a poor cat god was now assigned to manage.

“I know!” he exclaimed.

Mas squinted at him through the haze of her fever.

“You do!?”

He nodded confidently and stood tall like a superhero.

“This calls for a trip to the legendary Warm Cave!”

Mas closed her eyes, weakness consuming her, “But mommy said not to go there… she said nobody ever returns…”

“That’s just a fairy tale!”

Chris remarked.

He grabbed her by the wrist, perhaps a bit too eagerly. He yanked her upright with the determination of a wizard reading a spell book for the 57th time, upside down, wondering why the fireball was flying down and not up. Whether it was the wizard or the book that was upside down, is lost to history. Mas wobbled on her feet like a renowned hero Nii from ancient times, who was said to be incredibly wobbly on his feet upon waking up after a night of drinking and celebrating.

“Right then! We ought to be on our way, immediately!”

Chris spoke with a serious expression, like an ancient philosopher, or a wise crocodile, that was pondering the meaning of life. Mas followed him weakly, stumbling with every step as her brother led her into the endless whiteness of the frozen-over world, heading in the direction of the cave. Chris was navigating the unknown like a certain historical explorer who thought he could take a shortcut by sailing in the opposite direction.

“They’re gone,” said a man, his voice filled with despair and drama.

“Who’s gone?” queried a red coat-wearing lumberjack, who looked like he was casting to be the jolly bearded man in red in a certain beverage commercial, laughing in a silly manner while advising folks of all age to drink the beverage for the holiday spirit.

He had a massive tree resting upon his right shoulder, and his axe, for counter balance, rested on his left shoulder. Though the axe wasn’t doing much other than confusing his spine about which direction it should be facing.

“Chris and Mas are gone… been missing a few days,” spoke the concerned man. John McNane clutched his chest, his snow-clogged ears could only make out a portion of what the man was saying, so he was firmly under the impression that Christmas had gone missing.

“Christmas… my Christmas,” the lumberjack panicked, concern and anger obvious on his face.

“They’re not…” the man began but it was too late. The tree fell onto the snowy street with a loud bang, loud enough to awaken not just the entire village, but also the pack of yetis who had happened to be camping nearby. He took his axe into his hands like a certain top-hat-wearing, axe-wielding vampire hunter, and dashed off like a superhero about to save the holidays.

“They’re not your kids…” called out the man but his words were lost to the great distance that galloping John had put between them. Like an angry moose charging through the snow toward an intruder, he ran and ran in an unknown to him direction, in search of Christmas.

“Christmas is… still here… in a few weeks in fact…” the man sighed.

John kicked down a door and leapt into the room, rolling like a special forces operative that was about to single-handedly take out a group of international criminals. Except, there was no one in the building but the whistle of the wind as the blizzard grew stronger outside. John slept the night and with the break of dawn, like a bewildered moose, set out galloping through the snow yet again, in search of Christmas that had been stolen.

His search led him to the warmth of a nearby volcano that puffed out plumes of smoke like the chimney of a coal power plant. He walked into the cave, brushing off the white snow from his long red coat. His boots crunched on the snow accumulated on them. He heard a noise, something splashed. As his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light after being exposed to naught but snow’s whiteness for days, he noticed a pack of crocodiles, surprisingly wise-looking, lounging around.

“Heh, this man is like a walking target,” called out a comfy crocodile in a single, pointy shoe, resting in a hot spring. It had the look of pure bliss and satisfaction upon its face, far too comfortable looking for a creature that is said to be deadly and dangerous. The kind of look that you get when you finally take a bite of that burger you’ve been craving all week.

John blinked in disbelief, completely dumbfounded by a pack of wise crocodiles, a sight he least expected to see in a warm cave, “Huh?” unsure if he was seeing right or if the frostbite had caused him to see things that couldn’t possibly exist, a group of crocodiles that looked like they were on a vacation, having the time of their lives. There was a table, and at it sat a pair of crocodiles, sipping on cocktails. Off to the side another couple were playing chess.

“Ah, it’s the Chris and Mas loving lumberjack, I’ve heard of him from our previous snack. Did not expect him to show up here,” replied a crocodile with a monocle. John blinked a few more times, his consciousness desperately trying to convince him that he was seeing things and, at last, succeeding in doing so. The crocodiles, when lying dormant in the water, resemble logs.

His lumberjack brain, now finally adjusted to the strange scene, was seeing what it wanted to see, a bunch of logs. A pointy hat-wearing log, a log with a monocle, a log in heart-shaped decorated underwear, and a log in a hot tub wearing a single pointy shoe.

With every blink, occasionally the logs would turn into reptilian creatures, but then return to being just logs, strangely dressed, talking logs, but at the end of the day – just logs for him to split. He cleared his throat to speak louder, over the sound of the raging blizzard outside.

“I am here for CHRISTMAS! RETURN IT AT LAST!”

He demanded, readying his axe.

Like a lumberjack that’s about to assault a poor, innocent bystanding tree that is just chilling and minding its business. His posture adjusted and his muscles tightened as he grasped the handle of his axe.

“Ah, the kids, Chris and Mas, yeahhh, no… we were gonna make a stew out of them for dinner you see?”

The crocodiles, no, the logs, all raised their heads up and chanted hungrily in unison, “Stew, stew, stew.”

John gasped in disbelief, taking a weary step back, but then anger consumed him, as if a god of war whose rage devoured him from the inside, he gritted his teeth. His voice turned deep and rumbling.

“You, want to eat Christmas? I WON’T ALLOW THAT!”

Even the snow outside probably had a chill run through it at that moment. I dare say, that even the icicles in the cave shuddered.

The croc in a pointy hat tilted its head to the side like a confused puppy, not quite certain that his colleagues and the lumberjack were talking about quite the same things here. Before he had a chance to clear up the misunderstanding, the lumberjack leapt forth like a lion, sinking his massive axe into the nearest log, splitting it cleanly in half.

A commotion arose as the other logs jumped to their feet, or rather, stumps, and readied themselves for the battle ahead. They casted spells. Some of the magic tried to freeze the raging lumberjack John McNane in place, others aimed to disarm him, literally at that. Yet, none of them aimed to explain to him that they did not in fact steal Christmas, only Chris and Mas, which, let’s be honest – wouldn’t have saved them either.

The following log he assaulted had all its branches cut off in what looked like a single swift motion which in truth was a very complicated arrangement of barely possible motions for a human being, but absolutely plausible for someone capable of singlehandedly carrying trees around.

The axe spun around, flipped, flew through the air, paused for a moment, posed for the cameraman, and then fell back in John’s might hands. He leapt to the next log, carving a beautiful pair of Klompen out of it.

Only one croc, no, John blinked, it was a log in fact, a single log remained by the end of the rampaging act. The cave’s floor was littered in splints and sawdust, or so his brain made him perceive. The remaining log wore a great pointy hat, a wizard’s hat. The log chuckled nervously.

“Wait… hear me out. We had no desire to harm anyone, only to feast, you see.”

John took a step closer. At last, the snow that clogged his ears melted, he could hear clearly now.

“You stole Christmas,” he growled like a hungry beast, his voice filled with anger and confusion.

“No, we kidnapped Chris and Mas, not Christmas you imbecile.”

John blinked, dumbfounded by the words. His thawing brain worked overtime to process the newfound information.

“Run that one by me again, you did what?”

“We kidnapped your children, Chris and Mas, we did nothing to your beloved holiday you neanderthal brained brute. We would dare not aim for the holiday…”

John threw his axe over his shoulder, thinking hard and long before speaking.

“You kidnapped them for what… to have them as guests for the holiday feast?”

The log chuckled, “What? No no, we kidnapped them to make a feast OUT Of them, not FOR them. Fresh tender meat, perfect for the holiday season.”

John growled again, “I’m jesting! JESTING! Look, hear me out, a voice of reason, allow me to indulge your remaining brain cell in an explanation. The kids are a lovely company, real chatty, we asked them for help, to….”

ABC hesitated, adjusting his pointy hat on his head, in what he had hoped was a gesture of wisdom, “to hang up the décor. Have you ever seen a croc trying to hang a star on a Christmas tree? A true disaster…”

John furrowed his eyebrows in confusion, his brain clearly overheating from thinking too much.

“Well,” John began. His consciousness and good-will fought his barbarian side in a battle that was arguably even more gruesome and brutal than what he did to the other crocs, no, the logs, in the cave.

“You, did not do it out of malice I suppose, and, Christmas is safe?”

The croc blinked, “Christmas is as are Chris and Mas… They’re yours, all yours, take them and never return here.”

The kids, to no one’s surprise, were rather shaken by the lumberjack’s appearance. What saved him from causing them a life-long trauma, was probably the fact that his blood-red coat, hardly looked any redder with all the freshly added dyes to it. Though it was now decorated by bits and pieces, giving it an interesting appearance.

Before leaving, however, the lumberjack demanded he takes the freshly carved klompen with him. For unknown to him reason, the kids were less than thrilled by his creation, he convinced himself that they were simply too young to appreciate the craftsmanship of these fine, croc klopmen, no – log carved klompen.