The ICEmen cometh

by David Benjamin

SOMEWHERE in Vermont—Santa Claus’s aide de camp, Olaf the elf, turned to Santa and said, “What’s that noise?
Santa had finished his rounds in Canada and was guiding his sleigh toward the farmhouse of the Shaftoe family, in the northernmost reaches of snowy New England. From the pitch darkness came throbbing rumble, like a hundred mechanical drums, building toward a deafening roar.

As Santa deftly settled his sleigh and reindeer on the peak of the roof, a dozen black-clad figures dropped from the sky and landed violently all around him. Roof tiles broke off and disappeared into the night. Below, inside the house, Santa heard the tinkle of breaking glass and surprised outcries. Swiftly, the men detached themselves from the ropes on which they had descended—evidently from helicopters (which explained the noise)—and aimed machine guns at Santa Claus.

“What the hell is this?” shouted Olaf.

“Be calm, Olaf,” said Santa gently. “I’m sure this is just a misunderstanding.”

The apparent leader of the crew, a black mask over his face, shone a blinding flashlight into Santa’s face. “Hola, cabron. Muéstrame tus papeles o come plomo caliente!”

“Why are you speaking Spanish?” asked Santa.

“So, Speedy Gonzalez hablo’s the English, huh? Well that don’t fool us. Where ya from, scumbag? Venezuela? Panama? Somalia?”

“I’m from the North Pole. Look at me. The red suit, the jolly aspect. I’m Santa Claus, man. This is Christmas Eve.”

“Don’t hand me that crap, amigo. There ain’t no Santa Claus and you got no papers.”

“Technically, everything in my bag is wrapped in gaily colored paper. So … ”

“Y’know, you almost got past us, into America, you and your little dwarf coyote there,” said the hulking intruder, poking his gun barrel into Santa’s ample tummy. “But that cow with the neon nose gave you away.”

“That’s not a cow,” said Olaf, offended. “That’s Rudolph, the red-nosed—”

“And what the hell are these?” said the armed bully. “Some sort of genetically engineered giant attack dogs?”

“Dogs? Ho ho ho!” replied Santa. “No, these are my reindeer, Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen!—”

“Shut the hell up, fatso. Do you have any idea who I am?”

“No, but I’m always glad to make new friends. Have you been naughty or nice? What would you like for Christmas?”

“Shut the hell up, piggy. I’m Group captain Rock Heydrich, of ICE, and you, Gomez, you’re a border-crossing illegal. I own your undocumented ass!”

Suddenly, with the whapping of propellers and the scream of engines above, reinforcements arrived, adding numbers and weight to an already overcrowded rooftop. Spotlights from above turned the scene as bright as a summer’s day. Santa gazed around in wonder.

“Amazing! I finally know how Bethlehem must have looked under the Christmas star. But,” he said, nodding toward one of the ICEmen, “these fellows don’t exactly resemble angels. I don’t suppose they can sing.”

Each of the hulking agents were wreathed in Kevlar body armor, their faces obscured by black balaclavas and the shadow of their helmets. Their bodies were strung like Christmas trees with garlands of bear spray, teargas canisters, ammo belts and fragmentation grenades. Their black-leather belts were festooned with telescoping truncheons, shiny handcuffs, zip ties and shackles, tasers, cattle prods, daggers, several swords and lots of Glocks. Their pockets bulged with machine-gun clips. They trampled the snow in jackboots with polished titanium toes.

Santa gazed with wonder and said, “Wow, what a fashion statement. Your men look like Marvel Comics villains, sir. Do you mind if I take a picture?”

The question flummoxed the ICE leader. Before he could object, Santa was brandishing his new iPhone and lining the ICEmen along the rim of the rooftop. He positioned Group Captain Heydrich in the middle of the group.

“Okay, everybody. Say ‘Cheese’!”

With a wink from Santa, Olaf the elf suddenly charged the ICEmen, crashing into them and sending several off the roof into a snowbank. While more agents teetered on the edge, Santa exploited the confusion. He snagged his bag, shoved it down the chimney and dove in after it.

A moment later, a mighty tug of war transpired inside the Shaftoes’ chimney. Three ICEmen who had not fallen off the roof were clinging to Santa’s boots and trying to pull him back up. Olaf, meanwhile, was scurrying around the roof, whacking ICEmen with a baseball bat meant to go under the Christmas tree of a little boy in Tulsa. Below, Santa had a grip on one end of his bag while the whole Shaftoe family, Mom, Dad, Bobby and little sister Britney had grabbed the other end of the bag. They were straining with all their might.

Fortunately, the Shaftoes won, and Santa tumbled—sooty and chuckling—onto the hearth. Unfortunately, the reason the ICEmen let go of Santa’s boots was that Group Captain Heydrich had ordered his men to kick open the front door of the house.

A moment later, Santa stood before the fireplace in a frightened cluster of Shaftoes, facing the masked, implacable forces of militant MAGA. The Christmas tree had been toppled and trampled. ICEmen had ripped Bobby and Britney’s stockings off the mantel and used them to wipe snow off their jackboots. Gumdrops and candy canes lay crushed on the floor.

Group Captain Heydrich closed in on Santa until his face covered Santa’s cherry-like nose in ominous shadow. “Now, you fat pedophile, confess. What’s in the bag. What are you bringing across the border to groom children and poison America? Cocaine? Heroin? Vaccines? Solar panels? Pornography? Haitians?”

“Oh no, dear Grouper,” replied Santa. “It’s all just treats for good little girls and boys. Toy trucks and tricycles, Barbie dolls and teddy bears, footballs, erector sets and Mother Goose—”

“That’s enough out of you, you lying tub of immigrant lard!” roared the ICE chief. To punctuate this outburst, he raised his truncheon. He was poised to bring it down on Santa’s noggin, to render him unconscious during his shipment to a new Homeland detention center in the Okefenokee, Alligator Auschwitz.

But then, Olaf struck again. He had wormed his elfin way through the phalanx of ICEmen. Before Group Captain Heydrich could coldcock Saint Nick, Olaf grabbed the glass of milk that little Britney had set out lovingly for Santa Claus. Olaf flung the milk, glass and all, into Heydrich’s florid kisser, blinding him just long enough for Santa to turn with a nimbleness that belied his girth and slither back up the chimney.

Olaf was close behind.

When Santa and Olaf reached the sleigh, they noted, with some dismay, that the ICEmen had secured every reindeer’s fetlocks with zip ties.

“Oh no,” cried Olaf. “We’re trapped up here. They’re on their way.”

“Olaf, you’re overexcited. You forget,” said Santa cheerily. “My reindeer don’t un. They can fly!”

And, of course, they did, soaring picturesquely into the night sky of Christmas Eve, where they were detected by the radar unit on a U.S. Air Force drone and blown to Kingdom Come—beard, belly, bag, sugarplums, hooves and antlers, joy to the world—by a precision-guided Hellfire smart-missile.