Senor 105 and the Secret Santa

by Stuart Douglas

Mexico City, 2470 or so years later (and also two days earlier)

  Señor 105, masked wrestler, sometime detective and amateur scientist, slumped into the soft orange sofa in his den and gave out a hugely satisfied groan. It was good finally to sit down and relax. This last week spent chasing the Monarch across Russia had been exhausting enough, but to return home to Mexico just in time to discover that David Crosby, under the influence of alien drugs harvested from the Chicxulub crater, had attempted to set up the People’s Republic of California? That would tire out even the most virile and highly trained of men. All he wanted now was a hot bath, clean clothes and twenty-four hours of uninterrupted sleep.

  He reached down to the thick white carpet and fished the television’s remote control out from amongst the heavy pile. A flick of the wrist to untangle the cable which connected the control to the tv and he was set. The news would be in on in a moment and he was keen to make sure that the American newspaper people had stuck to their agreement not to report anything about the Crosby incident. The album Crosby, Stills and Nash had been his favourite of the previous year and he felt he owed the singer some leeway in return. And besides, he doubted Crosby would ever touch drugs again.

  There was nothing on the news except for the usual reports of financial problems within the government and the problems caused by left-wingers and student insurrectionists. 105 allowed himself to sink into the sofa. His eyes began slowly to close, almost against his will. Fifteen minutes, he thought to himself. Just a nap, then I’ll go and run a bath. The sound of the television faded away and he was only slightly aware of the flutter of his eyelids as they forced themselves closed—

  ‘Señor! Señor! It is time!’

  Rodrigo’s shrill voice jerked 105 back from the edge of sleep and dumped him, disconcerted and grumpy, back into reality. He sat upright quickly, feeling oddly and unfairly guilty. ‘What is it, Rodrigo? Time for what?’ Immediately he felt more guilty still, though now he appreciated that the feeling was not unfair at all. There was no call to snap at the boy; how was he to know that 105 had nodded off? 105 ran a hand across the soft leather of his mask and continued in a far softer tone. ‘Time for what, Rodrigo? Are we expected somewhere?’

  ‘For Christmas shopping, Monsieur!’

  Another voice entered the conversation, a lilting, almost musical voice, with more than a hint of Europe about it. As ever, 105 felt his own voice to be primitive and rough compared to Sheila’s sing-song tones. He never tired of hearing her speak. But wait—

  ‘Christmas shopping! Of course! Today is the day that Quixano’s unveils its annual festive animatronic extravaganza, is it? Forgive me, my friends. I have been so busy for the past week or so that I did not even realise that today was the 11th of December. Just let me quickly wash up and we can take the car into town to watch the unveiling!’

  As his friends disappeared into the rest of the house to get ready, 105 smiled to himself. Tired he may have been, but nothing invigorates a man so much as the enthusiasm of those he loves.

  Cupid could barely see, but he knew he had only one chance to save himself. Across the snowy field, dotted with oceans of melt and hillocks of slush, he could sense rather than see the communicator his friend, Señor 105, had given him. Should you ever need me, press this button and I will come. He could hear the wrestler’s words clear as a sharp winter day and wondered if he would ever hear him speak again.

  Cupid’s scorched wings had been stripped of feathers by the attack of the red demon. They were splayed across the snowy ground like the fossilised fingers of some prehistoric giant. His plump little arms were bruised from wrist to shoulder, all the muddy, indistinct colours of a particularly painful rainbow. The last blow – the one which had knocked him half a mile across the Pole – had ripped across his face, causing the skin to peel back in a thin, bloody cut and closing one eye in a deep purple swelling. Fortunately, it had also thrown him clear of even the demon’s hell-borne eyesight.

  It was that which had saved him.

  For the moment.

  Somewhere in the storm, the demon bellowed his rage and began to move in Cupid’s direction.

  The shopping mall was only a couple of years old but already it was showing signs of wear and tear. This is what happens when you situate a metal and brick shopping center on the edge of town, thought 105, shaking his head imperceptibly. There’s nothing to stop the wind and the rain from battering the building. Better to build in town. He was suddenly aware that Rodrigo was standing, holding Sheila’s string, and looking up at him. He was getting old, standing complaining to himself in a mall parking lot. He smiled wryly at his two friends, and beckoned that Rodrigo should lead the way inside.

  The interior of the mall was far more pleasing than the rusty, crumbling exterior. The jingle of seasonal tunes filled the air, and everywhere he looked 105 saw festive decoration, bright colors and bunting, and representations of Santa Claus. Round the walls, large shops windows shone with the promise of gifts within. At the far end of the mall, a church choir was setting up; 105 could see the choirmaster directing singers hurriedly into their places. But that would have to wait, because the main event was about to take place – the unveiling of Quixano’s Christmas Tableau and Animatronic Extravaganza.

  Rodrigo was already in place, standing right at the front of the crowd in front of Quixano’s Department Store. He had shortened Sheila’s string so as not to block the view of those behind him, but left it long enough that the little Sentient could see all that was going on. What a considerate young man he is turning into, 105 reflected with pleasure. He made his way politely through the mass of people until he stood behind the youngster. He tapped Rodrigo on the shoulder and returned his excited smile.

  ‘Remember last year, Señor,’ Rodrigo exclaimed. ‘That was my favourite, I think!’

  Each year the staff at Quixano’s designed and built a magnificent festive scene in the front window of the shop, complete with robotic elves and reindeer, a wonderfully authentic Santa Claus and the largest Christmas tree that anyone ever saw. All of this effort was carried out under the direction of the manager and owner, the mysterious Comandante Riri, a tall, white haired, pale skinned man reputed to have fled to Mexico from the area of Chile now known as Puerto Williams, the southernmost city in the world.

  The previous year, 105 recalled, the animatronic elves had sung ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’ then danced the jitterbug with the reindeer. It had been quite special, he had to admit. It was difficult to envisage a way in which even Comandante Riri could make improve on that. Mister Tea, who had been visiting, had called it ‘quite splendid’, and when Iris Wildthyme had stopped by in ‘sixty-four she had said she had never seen the like, even on Hyspero, which she claimed was famous across the multiverse on account of ‘throwing lovely dos’.

  As 105 waited for the drapes covering the window to be pulled away, he idly wondered what all of his friends were doing this Christmas.

  Cupid crept across the ice and packed snow on his belly. The snow whirled all around him, melting against his bare skin and soaking his diaper through. He had all but collapsed when he pulled the last feathers from his wings, but they were a dirty black color where they had burned and he needed to be entirely white for his plan, such as it was, to work. His only hope was that the snow on the ground and in air, combined with the pale white of his skin would hide him from the demon’s glowing eyes. He crept on as darkness fell round him and the snow settled ever deeper in front. In the gathering dark, something roared.

  The roar of the crowd nearly deafened Señor 105. The drapes had finally been pulled away by the Comandante himself, revealing a stunning feat of imagination and modern robotics. At the rear of the display, what appeared to be a slice of the Andes dominated the background, complete with snow covered peaks, deep valleys and what 105 could have sworn was a miniature family of Bigfoot wandering round immediately above the snow
line.

  The attention to detail was astonishing but the real treat lay in front of the mountain range. In the center sat an ornate golden throne destined, 105 presumed, for Santa. On each side torrents of silver paper flowed from the walls in two magnificent waterfalls, magnified by cunningly placed mirrors. The effect made it appear as though they filled the entire shop. And within the waterfalls mermaids swam, or at least it seemed that way. In fact 105 knew that each mermaid – and each elf riding alongside on the back of a dolphin – was simply a form of mechanised mannequin, an animatronic automaton controlled by a master panel in the shop’s back office. As each mechanical mermaid swooped down, along the outside of the waterfall, she threw the golden trident she was carrying at the opposite side of the window, where it stuck into the wall, there to be scooped up by an elf and handed to a different mermaid. The dazzling interconnected movement of the mermaids, dolphins and elves was enough to make 105 dizzy, even while he applauded the technical skills required to make this all work so smoothly. Just imagine the potential carnage if these robots ever decided to break free and declare themselves independent. The thought