Domestic Violence – A Christmas Carol (of Sorts)

von Marcus Krug

Snow is coming down heavily – a big blizzard is raging in the area. The news on the radio is accompanied by statics: “Due to global warming CRSHHHHHH arctic circle CRRRRSSHH Finnish-Russian border region SSSHHHH Korvatunturi mountain broke open CSHRCK” The hissing and crackling made our dog leave the kitchen and join our children in the living room.

“Korvatunturi, isn’t that where the kids send their Christmas letters for Santa?” I say to my wife.

“Shh,” she says, putting her hand over my mouth, “Shut up, there is more. Listen!”

“CRSHH Finnish scientists believe CRCK something ancient was in that mountain SSHHHCRRR has disappeared CRSHHHCKRK town of Korvatunturi SHCRSHCK destroyed by an unknown force.”

So what?! I ran out of dead rats’ arses a long time ago, I don’t give them anymore.

Later that night, I am lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying not to fall asleep. I am waiting for the children to drop off, though. Next day is Christmas day and this year I am responsible for the presents. And the presents are all waiting in the wardrobe, the drawers and under the bed to be put around the tree in the living room. My wife still insists on this tradition. I suppose the Santa-puts-presents-under-the-Christmas-tree-tradition is more important to her and myself than to the kids. Because I suspect even the little ones to have already figured out our little seasonal charade. But anyway, it is nice and I really like this little custom of ours, it puts you in the mood, you know?! If it only wasn’t for my eyelids being so heavy tonight.

Okay, where are we? Ah yes, thunderbolt and lightning, very very frightening. Me, in the middle of the night, waiting for our offspring to doze off, so I can put the presents under the tree, pretending to be Santa Claus. Outside the storm is still raging and howling. Inside, I am just on the upper landing, on my way down to the living room when I hear something on the roof. A song comes to my mind. Hark! What is that sound I hear? There are big thuds, little tiptoeings and long skiddings.

And then I see them. Little boots are dangling down in front of the window. In those little boots, there are little hairy legs. The little hairy legs stick out of little manky pants. The little manky pants have the same dirty colour as the filthy overcoats. Out of the scruffy sleeves of the filthy overcoats stick tattooed arms and hands, which cling to the wonky gutters. Between those pairs of tattooed arms, there are fierce faces. Those fierce faces have edged knives between their jagged yellow rotten teeth.

And then I see that they see me. One of them lowers his hand, reaches for the knife and throws it at me. The blade pierces the wooden window frame. And that is when I run down the stairs into the living room.

There, under the Christmas tree, next to the open fire, are already all the presents for the family. I am a bit confused, someone must have put them there earlier. I walk over to the tree, but I am thrown back by a huge deflagration and a dust cloud coming out of the fireplace. Something just came down the chimney and smashed into the still glowing embers.

It wasn’t something, it was someone. Someone rather short. This hideous little creature builds himself up in front of me. His pointy ears stick out from under his grimy hat.

What the hell is this? Is this a fucked-up version of a Christmas elf? There are more like him coming down the chimney and out of the fireplace. With them, they bring a thick cloud of something deeply unpleasant. They all reek of booze, cheap Scandinavian vodka, I can tell. The first one in front of me comes up with his knife in hand.

“Joulupukki has been woken, and he is very angry!” he says with a voice made for cutting glass. First, I believe the language to be something Eastern-Scandinavian, but I seem to understand it, which absolutely amazes me. Must be globalisation then, or something else. My brain is racing because I am trying to place the word Joulupukki. I have heard the name before. It must be …

I stop thinking because the evil elf has thrown a knife at me. It has pierced my slipper between my toes and is stuck in the wooden floorboard.

The little shit looks at me in surprise and shrugs his shoulders, then turns around and gestures something to the crowd gathering behind him, whereupon they storm off and throw themselves into the pile of gift boxes. When one of the little bastards finds my presents for my other half, I get in on the act, as well. He plays around with the hairspray can and sprays it against a Zippo lighter with my initial on it. The DIY-flamethrower sets the tree and the nearby drapes on fire. The whole place descends into absolute chaos.

A blood curdling and glass breaking scream from their leader makes them all turn to him. All at once, they shout: “Joulupukki! Joulupukki! Joulupukki!” A war cry and a summoning of sorts. Because outside the stamping has taken on enormous proportions. I can’t see anything but the snow is shaken off the branches with every thud.

“For Joulupukki!” They shriek once more and throw themselves at me. I duck down to the right and roll over to the torn-up boxes and get my hands on another spray can. As a matter of fact, I am looking for something completely different but for now, I can render a few of them harmless with an ordinary pepper spray.

I call out for my wife. And even though her name consists to three-quarters of vowels, which are supposed to make a word resonate vibrantly, she doesn’t seem to hear me. All quiet on the upper floor.

I don’t know much about the challenges pubescent girls have to go through in their early innocent lives, but this year my eldest daughter had a rather unusual request. I see it in the corner close to the stairs. I throw myself sideways, get hold of the handy tool and manage to take them out one by one. Click, click, click, TSSSSSSS. Click, click, click, TSSSSSSS. The new Taser X3 allows you to have three shots in a row before you need to reload. One last shot and another one bites the dust. TSSSSSSS.

Their battle cries have shattered all the windows, at least on the ground floor. Through the big living room window, I now can see a pair of gigantic hairy feet coming closer, stomping the yard.

And then there is this gargantuan beast of a man in front of the house. At least twice as tall as the three-storey house itself. A shadow descends from above and a huge hand knocks gently on the front door. The elves and their quite convincing knives make me step out on the snow-covered lawn. Although they are less than half of my size, the elves lift me up and carry me over to Joulupukki, and present me to him. He bows down again, grabs me by the feet and lifts me up.

On my way up, I see – upside-down – that he is a rather skinny and wiry fellow. An old haggard man with a sunken face and a thin white beard, which makes him look like a goat with human features. Thin legs in torn-up pants, skinny arms in a stained Bordeaux coloured overcoat with white fur lining. He is also wearing a huge flapping t-shirt with “Korvatunturi – Home of Father Christmas” written on it. And then I connect the dots loosely. According to Finnish legend Korvatunturi is the home of Joulupukki, the Laplandic version of Santa Claus. Only, he is not always a nice guy, he comes to punish the children for their misbehaviour during the year.

Joulupukki, it seems, is also not a man of many words. Without much ado, he just lifts me above his head and lowers me into his mouth. Before the sight of his rotten teeth and his obnoxiously strong breath knock me out, I manage to press the actuator on the pepper spray can one more time. His screams will haunt me until the day I die.

Then, surprisingly, I wake up. My feet are on the couch, but the rest of my body lies on the floor. I turn my head to the left. Everything is quiet and peaceful. The living room is all fine, nothing burnt or broken. However, our dog is lying in front of the fireplace with six probes in his body and wires that lead from the probes back to the Taser within reach of my left hand.

Flabbergasted, I turn my face up. My wife is towering over me with a sad but also angry look on her face. Her bloodshot eyes make her look like she has been crying exhaustively. A numb feeling in the wrist of my right arm, makes me turn in this direction, just to see that my spouse’s left foot is keeping down my right hand in which I am still holding a pepper spray can.