He woke up with blood on his hands, body in the sewers, and the smell of manure suffocating. He could remember her screaming like a banshee in his arms. And the colour red spilling everywhere, bathing them in that cursed liquid. The sun set, and she---
No. He would find her again.
Even if his older brother Adolf Hitler would not let him.
The red would haunt him forever---the color of blood, of Santa Klaus, of his own red and black armband.
Yet her colour was yellow---the colour of the children playing, the elated sun, and the star which she proudly wore.
He would rise from the sewers later that evening, the colors of a phoenix etched onto his heart and the world around him as it drowned in the fires of rebirth; and he burned, burned, and burned.
And he solemnly swore from that point on, he would find the Allies, and forever commit himself to them-in her memory. But first, he had to find his brother and seek his betrothed status, whether dead or alive. And why the hell he was in the sewers in the first place.
He confronted Adolf and his damned mustache a year later. It had seemed he hadn’t just landed in any regular German sewer-no, he woke up dumped in Peru. So he hijacked a plane, grew a mustache, and landed in Berlin a year later because it takes that long to learn how to fly a damn plane.
“And what brings a hobo to my grand, ruling palace?” his brother said by greeting, not recognizing his younger sibling. “Such a fake mustache by the way.”
“And I suppose yours is any better, Adolf?” he replied, fuming as he snorted his mustache.
Adolf blinked. “I recognize that voice. No-it couldn’t be. I made sure he was dead. Who are you?”
“Yes! It is I, your younger brother, S. Klaus!!!!!!”
“Santa?” Adolf exclaimed incredulously.
“Rearrange those letters and you’ll get Satan.” Santa roared, pulling out a knife. “Where is my wife, Mrs. Klaus? Did you kill her?”
Adolf gave Santa a vile smile. “Did you prefer her to die in your arms, with a plate of cookies near you?”
“No, I’d prefer her with the cookies and milk.”
Adolf rolled his eyes. “You are an unexpected variable, Santa. I told everyone you died.”
Santa moved the knife forward. “Bah-humbug. I am sure all the children are thrilled.”
He twirled the weapon in his fingers. “I had the elves make this one. Don’t you like it? So much blood---better than your horrendous gas chambers. Where’s the fun in that?”
Adolf smiled. “Then you’ll be pleased she didn’t die in the gas chambers, then. Don’t you remember you killed her?”
“Nigga say what?” Santa rapped (or should I say, wrapped).”Your boy didn’t touch no one. In fact, I did my algebra-you killed her.”
“What kind of black algebra is that?” Adolf exclaimed in horror. “You ordered her death because she wanted the elves to build gas chambers for naughty children. Especially the Jewish ones.”
“But that nigga was Jewish!”
Adolf seemed deep in thought. He stroked his mustache carefully. “Actually, no. At least I don’t think so.”
“So she was a liar?” Santa couldn’t fathom what just transpired. And he was very, very, very angry. And when Santa is angry, he raps (or, again, wraps).
“I was coming to town, my nose like a hound, searching from naughty to nice, my beloved’s hair full of innocent lice. I was crazy for her and her star, but there were times I wanted her to get run over by a car, so times like that when I don’t wanna have another formula, I just do my algebra.”
“Santa, I know you know that I know that I killed your wife that I know but you don’t know is an actual Jew. Santa, what really brings you to town?”
It was Santa’s turn to stroke his mustache. “Well, I know you’ve been naughty, Adolf. So I have to light you up like a Christmas Tree.”
And that was when Adolf’s head suddenly blew up, blood splattering over Santa once again.
And that was how Adolf really died, it’s just that he was more naughty than nice. That year.