Satan Strap 4000

A dull thud from somewhere on the roof and a slight scraping could be heard. Sprinklings of black dust drifted down onto the carpet, a muffled scratching sound emanating from the chimney. Then something came falling and landing with a bump on the charred remains of wood, its identity momentarily obscured by a fire grate and a puff of soot. The man and it was certainly a man, no bigger than a toddler but with a face older than a grandfather clock, shook the dark powder from his head and patted down his green boiler suit. His face and ears a mosaic of pointy features, while his balding crown wore a skirt of grey hair. There was a long sigh from the fireplace as he caressed his cheek, then the grate squeaked as it was moved aside. The stranger could be seen carefully replacing the fire grate and using the curling toes of his slippers to try and brush the soot off the carpet.

The diminutive man hobbled out of the front room and into the corridor. The sound of the latch on the front door being released could be heard and rapid exchange of whispers which were impossible to decipher. Then the door was softly closed with extreme care and a light footfall entered the room.

The expected return of the small man made the arrival of this bulbous fellow with a huge sack and beard all the more amazing.

It was him!

The man dropped his sack on the floor with a thud and arched his back with his hands on his hips; surveying the room. His eyes drifted from the Christmas tree drooping with ornaments and pulsating lights, to the television enshrined with tinsel, the mirror above the fireplace with holly in the corners and settled on the sofa that fitted perfectly into an alcove formed from the curtained bay window. It seemed his short partner in crime had exited the property. The burly intruder browsed a bookcase in the far corner of the room, picked out a Terry Pratchett novel, read the back and then returned it to the shelf.

Suddenly there was a crackling sound and the man abruptly straightened, grunted and then collapsed to the floor. It was a surprisingly soft fall considering his size, the belly and beard apparently providing secondary uses as airbags.

Ten year old Mason Blythe appeared from beneath his green shroud and left his clandestine viewing point from behind the sparkles of the Christmas tree. He bent down by the twitching form and secured cable ties procured from his father's tool box, first around the ankles and then the wrists of the trespasser. The child tugged two pins connected to a wire out of the chubby man's back and allowed him to roll over, a little foam peeping from the side of his mouth and he seemed to be struggling to focus on Mason.

'Wh...what just happened?' the bearded man said, his voice hoarse and quite posh.

Mason pulled out his device; it looked like the remote for a toy aeroplane.

'I fashioned a stun gun from my mother's disposable camera,' he said proudly, placing it on the ground and, pulling a small torch from the pocket of his Spiderman pyjamas, shone it in the man's eyes while pushing back his eyelids with his thumb, 'Do you feel nauseous?'

'A little groggy.'

Mason peered at the man's trousers.

'No sign of bladder failure.'

Mason put his hand against the man's forehead.

'Interesting.'

The boy swapped the torch for a notepad and crayon and scribbled something down. A smile spread across his face and he sat down in front of the man, crossing his legs.

'Father Christmas, the man himself really here, in Harwood Heights, I can't quite believe it.'

Santa blinked. The pallor of his face had returned to the glowing redness that was so vibrant against the snow drift of his beard.