It’s Christmas Eve.

The candles are wax puddles, the company has gone home, and you feel the cool weight of the bed’s blankets press up against your legs.

Your face eases into a smile. Today was a good day.

As you close your eyes and wait for the sandman to do his thing, you suddenly hear a low, dull thud ringing out from above. It sounds like a soft palm hitting another palm.

Pfffff. Pfff.

Dust falls from the wood beams above.

You shrug it off; it must have been an icicle. You attempt to close your eyes once more.

BOOM. That’s not an icicle.

The house shakes. You sit straight up in bed like the undertaker and crane your head from side to side. It sounds like someone dropped a piano on your house, and your eyes suddenly trace the ceiling, watching out for any fallout.  But nothing falls; instead, something rises. It sounds like a voice coming from the chimney area. Your eyes narrow, and you hone in your hearing, trying to pick up on every last variable.

“Uhhh…Uhhh…shit!” Says the voice from above.

You freeze. Someone is here. Someone is here to hurt me. You suddenly feel like throwing up. This is the kind of shit that makes the news. Not the kind of shit that happens at 1608 Nottingham Avenue.

“Hooooooffffffff… ah….ahhhhh!” More noise from above.  Your hands grip the sheets. You can’t be positive, but if you were a betting man, you’d say it sounded like… like a strain?

“Ahhhhh….uuhhhh…. damnit!” 

That’s strain, alright. The intruder’s voice is heavy and forced. And for a moment, you think you hear a leathery sound like boots wildly scraping against brick.

“Ugh.”

Your eyes trace the ceiling, like a metal detector looking for treasure, trying to pinpoint the sound.

“Oooooffffffff…. come on!” The voice rings out. “Fuck!“

A lightbulb goes off in your head. The sound doesn’t move. It’s in the same spot. It’s the chimney. That fuckin bastard is stuck in the chimney.

 Your heart begins to slow down, and your breathing steadies. You feel a pressure coming from your head. You rub your temples. There it is. Your brain. Nice to have it back.

The phone’s glow catches your eyes. Call the cops. Call the fucking cops. And then you see the dark silhouette of the wooden baseball bat leaning against your door. Pick it up and swing it hard.

You dress in silence and begin the long walk down the hall, hoping the old creeky floorboards don’t betray you.

“Should of sent a damn elf down here.” The voice grunts. What a funny thing to say, you think to yourself, if only for a moment. You round the corner, pick up the pace, and dial 911.

“What’s your emergency?” the operator asks.

“I think someone’s trying to rob me… he’s… he’s on the roof,” you whisper between hushed, heavy breaths.

“Ok. Try to remain calm. Can you get to a safe place?”

You eye the ceiling. “I think so.”

“What’s your address?”

A giant boom from above interrupts, “Ahhhhhhh!!!! fuck!” You duck, fearing a gunshot. “Was that a gunshot?” the operator asks.

“I don’t know. I’m scared!” you hiss.

“What’s your address?”

You take a moment to eye the ceiling to make sure the sound isn’t following you.

“1608 Nottingham.”

“Ok… just sit tight; help is on its way.”

But her words don’t quite land. Instead, you feel the hardwood of the bat balance between your fingers. It feels as if an electric surge just raced through your body.

“I gotta see who did this.”

“No… it’s not safe!”

You stuff your phone into your pocket and eye down the door. This is what life is about. The moments when you feel close to death, you feel closer to life.

You shove the front door open, leap out of the house, kick snow up, and get just far enough to see the chimney.

“You’re a dead man, you rotten fuck!” you scream. But then you see it.

Your jaw hits the snow.

Sitting before you is a man who is giving a new meaning to the word stuck. His red jacket is puffed out, and his gut is pouring over the chimney, making him look like some sort of human muffin top. He’s like a cork in a bottle. A big, bearded cork in a bottle. His face is blood red, with a giant blue vein going down his forehead. And you can’t tell if he’s more hurt or embarrassed.

“Butter! Give me Butter,” The man frantically cries, his fingers wiggling in the air.

You sigh and watch your breath frost the air and pick up your phone; the operator is still on the other line.

“What happened? Are you OK?” Her emotions getting the better of her.

“Officer, you’re never gonna believe this. But there’s a fat white guy stuck in my chimney.”

There’s a pause. It feels like two, maybe three eternities.

“How does he look?” She asks.

“Not too Jolly.”

Let’s get the holiday season started off right! Please like, comment, share and tell me what you think!