Santa Claus Conquers the Homophobes by Robert Devereaux

godliness. A thorough cleansing would correct so many of society’s ills. The minds of sinners, even the faithful, were so cluttered with secular trash, it was difficult to reach them. He needed a God-sized broom and a divine mandate to sweep their lives clean. The chore was Herculean. For not only were the faithful fallen, but those in Satan’s iron grip were deeply fallen. The worst were defiant in their hellish ways, lambs bleating from the satanic sheepcote as though they roared like lions ramping free and proud.
    Keeping his house immaculate allowed Ty to focus on these things, to gird his loins against the foe, keeping himself holy, then banding together with other worthy believers to beat back on all fronts the rising tides of secularism. The Almighty had his ways, which were mysterious indeed. Even so, the righteous were not to question them, but be God’s soldiers with every breath granted them. This special season brought much to be thankful for. Topping Ty’s list were the strength and stamina to hold Christ’s banner high and press boldly into the moral fray.
    He showered and toweled himself dry. Those same pajamas he took from the well-oiled drawer to cover himself. Placing his slippers just so by his bedside, he set his glasses neatly on his night stand, slid beneath the crisp sheets and comforter, closed his eyelids to ask God’s forgiveness and to bless Alison and a list of recently deceased, grieving, or ailing parishioners, and fell asleep.
    Only to find himself, moments later, fumbling awake.
    “Hello, Ty,” said a male voice he had never heard, but knew at once. “Hi, Mister Taylor,” echoed a girlish voice in equally astounding tones.
    “Marauders,” said Ty, slurry with dream. He groped for his glasses. “I should be afraid. But I feel such joy in your presence. Let me look at you. Dear God in heaven, I’m insane out of my head. And oh my, the scent of pine is overwhelming.”
    “Ty,” said one who could not be, but was indeed, Santa Claus, “this is Wendy, my stepdaughter. We’re here for the first of three visits tonight, to open up new vistas for you.”
    “I must be dreaming.” He put a hand to his face. His heart pounded. “This can’t be good for me. But it’s marvelous! You’re a godsend. Literally. Am I right?”
    Santa said yes to that. But Ty saw that he had no interest in dwelling on his connection with God. The girl chimed in, “To be more exact, the archangel Michael sent us.”
    “Did he, dear?” said Ty, delighted.
    “Whether Michael or God himself,” said Santa, sweeping a hand past the baseboard of Ty’s bed, “we’re here to show you some of your flock.”
    The bedroom walls fell away, and there before him sat the Stupplebeens at their breakfast table, egg-encrusted plates set aside, newspaper sections snapped open over coffee.
    “My heavens, it’s George and Vera. They’re very righteous, very generous, double tithers, and always deeply engaged by my sermons.”
    “Listen,” said Santa.
    And the old couple’s words came bell-clear to Ty’s ears. George smacked the newspaper. “The queer boys and cross-dressers are pushing their agenda again. Another bleeding heart corporation’s added benefits for so-called domestic partners.”
    “They’ll roast in hell,” said Vera. “Which company is it this time?”
    George told her.
    “All right, we won’t spend a penny on their products ever again. Find out who the CEO is. I’ll singe his cowardly ears with a few choice words.”
    “Money’s all they understand,” said George. “Homo’s are rich. No kids, no responsibilities. But us Christians are richer. We’ll throw enough money at this to drive them back into the closet where they belong.”
    “In hell paying for the sins of the flesh is where they belong.”
    Santa cut the sound off.
    “Their faces are so...ugly,” said Ty in astonishment. “Dripping with hatred. That’s not the way they are with me.”
    The Stupplebeens faded and