McDougal Saves Christmas (Part 1)

It was December 1972, McDougal and I were hiking through the Egyptian desert, dragging our scuba equipment behind us, when we came upon the wreckage of the sleigh. On a recent trip to London McDougal had acquired a looter's map marking the location of several intact tombs, filled with gold and other riches, that now sat at the bottom of Lake Nassar following the completion of the Aswan High Dam. Our plan was to retrieve the gold and smuggle it out of the country aboard McDougal's seaplane. Unfortunately, several miles short of our destination McDougal struck a wayward camel with his Landrover and we had to continue on foot.

McDougal immediately went to the aid of the sled's occupant, while I stood transfixed, staring at several quadruped standing at the top of a distant sand dune, backlit by the setting sun. I assumed they were more of those damned camels, but were those antlers on their heads? I shook my head to clear it and went to help McDougal extract the overweight gentleman from the overturned sleigh. McDougal was easily able to turn the sleigh upright. The man was unconscious, but otherwise seemed to have sustained no serious injury. I glanced around, noticing for the first time the huge debris field of brightly colored toys surrounding the crater in which the sleigh rested. I tried desperately to block the natural, but illogical conclusion from my head. McDougal, however, had no such internal struggle. The years of drug use have left him only the most tenuous mental separation between the worlds of fantasy and reality.

"Well, looks like the looting is out of the question," he muttered as he began to pick up toys. "At least for today anyway."

After a careful examination of the sleigh's remains I believe this is what happened. Santa Claus (there, I said it) was on a routine delivery to a local village of Coptic Christians when the Egyptian military, thinking him to be an Israeli combat aircraft, shot him down with a SA-7 missile. It makes perfect sense if you really think about it.

We immediately set to gathering up the spilled toys, coaxing the reindeer back into an orderly herd and treating the minor wounds of the unfortunate Mr. Claus. When we finished McDougal stood back and surveyed the scene. He then reached into his pocket and removed a large paper sack. This sack contained hundreds of large red and green capsules. McDougal tossed a handful into his mouth like gumdrops.

"What are those?" I asked.

"Christmas Spirit," he replied and howled like a banshee.

McDougal flipped one of the capsules to me and then began distributing them to the reindeer. I looked at the capsule for a minute, but then decided that whatever was about to happen next, I would probably be better off with something, anything, in my system than without and swallowed it down.

A cold feeling began to creep through my chest. My heart was hammering, I could feel my bloodpressure skyrocket. Every breath I took seemed to freeze my lungs, making it difficult to breath. Lines began to etch their way across my vision. Spirals with squared edges, Aztec patterns that formed into serpents, condors and jaguars. Somewhere to my left McDougal was whistling "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" off key. Then I could only hear myself screaming, the sound rising like steam escaping from a teakettle. I blacked out.