Potatoes cannot run. There is no debating that now. No more questions. If there was ever a time for a potato to run, it was on that day, on that field. It is a fact, potatoes cannot run.
But I swear to you. I swear on a stack of Bibles. A stack of Kama Sutras, Reader’s Digests, my aunt B’s Betty Crocker Cookbooks, magazines, your mother’s romance novels, …
I swear to you, on that day, on that field, Latitude 44.028013 Longitude -69.303408 – potatoes did fly!! They flew far and they flew like bulbous, dense, featherless, wingless birds.
Most potatoes were squashed by the steamrollers, but many also flew. I don’t know if it was magic, fate, or a combination of the potatoes’ shape and frozen ground, when a steamroller hit a potato at just the right angle, the potato shot out like a rocket. Some launched high in the sky, some flew straight like a bullet.
The ones that flew high shouted with great joy. I don’t know if it was the feeling of flight, escaping the crushing of the steamrollers, the floating sensation when they rose to great height. I can’t say for sure, but the joyous sounds filled the air. At first.
What goes up, must come down – the saying goes. When they reached the top of their flight, they hung in the air for just a second – weightless, time frozen. The hope they must have felt just like Steve felt seeing me with the stick.
Then it was as if the hand of Santa himself reached up and pulled them back down to earth. The shock they must have felt, just like Steve. The screams from those potatoes echoed throughout the land. The sound. The sound of the falling. Screams. Then the sound of the crushing steamrollers – scream and pop. Scream-pop. “Ahhh!” + pop. The sounds will haunt my dreams forever.
It sounded like a giant eating a whole chicken. Crunch, snap, pop. Oh, you probably haven’t heard a giant eating a chicken. Chicken bones are moist just like your bones are moist. You may not realize it, but a potato is a little moist too and makes the same sound when squashed or snapped in two. It’s a sickening sound if you ask me. Moist.
The potatoes that launched like bullets screamed too. There was no control. Potatoes started crashing into everything on the field. Crashing into the elves. Into other potatoes. Into rabbits, turkeys, leprechauns, ghosts, goblins, ghouls. No one was spared, not even Fizzle.
The first hit was to Fizzle’s stomach, knocking the wind right out of him. The second to his shoulder with a crack and a cry. But it was the face. Oh, the face. Fizzle took one to the eye so hard the other eye popped out. The nose. Blood everywhere. Then the mouth. Teeth sprayed out everywhere. Finally, the forehead. That was the hit that killed poor Fizzle. It almost looked like the potatoes were organized. So many so quickly right at Fizzle.
And Santa. Santa saw it all. Shocked into silence. Frozen. His best friend in the whole world. Gone. Mutilated before his own eyes. Torn apart in a gross and bizarre potato attack. And Matt kept pacing and kept writing.
Rage. Rage filled his heart. He let out a scream. A roar so loud the field shook. Everything stopped. Silence. Everyone and everything froze.
Santa looked around. The field covered in lumpy mashed potatoes. Feathers and furs, greens and reds. All smashed together in a gross mash and mush. It could only be described as the devil’s potato salad.
Then something happened in Santa. As he looked at the carnage. His dear friend lying in the field. The rabbits, leprechauns, elves, and ghouls driving the steamers. He saw the horror in some of their eyes, the fear in others. He realized he had caused this horror. He started this nightmare.
Santa let out another cry, but this time a cry of anguish, of sorrow, as he looked at Fizzle. “What have I done? Dear God, what have I done?”
He ran to Fizzle and knelt beside him. He picked up and cradled what was left of Fizzle, weeping uncontrollably. What had he done, indeed.
He no longer felt rage against the egg throwers. He had wanted to punish a handful of children and that turned into every child in the world. Now, holding Fizzle, he could feel only shame. With great remorse, Santa abandoned his plans. He vowed right then and there, there would always be a Christmas no matter how angry he got or how badly some kids behaved.
Sometimes we are not at our best.
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