Chay's wasteland

Dated 31 AD, recovered in Jerusalem Israel in 1327 AD by Neo-Saint Herschel in the company of Liu Xiang and Zaphpock of Negation. Translated by Venerable KUP of the Wandering Library.

"I am Simon. My place in this world is not that of Messiah, nor fighter of the Roman. I am simply a common criminal, but my words here match the truth of God’s. There was a time when I stood accused of assault by the Roman. I stood in front of my kin, and the roman said “See how kind the Roman is? That he should take these criminals from the streets?” All were silent. “But to show our kindness even further,” The Roman spoke, “One of these criminals shall be left without punishment.” He gestured to me, and relayed my name and crime. He gestured to the man by his side, a small man whose body would look of a child had he not white hair and beard. The Roman said this man was Santa, and he stood accused of sorcery. I prayed for my freedom, even at this man’s expense. “Free Santa, for he is not dangerous!” The first man cried. “Free Simon, for he is innocent!” Cried another man. The final man looked upon us both, and said “Let Santa rot upon a cross for his sins.”

The Roman declared my freedom, and cut away Santa’s hand as punishment. After this trial, I approached Santa. I asked him if he was innocent, and he replied “I am guilty as accused, yes.” I asked him then, “How do you practice sorcery?” He replied only by sitting upon the ground. I watched him for a moment, and the blood from where his hand had been cleared. Wounds all across his body left him, and his hand reappeared exactly as it had been. When he stood, he looked as though nothing in this world had touched him. I asked him if he was the Messiah, but he responded only with a grin. I followed with the man from then onward.

Santa always attracted much attention, wherever we traveled. When men tried to fight him, he simply sat down upon the ground, and could not be hit. Weapons often passed through the man as if he was air when he sat, and he always had an almost childlike grin at their confusion. When we went to the river of John the Baptist, he raised the water to a flood, and sat upon the surface as it were solid. When we went to Nazareth, he made a show of knowing what he could not see, and when a thief tried to attack him he grabbed a brick to his hand from air, knocked the thief down with a single blow, and said “Sit child. Do not confuse my size for my strength.”

He was arrested by the Roman often, but never did his punishment. When thrown in jail, the walls flew apart like they were struck by a vicious blow. When his body was beaten, he would simply remove his wounds like I had first seen. When I asked him “What do you think of the Roman?” He replied “What do you think of a fly?”

After many years of travel with him, Santa finally approached me with the intent of teaching me. I found this strange, as in all our years he had never so much as told me the nature of his sorcery, much less his method. Nevertheless, he sat me down upon the ground, and handed me a plant I had never seen before. It was coarse and cold despite the desert heat, and he bade me to eat it. I did, putting full trust in the man.

I can not remember when I fell asleep, it must have been shortly after eating the strange plant, but when I awoke it was night, and Santa was nowhere to be seen. In his place there was simply a note, which read as follows.

"I am sorry to have tricked you, my friend, but you were the one I had been waiting for. My power, and thus myself, have long departed now to another. I hope you understand this well, and make good use of it."

To this day I do not understand what he meant by it, but I pray that wherever he has gone he has found himself with those of his ilk and kind. He was a strange man, but a powerful one. A small strange man, with a power to rival His."

When questioned, Saint Nicholas, Kris Kringle, and CC Kukuplax (Alias Mrs. Claus) claimed to have no knowledge of the aforementioned Santa

Join me, good self and all-hating doctor
Join me in this chiaroscuric masquerade
And abandon your veil so prim and meacockish
To your cruel and twisted, sanguinarian mask
The equivocating madman you are
Becomes the equivocating madman you play
And the patrons of the fantastical and fanatical celebrations
Their eyes peeled and set on ecdysiasts,
None of whom ekdustiphiles to your mask,
Fall to the tune of your mad ravings
They shall appraise and praise you as the killer
Before the lynching so misguided
And the victory so sweet
Bow out with grace, good doctor
For your killer friend fatumspexes
Runs and leaves you hanging
On the noose and omphalos of the game
So join me, but just before, have a drink
To loosen the inhibitions that keep one so mimsy
You and I, good doctor
We will have one, each in our own way
But each just as sweet, and each just as freeing

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