(SCENE: ERIC, JORDAN and MARC STAAL are at their parents’ house in Thunder bay, Ontario.)
MAMA STAAL: It’s so nice to have you boys here for Christmas, even if Jared is running a bit late. It’s just too bad that the dog ate our turkey…and the ham. And about six pies.
FATHER STAAL: Damn turkey wasn’t even thawed yet! It was still all frozen!
ERIC: That’s my Rockso!
MARC: That dog’s friggin’ indestructible.
JORDAN: It’s great that Rockso’s like 30 and still going strong, but now we don’t have much for dinner tomorrow.
ERIC: Don’t’ worry mom. Me, Jordan, and Marc will take care of it for you.
(A little later, after dark, ERIC, JORDAN, and MARC are walking in the forest. ERIC is carrying a rifle, while JORDAN is carrying a six back of beer and continually drinking)
MARC: Eric, if we’re getting stuff for mom, why are we in the woods with a gun? Why aren’t we going to the grocery store?
ERIC: Go to a grocery store at this time of year, and at this time of night? Screw that ****, we’re going fresh.
MARC: But isn’t that illegal?
JORDAN: Pfffft. We’re the Staals. We’re the most remarkable thing to come out of Thunder Bay since…since…uhh…
ERIC: Crippling depression?
MARC: You know what I always thought was weird?
MARC: You know all those holiday specials they had when we were kids? They never really taught about Jesus or not being a dick to people. They had this main lesson that Santa is real.
JORDAN: You are such a dumb ****.
MARC: Nah, ‘cuz, like, there was always some grumpy jackhole who treated people like crap, and then Santa shows up, does some magic, and everyone’s all happy and stuff. And people are like “Oh my God! Santa’s real after all!”
ERIC: There are real Santas out there.
JORDAN: Eric…I think you and I need to have a talk…
ERIC: I mean, there’s Santa Ana. That’s a real Santa. DUUUUUUUUUUH.
JORDAN: Hold up (they all stop.) Did you guys hear that?
MARC: Something’s in the bushes over there…
ERIC: (loudly) And it will totally eat us all if we don’t defend ourselves!
JORDAN: What’s that for?
ERIC: You never know if the game wardens are out.
JORDAN: Good thinking.
(grunting and rustling in the bushes)
MARC: I…uh, we have a gun! For protection against wolves and stuff!
(The grumbling and rustling gets angrier. ERIC shoots.)
MARC: Did you get it?
ERIC: I can’t really tell. (a deer-like animal flops down on the ground.) Cool! We got venison! Just like how the pioneers would do it!
JORDAN: that doesn’t look like any deer I’ve ever seen.
MARC: Yeah, it’s way too furry and pissed off looking.
JORDAN: (jokingly) Gee, you think we shot Rudolph?
ERIC: I did not shoot Rudolph!
JORDAN: You’re right—there’s no red nose. You must’ve shot one of the less reindeer, like Blitzen.
ERIC: This isn’t a reindeer! I mean…it can’t be, can it?
JORDAN: (chanting) You shot Blitzen! You shot Blitzen! (MARC joins the chant)
ERIC: SHUT UP! You guys are dicks! Let’s just hide the body and get out of here.
MARC: That totally sounds like something someone who just killed one of Santa’s reindeer would say.
ERIC: UP YOURS, STINKHOLE. (A LARGE BEARDED MAN who looks an awful lot like Santa appears. ERIC, JORDAN, and MARC turn whiter than they already are)
LARGE BEARDED MAN: Hey there! Uh…I need to know if you guys can help me.
ERIC: (On the verge of panic and tears) I SWEAR I THOUGHT IT WAS A BEAR OR SOMETHING! HONEST!
LARGE BEARDED MAN: Uh…ok. See, I’m with the town’s living manger, and one of our donkeys ran off.
MARC: Nope. We haven’t seen a thing.
LARGE BEARDED MAN: I did hear a gunshot not too long ago.
JORDAN: Well, y’see, Eric here’s kind of an itchy trigger finger, but an awful shot.
ERIC: (very nervously) Yeah, you know, if it’s not a slapshot, I can’t hit the broad side of a sleigh—I mean, barn.
LARGE BEARDED MAN: Well, call the city hall if you see anything. I’ll keep looking.
MARC: Don’t worry, we will! (LARGE BEARDED MAN leaves)
JORDAN: Now that you mention it, that does kinda look like a donkey.
MARC: Can you even eat donkey?
JORDAN: I’m sure the pioneers ate donkey, right, Eric?
ERIC: Screw you, dickface. Help me get this back to mom and dad’s.
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