Oh, how Lazenby wishes the winds of fate could have blown more gently! How he begged to find some shred of goodness and decency in the coal-black heart of the fat, bearded beast known as Santa Claus!
But it was not to be, for the deviant, ruddy-cheeked Kringle and his army of fiendish elves did recently set out to destroy dear Lazenby. Why? So they could continue unabated their wretched Christmas Eve tradition of visiting the houses of comely lasses clad in naught but their silky night-things, visit them with hungry eyes and slobbering countenances and thoughts of such an impure nature that Lazenby blushes, and must steady himself against the flank of his mighty steed.
That is why, verily, Lazenby did kill Santa Claus – and save Christmas. Rejoice!
Know now that it shall be Lazenby – and not the accursed, corpulent, hell-snake Claus – who alights at your abode late this Christmas Eve. Know that this visitor shall be merry and handsome. Know him by his velveteen cloak the color of midnight. Know him by his attractive hoizontal corduroy trousers. Know that you shall quiver in so many delicious ways as Lazenby delivers to you gifts wrapped in fiery amour! Swoon, and Lazenby shall catch you, and make you his.
But first, Lazenby must put quill to parchment, so he may tell you and your lovely friends the heart-pounding tale of his epic battle against Santa Claus, the bile-dripping whorehound, and his vile minions from the Icy North.
May windows steam and may your collective bosoms heave beneath tight garments as you read Lazenby’s words one magical night soon.
Imagine the fury of Lazenby – noble and handsome horseman, protector of virtue extraordinaire, Betabrands’ spokesman for women – upon learning of the wretched, sweaty depredations visited upon the silky smoothness of Mrs. Veronica Higginbotham of Meadowview, Ohio, by none other than Santa Claus! She would be the last flower to be trampled by this avatar of avuncular putridity in red velvet, this bearded, ruddy-cheeked cad that descends from the northernmost climes every Christmas Eve, ostensibly to deliver gifts of good tiding to the children of the world. Nay, it is but an excuse for his dastardly leering and heavy breathing and pinching of ladies’ buttocks.
Lazenby resolved to stop the monster at all cost!
Alighting on his mighty steed, Lazenby did gallop north from San Francisco, across the Sierra Nevada, across the windswept plains of Canada, and far into the frozen north. After galloping for many bitter days and nights, Lazenby did spy through the winter gloaming many drifts of once-virgin snow, cut by rivulets of blood. Soon he came upon the source of the gore: carcasses of seals and narwhals and all manner of Arctic beast, worked to their deaths in Santa’s abominable workshop and discarded on the icy tundra. The crisp air now grew thick with smoke and the odor of grease, and Lazenby and his steed knew that danger was surely afoot! Finally, they arrived at Santa’s abode – not the charming cottage of lore, but an icy fortress, ringed by a moat of boiling oil, patrolled by horrible, bellowing walruses clad in leather vests and chain mail, their tusks sharpened like daggers!
The manner in which our hero secreted himself inside this house of doom is long and tedious; suffice it to say, Lazenby found himself face to face with the despicable Kringle and his garrison of bloodthirsty elves, their pointy boots jingling menacingly with every step they took toward our hero. Above them swung a cage filled with whimpering Romanian prostitutes, whom the elves had spirited out of Bucharest to quench Un-saintly Nick’s vast array of perversions. “Fear not,” Lazenby said, addressing the maidens in his best Romanian. “You shall not drown in this Arctic hell-broth so long as dear Lazenby has words to the contrary. Înainte!”
“Fiend!” cried Lazenby, unsheathing his gleaming scimitar and setting his unwavering gaze upon Claus. “Wretched, corpulent defiler! Upon my blade you shall now rest most uncomfortably!”
Santa issued forth a deep and evil laugh. “Ho, ho, ho, Lazenby,” he said, saliva glistening on his terrible beard. “I shall enjoy watching you die before I embark upon another Christmas Eve of debauchery!” Santa drew from beneath his suit a silver whistle, into which he blew a strange and foreboding note. The floor shook beneath Lazenby’s feet.
“What manner of evil is this now, wretched Claus?” cried Lazenby. Suddenly, a great Orca exploded through the ice and clasp Lazenby in its jaws, dragging him down to the frozen depths!
“Goodbye, Lazenby” Santa said. “Goodbye forever!”
Under the command of the damnable Kris Kringle, the ravenous orca did seize our hero Lazenby in his mighty jaws and drag him to the icy depths. Meanwhile, in Santa’s abominable workshop, his putrid elves danced gleefully upon the ice – cracking their whips and drinking from great barrels of cheap brandy – and the cage-bound prostitutes did cry in anguish for dear Lazenby, consigned to a watery grave by this demon cetacean!
How Lazenby did struggle to extricate himself, but to no avail, and the life that had burned brighter than Mercury’s torch began to dim! But then, hark the furious bubbles of a pod of narwhals! They did rescue Lazenby, and proceeded to perforate the vile orca to and fro with their bony lances, until the beast released out hero, Lazenby, and plummeted to the depths to become crab-victuals!
One of the narwhals, this sleek, sea-faring savior, granted Lazenby the use of its sword. And a kindly walrus gave Lazenby one of its tusks. And with these razor-sharp implements our hero swam to the surface, whereupon he sought out the white-whiskered Saint of Misery and did deliver unto his ample stomach a great and bloody death-blow!
“Curse you, handsome horseman,” Claus sputtered, his mouth awash in blood and bile. As this corpulent merchant of ill-tidings looked on through dying eyes, Lazenby did summon Mrs. Claus from her locked bedchamber. Urged on by Lazenby’s kind hands, she did lay her freshly knitted quilt on a field of freshly fallen snow, and there Lazenby lay with her, and walked her through a garden of such delights as she had not seen in all her hundreds of years!
And the seals and walruses and all other manner of aquatic mammal did clap their flippers and cheer wildly as the lovers embraced in the gentle glow of the Aurora Borealis. And the prostitutes were freed, and they did rejoice! And the elves did flee out upon the tundra, where they would soon be devoured by polar bears and caribou!
“Oh Lazenby,” said the Lady Claus, still rendered dreamy by her cloaked paramour, “there are still so many gifts to deliver tonight!”
“Indeed, my graying lovely!” cried Lazenby, pulling up his Cordarounds and summoning not only his mighty steed, but also a stable of reindeer as well as a number of leather-clad walruses, to which he hitched Santa’s sleigh. “As Claus breathes his last, so Lazenby shall ride tonight! The children of the world shall rejoice with gifts aplenty, and comely housewives shall too receive gifts, but of another, breathtaking sort. Forward ho!”
Look! An 11-person Smoking Jacket tribute to the brave and mysterious Lazenby.