Santa Claus Conquers the Homophobes Read Online Free PDF

worship Satan, no matter how hard they pretend otherwise. They prattle in vain, these deviants from the straight and narrow. Come Judgment Day, they shall be harshly judged. In the days of glory, they will not be with us in heaven. No, for they shall burn eternally in the bowels of hell, the all-consuming fires of their infinite suffering declaiming the glory of their creator and redeemer, whose words they heeded not, though they were given every chance to repent and reform.”
    Wendy muted the preacher. “There’s lots more.”
    “They suffer this man to preach?” There was an ache in Santa’s voice that touched Wendy’s heart.
    “They can’t get enough of him,” she said. “His is the best-attended evangelical church in their community. But look.” Wendy gestured, and she and Santa and the bed glided down the center aisle. Jamie’s family came closer and then his face. It spoke volumes.
    “I’m guessing,” said Santa softly, “the Strattons are faithful churchgoers.”
    “Every Sunday without fail. Tearing down homosexuals is Ty’s favorite tactic. It fills the coffers twice as fast as his railings against abortion. Daddy, you’re so pale. I have to show you two more scenes, but I can do it another time.”
    “No, go on. You see why I have no truck with grown-ups. How far they fall from childhood. It’s an eternal mystery to me, why they fail to remain wrapped in divinity, turning away from creativity and kindness. Go on, Wendy. Show me the rest.”
    “All right.” The church vanished. “Four years pass and Jamie’s in the eleventh grade.” The den where Wendy had watched him practice the violin appeared, an easy chair, a couch, a TV set, and a paint-by-number harbor scene on a wood-paneled wall. Jamie, a handsome sixteen, sat in shame on the couch, his hands clasped between his knees. His parents stood over him.
    “You are not gay,” his mother said, rigid and pasty-faced.
    “Come to your senses, son,” said his father. “Don’t upset your mother with such talk.”
    “It’s disgusting,” she said. “ You’re disgusting. Who recruited you? Some older boy? I’ll claw his eyes out. You are not this way. You’re my son, you hear me? God will hurl you into hell and you’ll burn forever. Do you want that? Answer me!”
    “No, Mom.”
    “Walter, talk some sense into your son.”
    Wendy let the scene play on in pantomime.
    Santa’s voice was husky and soft. “Kathy’s her name. Her last name was MacLaren when I visited her house, Christmas Eves long ago. She loved floppy dolls. She hugged her stuffed cat Jeffrey until he was lumpy and faded. Back then, Kathy wore pigtails and beamed with joy.”
    “In her own way, she loves her sons. But she loves God more.”
    Santa laughed. “Some God.”
    Wendy replaced the den scene with an overpass across a highway. The traffic below was busy and fast, the sound muted.
    “They took him out of school and sent him to an intensive one-week cure-all in the Adirondacks. A stern-faced counselor berated him, threatened hellfire, and mocked his tears and protests.”
    Jamie appeared along the sidewalk. When he reached the center of the overpass, he shrugged off his backpack, unzippered it, and removed two apples.
    “The cure-all people starved him. Several times a night, they woke him with harsh lights and barked orders to get down and do fifty push-ups. They showed him photos of attractive boys and slapped him hard. They showed him prim-faced girls in their Sunday best and gave him ice cream. In the end he pretended conversion. They let him go.”
    Jamie stared intently along the interstate. He dropped an apple over the side, following its fall.
    “What’s he doing?” asked Santa.
    “He’s gauging when to drop the apple so it hits the roadway just in front of an oncoming big rig.”
    Jamie raised the second apple, that same intent stare. He held it over the parapet and let it go.
    “You don’t mean he’s...”
    Jamie hoisted himself to a