The Kid: The Christmassy People.

They were everywhere. I dashed through the canteen, barely managing to balance my chips in their polystyrene plate, looking left and right at my pursuers. Red Hats bobbed up and down, with little white bobbles that looked like nothing but obnoxious, demon-possessed snowballs. The lights twinkled and flashed, reflected a thousand times in the tinsel decorations that swamped the walls, ceilings, and anywhere else that they could conceivably be hanged from. And a few places that were simply mad. Simply mad.

The access ramp to the door was clear, and I pressed on, viciously tearing a chunk out of the paper sachet with my teeth, releasing the salt that would soon flavour my chips. They were the cause of the consternation. And by God they were worth it. The room stank of turkey, cooked too long and then re-heated in a microwave, before being sold to the masses for far more than it was worth. I thought again of the countless multitudes lost in the great slaughter. Those had been some damn fine turkeys.

I continued my lone sprint up the ramp, as much salt flying up my coat sleeve as went on my meal. The white granules fell to the floor, and would doubtless soon be seen as a small amount of the fabled snow, falling as it had in years gone past. The door opened agonisingly ahead of me, the heavy, fireproof portal that would allow me to escape from them.

I reached the door, and with a final, heroic effort, launched myself through the opening, chips cradled like a child at my chest. NO! One of them barred my passage, a girl my own age but a hand shorter, blocking my exit to the promised land beyond. She wore an elf's hat, and smiled at me, as if to say that there was nothing that she would rather do than than keep me prisoner there. I had been taken by them.

The Christmassy People. That is the only name I would give them, for they never named themselves, and even claim to be the real men and women who's guise they take for one month a year. I remember a time when their coming was not a grievous tragedy, but instead a celebration, a time of thanksgiving, and good will to all men. Now I know different. They are monsters, monsters who wish to enslave us all through annoying jingles, over-priced goods and gaudy, ridiculous decorations. They set up flashing lights to dazzle us, and sing songs that are specially trained to permeate even the strongest of wills.

I have noticed something else, too. They stay here longer each year. At first, they traditionally arrived at the start of December, bribing us with chocolate to ignore their entry. Now, the earliest arrive in October. The Christmassy People take away some of our best and brightest for months at a time.

I began the fightback years ago. Simply ignoring them proved effective at first, although my lack of Christmas cards served to alienate me from them. I have looked into the history of Christmas, found the deceit at the beginning, but proving them wrong serves only to infuriate them. Their blood-red hats soon became an augury that I could not ignore.

I often wonder how it is that I am not taken and used as a masquerade by the creatures. It is clear to see the ones who are taken, for they are forever asking why. Why are you not in The Christmas Spirit? Maybe that is the key. One must want to be taken. But people deny that anything has happened to them. They deny that they have changed, just that it is a "special time of year." They deny their own existence. And that is what scares me most.

"Excuse me," I muttered, and attempted to brush the elf-girl aside. She simply carried on smiling that inane smile, friendly and yet somehow seductive, and refused to budge. More of them came, some in the bodies of my fromer friends, each pretending that nothing had happened to them. I was offered turkey. Was that the secret? Eat the turkey breast, and become one of them? The turkey looked good, but I resisted the urge to take it.

I tried again to brush elf-girl aside. I was accused of lacking spirit, the great weapon of the Christmassy People, their ace in the hole to quell their enemies, to force them into submission. It was exactly what I wanted them to do.

I summoned my courage. The words formed in my mouth, and they leaned forward eagerly, awaiting my surrender. Instead, I uttered my catechism, the three words that would save my life.

"I don't care," and, despite their gasps of astonishment, I left the canteen. Chips had never tasted so good.