Title:  A Visit From Jack

Author:  glimmerdark

Canon:  Well, no, not really.

Rating: PG-13 for implied violence and sexual situations (LOL)

Summary:  The classic poem most people know as “The Night Before Christmas” (even though it’s really called “A Visit From St. Nicholas”) with a Lecteresque twist.

Disclaimer:  Dr. Hannibal Lecter, et. al., belong to the genius Thomas Harris, and the work parodied was written by Clement Clark Moore, who is surely spinning in his grave…

 

‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the hall

Not a creature was stirring (especially Paul);

The Harpy was hung by the chimney with care,

In case the damn Bureau soon would be there;

Clarice was nestled all snug in her bed,

While visions of windows danced in her head;

And she in her coral and I in my cream,

Had just settled down from our passionate steam,

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

Peered through the curtains and kept low the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow

Shined like cheap birthstones… ‘twas quite apropos,

And then what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a Bureau sedan drawing far, far too near,

With a little old driver, so twisted and slack,

I knew in a moment it was my boy Jack.

His hands, they jerked forward as if holding strings,

And his words rose up to me as if they had wings;

“Now, Pearsall! now, Noonan! now Mapp! and now Graham!

Onward!  Kill Lecter and bring me my lamb!

To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!

Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”

As white-tailed deer before crossbow bolt run,

When they meet with an obstacle, jumping as one;

So up to the front porch the agents did come,

Shouting, “It’s useless!  You have to succumb!”

And then, in a twinkling, in the kitchen I heard

The footsteps of Jack… oh, dear, ‘twas so absurd.

As I slipped down the stairs and into that room,

I resolved that his sweetbreads I soon would consume.

He was dressed in a gray suit that hung on his frame

So loosely I thought he should die of the shame;

A bundle of weapons he had at his back,

And he looked like an ailing old warhorse, my Jack.

His skin—oh, so sallow! his eyes—sad and dreary!

His cheeks were like hollows! his posture was weary!

His grim little mouth was puckered so tightly,

I thought perhaps reflux did bother him slightly.

The dust of some Tums could be seen on his chin,

The odor, a mixture of calcium and gin.

He’d a thin little face and no trace of a belly,

My mind started working like Machiavelli.

One flick of the knife was enough to dissuade

The agents who lingered still back in the shade.

A wink of my eye and a twist of my head

Soon gave them to know they’d better feel dread;

They spoke not a word, but left Jack to his fate,

While I pondered which portion would best suit my mate.

And laying a finger aside of my nose,

I completed my conquest of Clarice’s foes.

She came to the door, gave a glance, and was gone,

And I wondered if she would still be there come dawn,

But I heard her exclaim, and she chuckled with glee,

“Happy Christmas, dear Lecter, and save some for me!”