I hadn't planned to save Christmas from Herpezoids but here we are ass deep in those intergalactic dirtbags. What was supposed to a be an office holiday party at the Corporate headquarters has turned into a complete shitshow of bah humbug proportions because let Herpezoids in. No one invites Herpezoids to a party. Ever. They eat all the food, drink all the booze, and they never sign up to bring anything. Not even paper plates. Plus, they might eat your throat or steal your space-faring 1969 Dodge A-108 Xplorer Camper Van with a bitching quintonium drive with the intention of galavanting off to the Jaqrillion quandrant looking for chicks.
Everyone is either screaming, hiding, making out in a conference room, fighting off a Herpezoid, or is actually a Herpezoid. The gorgeous blonde with the green eyes named Kenzie, who turned out to be Regional Tactics Designer in her late twenties, is slamming a Herpezoids head into a the far wall of the cafeteria. Kenzie and I were hitting it off until two non-related events happened. One, the Herpezoids attacked, which always brings a room down. Two, she found out that I'm not quite 20 years old yet.
"I'm not old enough to be a cougar or a milf or whatever," she told me before tossing back a glass of something potent from the open bar. "Maybe after I have more to drink. But I doubt it."
I like the way she handles herself with aliens despite turning me down.
My best friend Tony is firing away with his P-47 Electro-Photon Multiblaster but his aim is off because he was drinking spiked green Kwench-Aid. I know it was spiked because I'm the one who poured gin in it. Normally, he would get all butt hurt about having his Kwench-aid spiked without his consent but this time he was cool with it.
"What the hell," he said. "It's a party."
Sure, Hugh Hefner. Party on.
My mom is single-handedly taking on two Herpezoids with some amazing mixed martial arts moves. She runs Corporate even though technically it's my company because my dad left it to me but I chose to explore space in the aforementioned Dodge camper van and Mom also said I was far too young to be a CEO. She's not wrong.
Side note: I used "aforementioned" in my conversation with Kenzie because I thought I should sound smart in the presence of a Regional Tactics Designer. It almost worked because I also sprinkled in words like "febrifacient," "homoerotic," and "verisimilitude." She was digging my rap until she called my bluff and asked me to use "quadrigeminous" in a sentence.
My old boss, Randi Williams, is draped on a Herpezoid's back and trying to strangle him with a scarf she wore that matched the sweater she wore as entry in the Ugly Christmas Sweater Contest. She got me vote not because she is a kick-ass lady who knows how to take down a Herpezoid (which she totally is) but because the sweater is truly a grotesque work of holiday cheese. Green with red stripes and little white white pigs arranged to spell "Hammy Holidays." Genius.
Chaos abounds even as the special playlist I created for the party (A Very Kilroy Christmas) blasts over the speakers. Right now, Brian Setzer's "Gettin' In The Mood For Christmas" provides the soundtrack for a fight scene for the ages. Me? I'm standing on top of one of the speakers firing away at any Herpezoid I can find. Two Multiblasters, baby. That's how I roll.
More screams erupt and I turn toward the cafeteria entrance. The Christmas tree that the Holiday Party Committee spent hours decorating is surrounded by presents for the Dirty Santa gift exchange that was planned for later. Bounding in through the entrance and knocking over that tree is an alien I've never seen before. Probably eight or nine feet tall. Orange like puked up pumpkin pie. Humanoidish. Devilishly handsome, I must admit. The creature is not wearing pants which makes it painfully obvious it is male, which has the HR representatives in a fit. Dude is hung.
This is all started when Santa turned into a Herpezoid.
I realize I'm all over the place. Let me start at the beginning.
...to be continued...