A Visit From La Bufana
On the 13th of December, 2021, the New York Times reported that a certain Monsignor Stagliano of the Diocese of Noto in Sicily had recently told a group of children that Santa Claus did not exist.
La Bufana was furious. Some heartless priest had denied the existence of Santa Claus! And although her cousin Santa didn’t come down Sicilian chimneys on Christmas Eve with toys for kids, she certainly did, which meant that this Stagliano stronzo had attacked her reality as well. He’d made the little ones cry, and that was unforgiveable.
So on the night of December 23rd, the Christmas Witch put on her black cloak, filled her apron pocket with an onion, a garlic bulb, and a lump of coal, and mounted her broomstick. She left Rome, soaring into the air and flying swiftly until she landed on the roof of the prelate’s palace in Noto. She didn’t go down the chimney – that was the way she visited children – but flew through the open bedroom window of the prete cattivo. By the light of a candle-lantern on his bedside table, she could see that he was lying in bed on his back with his mouth open, snoring like a drain.
La Bufana bent over him and wasn’t surprised that his breath was sour with wine. He’d probably been drunk when he broke the children’s hearts: that kind of priest always gets into the sacramental wine. At least he didn’t seem to have molested the kids physically. That would have called for very bad mojo indeed. But what she did to him was more than enough to teach him a lesson he would never forget.
She wasn’t always an ugly old crone. When she brought gifts to good children, she was a rosy-cheeked nana, all smiles and good cheer. But for Padre Stronzo, she made sure than her nose had a wart on it, and hooked down so far it almost touched her bony chin. Her mild blue eyes became beady and black, her smooth skin turned leathery, and her cloud of soft white hair turned into a snarled, greasy gray tangle. Her hands became taloned claws, and her mouth, stretched into a sneer, showed a double row of pointed yellow teeth.
She stepped back from the bed and picked up her broom. She poked the bristle end of it into his face, which brought him awake with a strangled sneeze. Then she used both wiry arms to whack him hard on his ample belly with it. He went “Ooof!” and sat up straight. When he saw what manner of creature was leering at him, he screamed, “Aiùtame, Jesù!” and tried to cross himself with his right hand. But his fingers curled into a fist, and he punched himself hard in the forehead instead. The blow almost knocked him out again, but La Bufana slapped him across the face.
“Fai attenzione! Ascoltami!” she growled.
“No! Questo non è reale! È solo un incubo!”
“Non è un incubo, e non stai sognando. Sei completamente svelgio. Capisci?”
“Si, si, ma chi sei?”
“Sono La Bufana, qualcun altro in cui non credi, como Babbo Natale, ma sono reale quanto te, porco grasso.”
Monsignor Stagliano began to weep.
“Si, piangi, come hai fatto piangere quei poveri bambini!” She grabbed him by the arm and pulled him out of bed. His feet tangled in the sheets, and he wound up flat on his back on the floor. The impact made him cry out, and he began to sob helplessly. Tears ran down his plump cheeks to mix with the snot that ran out of his nostrils and drip into his ears.
“Che bravo prete sei! Il Papa sarebbe orgogloso di te!” she jeered. She crouched next to him and got the onion, the garlic bulb and the lumps of coal out of her bag. Using her sharp fingernails, she peeled a big onion and set it aside. Then she crushed the garlic bulb with the leathery heel of her hand. She shoved the onion into his open mouth, and he bit into it reflexively. As he began to choke, she stuffed his nostrils with crushed garlic. He began to make half-smothered noises, and she waited until he almost suffocated before she picked him up bodily, wrapped her sinewy arms around his midsection, and squeezed hard. He gagged and coughed up the onion and garlic.
“Ti sentivi come ce stessi morendo, no? E se tu morissi e apparissi davanti a Dio, come pensi che Lui si sentirebbe nei confronti di un prete che fa del male ai bambini?”
But Monsignor Stagliano was too busy trying to catch his breath to answer, so La Bufana told him there was a special place in Hell for priests who hurt children. She let go of him and he sank to the floor. Then she gave him a taste of hellfire. She undid his top three buttons and held a lump of coal over a candle flame until its underside began to glow red. Then she dropped it into the opening of his cassock. He screamed and beat at his chest, trying to smother the coal, but the smell of roasting meat told her that the coal was still lit. Finally she put it out by lowering her drawers, standing over him, and pissing copiously. Perhaps it was the sight of her vagina that made him faint dead away. In her witch aspect, it had teeth.
She got back on her broomstick and flew out the window, letting fly a hawk’s scream as she soared over the fallow fields of Sicilia and crossed above the Strait of Messina. Just before she angled her broom down toward Roma and her chamber in the Catacombs, she passed Babbo Natale flying south in his sleigh. His reindeer spooked a little when they saw her, but he checked them gently and waved at her.
“Buon Natale, cugino!” she shouted.
“Felice anno nuovo, cugina!” he shouted back. “Di sicuro hai detto una lezione a quel prete dispettoso!”
As he flew out of sight, she wondered how he had known about Stagliani. Then she laughed at herself. He knew everyone who was naughty or nice, of course, just as she did. It came with the job.