Thursday, September 3, 2015
Post apocalyptic balcony number 13
Barry Lau sat there and watched.
The resonant vibrations
of a dissatisfied society,
destroy the very foundations
of his ideas,
of his creation.
As buildings crumbled
into sea.
He remembered the
dreams of everybody
and saw the nightmares
of life.
The resonant vibrations
of a dissatisfied society,
destroy the very foundations
of his ideas,
of his creation.
As buildings crumbled
into sea.
He remembered the
dreams of everybody
and saw the nightmares
of life.
Wednesday, September 2, 2015
Post apocalyptic balcony number 13
At first,
Bass vibration from the wall.
Then a voice,
Voices.
“Bitch”
“You ain’t tagged proper, hear bitch”
“Announce, bitch. The fuck”
Boot, head, back of head wall.
A muffled fog.
Kid Carl, “No, N…”
Boot, stomach.
Boot, chest.
Boot, temple, head pavement.
Boot, stomach.
“Announce, bitch”
“Intentions, bitch”
Boot, Boot, Boot…
Raining pain fades him.
Clouds, a lost mothers arms.
A confident voice,
A different voice.
The husky voice.
A voice saying, “no”.
The voice of an angel.
Just a kid,
In a bed.
Hurting, like never before.
“A cup of tea my child.” The husky voice of an angle.
Bass vibration from the wall.
Then a voice,
Voices.
“Bitch”
“You ain’t tagged proper, hear bitch”
“Announce, bitch. The fuck”
Boot, head, back of head wall.
A muffled fog.
Kid Carl, “No, N…”
Boot, stomach.
Boot, chest.
Boot, temple, head pavement.
Boot, stomach.
“Announce, bitch”
“Intentions, bitch”
Boot, Boot, Boot…
Raining pain fades him.
Clouds, a lost mothers arms.
A confident voice,
A different voice.
The husky voice.
A voice saying, “no”.
The voice of an angel.
Just a kid,
In a bed.
Hurting, like never before.
“A cup of tea my child.” The husky voice of an angle.
Labels:
first impressions,
gang,
hope,
Post Apocalyptic
Post apocalyptic balcony number 12
Kid Carl he stands,
And walks,
In a direction,
Away,
From Mong Kok,
Away from all he knows.
To Sha Tin.
The road a ribbon
Revolves under his feet.
The peripheral mountains pass by,
Amah Rock, unmanned tonight,
Observes in silent tears.
His chemically empty legs
Move like solid wooden trunks.
Each step a desperate step
To somewhere afresh.
The white lines move on
Rhythmically slow.
Mountains move by
Offering little comfort,
A silhouette against
City illuminated sky.
City lights become no nearer.
Soon The Blocks begin to pass by.
With Scattered lights.
Heads turn away;
And feet follow away.
A gentle fizzing light,
A low bass hum,
Aside,
A wall unlit by broken
Lamp
Offers a place to slump.
(the gentle fizzing light of the lazy orchid)
And walks,
In a direction,
Away,
From Mong Kok,
Away from all he knows.
To Sha Tin.
The road a ribbon
Revolves under his feet.
The peripheral mountains pass by,
Amah Rock, unmanned tonight,
Observes in silent tears.
His chemically empty legs
Move like solid wooden trunks.
Each step a desperate step
To somewhere afresh.
The white lines move on
Rhythmically slow.
Mountains move by
Offering little comfort,
A silhouette against
City illuminated sky.
City lights become no nearer.
Soon The Blocks begin to pass by.
With Scattered lights.
Heads turn away;
And feet follow away.
A gentle fizzing light,
A low bass hum,
Aside,
A wall unlit by broken
Lamp
Offers a place to slump.
(the gentle fizzing light of the lazy orchid)
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
The Lapland Sweat Shops (A Tale of Christmas Rebellion).
Warning this is dark, twisted and explicit. enjoy.
he Lapland Sweat
Shops (A Tale of Christmas Rebellion).
“Twas the night before
Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was
stirring, not even a mouse;”
Dr Clement Clarke Moore
1822
Christmas Eve 1822 - The Heart of America.
Firs that soared to the
sky had adorned their winter cloaks of snow. The northern winds
brutally alive, bit with icy savage. The lakes were frozen and the
coaches covered; hidden away from all but the most determined
traveller. However this was not a time of desolation, but of
togetherness. Families grouped in merriment, friends joined hands to
sing and the working animals put down reigns; no longer fettered by
anything but mutual respect. It was Christmas time, a time of
celebration. Tales of whimsical myth were told with loving mirth.
Open log fires cracked with tranquillity. Presents were given and
not only the children smiled. A time to help ones neighbour, and as
Dr Clement found out, sometimes, a time to help beyond the call of
reality.
It was somewhere past
midnight, a lost hour hidden deep in winter’s darkness. Dr Clement
washed the day away with a warm sweet brandy. It was imported,
probably expensive, a present for a poem he’d written for the towns
summer carnival. As he sipped the liquor memories of meadows and
angels in white dresses danced through his mind. The towns children
whipping up cyclones of dandelion seeds, the brown liquor in his
glass swirled, flowed down into him, he smiled and turned to leave
his study for a coal warmed bed and a loving wife. The shocked hit
him like a Great Western Train, a petrifying pulse paralysed him, he
could choke out not one word.
The cloaked apparition
spoke, ‘My friend, I mean no harm, I come with a plea.’ ‘Listen,
please… I implore you, do not be afraid’ Our, venerable Dr
Clement staggered back, hesitantly sitting in his worn leather
armchair. Breathless he was devoid of speech.
‘The world is getting
bigger, there’s more people now, bigger towns, more splendid
cities, yet still I am one person. Saint Nicholas I may be,
superhuman I am, a miracle, unfortunately I am not. Every year, me
and my hearty team of elves work away in Lap Land, carving, gluing,
cutting, painting toys. Don’t get me wrong young man, we love our
work, the children’s smiles that are rooted in their hearts are our
food and wine. We Love it, we adore our arduous work, after all
that’s what we live for. But alas, my friend, there’s too many
of them, my friend the monk assures me it will get better, but next
year without more help some children will not have a gift to unwrap.
Little faces will be scarred with frowns, the year after, the same,
then the same. The children will grow up blemished and unhappily
descend into evil ways.’ Saint Nicholas stopped, ran a hand through
his course Nordic hair. He looked Dr Clement deep into the eyes, a
glimmer of a smirk sparkled in his lips; he got up and
enthusiastically held Dr Clement by the shoulders, shaking him, he
gently continued. commanding his thoughts, with closed eyes he
continued. ‘But you, you my friend can help. You have the power of
the pen. I have magic stardust, mined from the Milky Way, this
stardust my friend, this powder… it can, well it can make your
poems become alive. Help me, help me to create a colleague who is
equal in virtue, a superhuman person, who alongside me and my elves
will ensure every child has a smile next Christmas.’ Saint Nicholas
pressed a small cotton bag into Dr Clement’s hand, held his eye for
the briefest moment and disappeared.
The poem lay finished on
Dr Clement’s oak desk, the sun broke the top of the firs on a
distant mountain. The covering of snow glistened with dawn’s
omnipresence; it was Christmas Day. Dr Clement pulled open the
leather strap on the small cotton bag Saint Nicholas had left, as he
peeped inside a thousand stars spiralled out towards him. Gasping,
jumping in shock, he quickly tipped the contents over the poem. The
first shafts of dawn’s light set each particle alive with a
incandescent flair. Dr Clement had created “a right jolly old”
Santa Clause, with a fir coat and a red nose, identical in every
moral to Saint Nicholas just with a round belly and a hearty laugh.
His work was finished, even without sleep his excitement sprouted for
the day. He did after all enjoy a good old sprout.
December 1st 2022, Shanghai.
‘Maid’…
‘MAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIDDDDDDDD’
‘MAID, get your fat
fucking arse in here’ Little Tommy balled.
Restraining the tears
which she forever held back in this luxury apartment, Hue Xai meekly
came into the playroom. In her eyes lurked only despair, she had
taken the job two months ago, just a temporary position, poor money
but enough to buy her darling Xaho Pan a treat for Christmas. Now
this spoilt Child, a true product of the modern day degeneration of
life, treated her like shit - like a abuseable robot. Did she have
to put with this? She knew she didn’t, not forever, just a few more
weeks, then that coat Xaho Pan wants, the one like the other kids
want, would be his. Kids need to fit into after all. And of course a
few treats for her and her husband, maybe some lingerie; maybe a
second child. It was at times like this she really missed her
husband, her duality, she’d see him tonight, but that was never
soon enough. She dreamed constantly of his naked embrace. His
strong thighs wrapping around her back, the look in his eyes as they
make love, it was making love, when they were kids, in fact for a
good few years after they were married it was fucking, but now they
made love. The embryonic orgasm would grow, before dissolving the
world in pleasure. Without love how could she cope with this brat
Tommy and his gutless mother; a means to an ends. And really, the
mother, Jane as she was happy to be called, wasn’t so bad, a result
of circumstance more than a bad lot. Actually she had a soft spot
for Mrs. Harris, with that husband of hers, the bastard. She had to
stand up for herself a bit more of course, show a bit of bite to stop
her life going to shit, but timidity isn’t a crime especially after
years of oppression. Just a diazepam fuelled housewife, inert and
desperate. She should make him love her, make Tommy respect her,
stand up show some spontaneity, play the cabaret not watch the soap.
She felt that some people were born to be treated like shit, walked
over like a fucking carpet, a vessel for sperm, child and abuse.
Bless her naivety and forgive her submission, but hope on her behalf.
Soon unfortunately the
boredom would show up through daytime drinking, then probably a
heroin addiction, a life of inner suppression imposed by oppression.
The whole aging upper classes are on that shit. She was glad to be
firmly not there. Judging by the Harris’ bank balance the extra
cash for a further addiction would be negligible, an unnoticed
expenditure for slow, self inflicted euthanasia. Unless she
divorces, which is unlikely as Mr. Harris’ company frowns upon such
activities. They sell family insurance - protection against divorce
and messy separations. The company expect their employees to set an
example, having employees divorce would encourage the clients, legal
fees can be costly and as insurers they would have to foot the bill.
For now she knew she still had to put up with that little shit Tommy,
so fuck the bitch.
‘I want a fucking
Coke,’ he waited then added with malicious intent, in an almost
unheard breath, ‘Bitch’
‘One Cola coming up
Tommy’ Xai falsely but pleasantly replied.
‘A fucking Caina Cola,
not just any old Cola.’ Little Tommy reinforced.
Little Tommy’s mum came
in, she knocked passed Xai without eye contact and ruffled Little
Tommy’s hair. She turned, sighed and looked displeasingly at Xai.
‘Come on now we pay you enough money not to rile Tom like this. He
wants his Caina Cola so he can win a pair of those Caina Cola retro
sunglasses, there a must for anyone who’s not just anyone, and
there’s a pair to be had in every twentieth can of Caina Cola
(probabilities are an mathematical average and may not reflex true
purchasing patterns).’ Did she really say that last bit or was
that her mind filling in the gaps, it’s hard to know to these days.
‘Yes Mrs. Harris’ she
gave the butt fuck in a business like manner, she was a professional
care assistant for the rich after all.
Mrs Harris turned to
Little Tommy, ‘Now Tom, you know Mummy doesn’t like the word
fuck, not since I found Daddy in bed with his boss… the bastards.’
She sighed again, the last phrase was uttered under her breath but
failed to conceal the bitterness from Little Tommy. She turned back
to Xai, ‘come into the kitchen a second please.’ Xai knew the
score, but didn’t walk out. She wanted to see the gutless Mrs.
Harris squirm with embarrassment.
Fucking fired thought
Xai, she shuffled down the dark wet street. Luckily she had saved
almost enough for her beloved Xaho Pan, his new coat, in the style
the pop stars wear, she’d buy it for him, a rare treat, she could
almost see his lovingly grateful smile. Soon she would be back home
in the arms of her loving husband, her husband who was too proud to
sodomise his way up the cooperate ladder.
The fast food waste
wrappers crunched under her feet, consumerist detritus littering this
sprawling city. Across the street was a beautiful lady on the way to
an opiate grave. Stood under a sodium glow, a street lamp lit fantasy
for any passing pervert, anyone with a few Qwai at least. This world
is full of pit falls she thought, how lucky she was, and how she
strove to keep her family together, away from the temptations of this
tempestuous society. However she was not worried, Christmas would be
about her family, and that little fucker Tommy would die one day. So
life goes on.
After she’d asked Xai
to leave, for forever, guilt rippled across Jane’s mind, she poured
herself a large whiskey, carelessly dropping in a few ice cubes, sat
down and began to stare at the green LCD clock on the cooker and
drifted into thought. She didn’t want the time to fly, in fact she
didn’t care what time it was. It was just another day of bored
misery. Thinking in monotones she guessed Xai wasn’t so bad, and
after all little Tommy is far from loveable; in fact he is a little
bastard like his father. It’s a simple truth however that having a
care assistant made Tommy more of a bastard, he has a toy to abuse
and treat like shit, just another game to him, what’s a defilement
of a life to a kid. A kid who needs a father.
Often his unbroken
child’s voice uttered… no asserted abuse which made her recoil in
loathing, and the longer the maids stayed the worst it got, soon
Tommy would be forever lost and he, well he was all Jane had and
that’s better than nothing. Reprimand him with abrasive shouts,
turn him to a shaking mess. What’s the point, he’ll just walk
further away, becoming more lost. Her thoughts spiralled down
whenever she thought of action.
She had tried shouting at
Little Tommy’s father, James, her husband, but only once. Why she
referred to him as this she didn’t know? He put no effort or even
time into either role. She had shouted at him to pay more attention,
to be there for her and Little Tommy, he was prepubescent for god
shake and needed a father, she needed a husband. ‘Please, please’
her whole soul had pleaded over and over again, through her shouts
flowed tears. The next time she went for a drink with Eve, her best
friend, she came back to find James bent behind his boss John Jr 4th
liking his arsehole. All the doors were open and he knew when she
was coming back. Taking off her coat, slumping on the couch and
crying all night whilst those two bastards fucked for the world was
all she could do. They did it on her bed, the bed she had hand made
at the start of their marriage.
Now she just drinks
whiskey and watches the LCD clock, the numbers stay still as if
frozen, for all Jane can tell, they don’t even change. Even Eve
has gone, married a dreamer and lives in a bamboo hut on a white sand
beach; too happy to write. Jane’s only acquaintance is the lovely
prostitute who lives in one of the cheaper ground floor apartments,
last year, when Jane was really low she found herself knocking on
her door hoping for a kind word. At the same time they chased
dragon; bonding through opiates and the disbelief at how the world
had rolled out for them. It worked. They are friends now,
unfortunately the friendship, which was founded on misery bread more
pain, when they chatted, which felt good, the situation never
changed, she had no where to hide. Her neighbour floated too high to
see Jane’s real need. Jane hasn’t since tormented the dragon,
tickle it too many times, it will bite, and your left in a world of
needles and craving. She feels that would be the end. The end of
what?
Jane’s not stupid,
she’s well educated, a top-level graduate from a Red Brick English
University, a Bachelor of Science, first class. That’s where she
met James, exchanged smiles and sort love through an ecstasy and
alcohol fuelled dance. They had loved, she was sure of it. Now Tommy
is older she could go back to work, if only she wasn’t so
depressed, if only someone would inspire confidence in her, if only
James would say a few precious words, if only, if only, if only.
Surely to fuck someone loves her enough. Maybe she’s never destined
to be the lesser heroine or even the reformed miracle of this tale.
Maybe that’s life.
James Harris has a brass
plate on his office door that reads “James Harris”. He would
often wonder weather this meant he had made it. He would often
wonder who would care for his wife and child when he killed himself.
The only thing that stopped him killing himself was the 50 or more
milligrams of diazepam, he swallowed, snorted or chased daily. What
he really wondered was what horror would await his wife and child if
he did kill himself. He didn’t think they’d be alive for long
after, not in this fucked situation anyway. He loved them and this
worried him.
Often he sat wondering
where it started to go wrong. Was it when they moved to Shanghai?
No they were happy when they got here, a city of the New World, with
old enticements. Walking hand in hand along the elegant waterfront,
European architectural influences standing firm in the third phase of
life. Sitting at a small stall and eating the searing hot oil
dumplings for breakfast. The place had felt magical, a waking dream
with incarnated beauty. The city’s life had slowly sucked his joy
away, day by day and year by year. It was going so well, a wife who
he loved more then the ground he walked upon, a career that would
surely blossom, indeed within ten years he had climbed to head of the
family insurance branch of the corporation and had an income he could
barely comprehend. They had a bright future, plans for a family, an
early retirement. A white sand beach, easy street.
It wasn’t any
particular day, the seeds of evil took root long before, further down
than you care to imagine. The insidious growth of capitalism,
perpetuated by feeding off innocent souls. Corrupting, eroding
morality. On one day however, his life changed forever, more
importantly his families life changed forever. That morning had been
hectic, three meetings with prospective large contracts for
government bodies, family insurance for public sector workers, he’d
nailed them and had sushi to celebrate, a long standing favourite.
John Jr 4th slipped
a contract onto his desk and pointed to the signature space. John Jr
4th was venerable, he thought, the chairman of a
multinational who’s products ranged from soft drinks to space
holidays, he didn’t even read the fucking thing. As he signed John
Jr 4th smiled and said “you’ve just admitted soul
responsibility for the murder of one million peasant children in the
Taklimakan Desert, this is a confession that you acted outside the
jurisdiction of the company in testing new psychoactive drugs on
children.”
There was nothing outside
of the conversation. No movements and no sounds. John Jr 4th
held James’ eyes, which listened as if waiting for the
twisted punch line.
“These drugs were
designed to make love permanent. Once taken and after failing into
mutual love an unbreakable bond would form. Till death do you part.
Even though the pre human trials were extremely promising, all the
children who we tested the drug on died within three years of related
illness. The finger has been pointed at the trails, blame for the
loss of generation. International Media ears pricking up, as a
company we’re not taking the blame, we’re the hero who will
slaughter the goat – you. Congratulations on your legacy my boy.”
James breathed in and out
surrounded by still silence, the world mimicking his respiration.
“Just think of the
profits that this drug would have made your department. You could
have secretly given it to prospective clients. You would have made a
killin’. You did make a killin’ na ha ha, just not of the right
kind. It’s your department, and you’re the fall guy, we’ve
brought witnesses, forged documents its your day for fame.” With
that he turned around and casually shut the door behind himself. He
then popped his head around the door, “meet me for lunch at two and
we can figure something out.”
James sat there, the
words in front of him seeping into his head. Cold, lonely
realisation. A grey tense lull where every atom seems poised for the
approaching storm.
As it turned out John Jr
4th was in passionate lust for James and half of Shanghai.
He had children from several women, some of whom employees, some sex
workers, some neither. He fucked men, he fucked children he even
fucked animals. Power screamed through and out of his cock,
twisting, controlling and penetrating everything around him.
At two at lunch, James
was informed he would sleep with the bastard, whenever, wherever and
however he pleased. If he did not the papers would be released, he
would be executed in prison by fellow convicts and his wife and son
would be left to pick up the pieces under the loving guidance of John
Jr 4th cock. And so none of this got out he would become
disassociated from the people he loved, engross himself in work and
sodomy. Harsh call but there was only one answer. The bastard.
Soon after his wife
shouted at him, through those shouts flowed tears, as she pleaded, he
had to keep quiet, he had been on the phone to that bastard and he
had heard everything. That was when John Jr 4th made a
visit to the house, that was when Jane’s life began to end, Little
Tommy’s never had a chance to start his.
John Jr 4th
sat guffawing as he meditated with perverse vanity at how he could
fuck people up. He knew he was evil, he loved his evil streak, he
felt it was his calling, his purpose. His mind fell towards James
Harris, “he is one weak fuck with no balls, but what could James
do. He was so far over a barrel he had to concede. Even murdering
me would be avenged to grotesque limits by my brother, maybe one of
my sisters, anyone in my piece of shit family. We have the power and
the money to inspire enough fear to make anything possible. The
world is our playground, we decide who falls off the swing, lands
badly and never gets back up. Tell don’t ask, control not advice.
James is alright, was alright, not a bad guy, replaceable, but of
worth. Ideal hands and all that, in need of a chuckle, a game, god
for a while, some people fall for no apparent reason”
Somewhere in the middle the 20th Century, Lap Land.
Saint Nicholas stared at
the white sheet of ice. It was translucent, but so thick his gaze
would never penetrate it. It could be infinite, it could be like his
time in here. Long ago he had lost count of the passing moons; time
anyway has little meaning when you’re immortal. His arms and his
legs were bonded with indestructible hoops of permafrost. The frozen
shackles bite icy fangs into his skin. Occasionally he saw the
Northern Lights, mostly he didn’t. He was cold, he was hungry and
he had no one to complain to. He guessed he was not even remembered.
The only thing he could look forward to was the melting of the ice
caps; hopefully this would happen before insanity set in.
Steam rose from Santa as
he showered, looking over a fiord towards the dark blue sea. He
thought, “How beautiful the world is, how beautiful my girls are.
How I will stride through Paris this afternoon, find a young brunette
girl, follow her for a while, feel my excitement rise. Watch her go
home, watch her house, imagine her, her private life, full of my
power. Waiting for the last lamp to switch off. Slip in through a
window and take the prize back to this forgotten home, here in
Lapland. Everything was set for a great day.”
December 15th 1931, A bench next to Central Park, New York.
The skies were a clear
blue on this cold December Day in America. Two friends were meeting
for lunch, two very successful businessmen, two people who in later
years, long after there passing would have top university lecturers
referring to them as forefathers of the modern business and the
capitalist age.
Henry was the first to
arrive, his grey suit was nothing special for his wage, despite a
decent enough cut it was still off the line and his matching grey tie
did little to liven up this run of the mill appearance. His side
parting and trim sides were respectable and conservative. His face
looked normal, maybe young for his age but far from striking. Hansom
not ugly or ugly not hansom, depending on who looked at him, he was
in the middle, a product of the new century, a survivor of the
depression, a careful planner and a trustworthy husband. He was also
hungry, too hungry to wait for John. He may be a good twenty minutes
chairing another overrun marketing meeting no doubt. Henry eagerly
unwrapped his sandwiches, the grease proof brown paper held the
highlight of his working day. Bully Beef in white bread, his wife
would implore him to eat honeyed ham, lemon chicken or topside with
horseradish, but something about the uniformity, the predictability,
the connivance of his bully beef really made Henry’s day. Just
like his car factories he thought: predictable. He could hear his
wife, ‘Come on now Henry, we have the money, you can have the
flavour, good meat, select cuts from select stores, that rubbish is
for the masses.’ Henry would just chuckle, he loved his wife, his
friends told him to reign her in, ‘playing cards with the house
staff is not fitting for a woman’ they’d say. Henry loved her,
he loved her to smile, she loved cards, enjoyed all company; Henry
couldn’t see the problem. These little quips she gave him about
food, drinks and what not were also a highlight of his day. The way
she smirked and spoke, sometimes pouting sometimes pointing a lightly
accusing finger. They would give him food for thought all day,
especially the way her pert breasts seemed to ride her chuckles.
He’d done it again, caught up in thought he’d eaten almost all
the four rounds of butties without even tasting his daily treat.
There was John, his
bright red tie, his latest slick black suit. His top shirt button was
showing and the suit looked like it was hanging, not fitting. John
sat down, his face with growing wrinkles gave the impressions of a
good few years beyond his fifty. His red nose was timely for the
season and his demeanour. He let out a slow sigh, as he slumped
against the seat. Within a few seconds sat up with vigour.
‘Alright ‘enry, tough
meeting today, went on and on, couldn’t shut ‘em up. Ahh they
ain’t got a clue Pal.’ he seemed to let his expensive education
slip away in a torrent of words when he was around Henry, in fact
around anyone and more and more these days. ‘I’m pushing for the
new Christmas promotion, you know what Pal, this is the deal, get
that Santa Claus on the placards, I want his Jolly belly laughing
wherever you look, I want a big red Santa swigging a Caina Cola, a
joyful glint in his eye, a playful smile on his face. I want him
everywhere, I want his image riding trams, his bushy white beard
leaping out form billboards, everywhere you turn I want the spirit of
Christmas to be entwined with Caina Cola. Happiness at Christmas to
found in a bottle of Caina Cola, na ha ha, great Pal great, if I do
day so myself… I got this Swede, an artist type, good fellow, salt
of the earth these Eskimo’s you know, na ha ha, what’s his name
now…Heee Hooo Haa Haydon err no Haddon something or other, erm
Haddon Sunblom, yeah that’s the one, he’s great, takes them old
civil war Nast paintings adds scarlet flair and a bottle of coke to
them, brilliant I say, brilliant, this Santa Clause, big fat bloke,
red clothes and big red hat, bushy white beard, fat black belt, the
friendliest guy you’ve ever seen, genius, we got ‘em now, got ‘em
I say, ahh the kids will lap it up, na ha ha, they’ll never stop
buying, na ha ha.’ Even after this torrent of words he seemed
unable to stop, he did not even seem breathless. ‘Err sorry ‘enry
Pal, no more shop talk, was that bully beef again Pal. Me, you know,
not eating today, too much of the raw product before I went into the
meeting, bit afterwards as well. Gets y’ going, err fancy a sniff
pal.’
‘I am good with bully
beef, err, thanks anyway.’ He replied meekly, Henry liked his
lunches with John but of late, this raw product John talked of seemed
to be all John talked about, and he could talk a lot.
‘No worries Pal, I used
to get it off the production line you know, kilos of it we had; kept
a load back when we swapped it for caffeine back in 1902. We told the
workers its toxic, imagine that, the whole country sniffing away,
that wouldn’t do would it, give ‘em a little in their cokes,
that’s what we thought and a few beers on a Friday. Keep ‘em
happy, I little bit of party at the weekends, a few national holidays
as a gesture, then back to work, save their strength for menial
labour no good them getting carried away, na ha ha, Then it all
changed Pal, that Freud Chap, sniffer also, good chap, good ideas, he
gave it to his patients he did. Its medicinal you know, helps with
headaches and the likes, well, he prescribed them too much, messed
with their heads it did and we had to stop selling it, took our
bottles out the pharmacies, we even had draft taps in some of the
bigger drug stores, they all had to go, we had to stick a load of
caffeine in instead, same deal but everyone’s used to coffee or a
tea you know Pal, no problems from the media or government there I
tell you Pal, na ha ha, we got out before the publicly got bad, just
in time as well, those fickle reporters will be the end of this fine
free country. Don’t you think? Yeah Pal we had it sorted then
making a killing we were, off loading the stuff as medicine. You
know me though, I’m sensible, I just sniff a little here and there,
takes the edge of the fatigue, peps me through the day, keeps me
going, you know, gets me through, its good stuff… Honestly, err
honestly its good stuff, it is, it is… No your right though stick
to your bully beef, yeah your right Pal this stuff would be too much
for the poor, we’d loose control, we need them mechanised,
predictable as a machine, as you say in your reports, working hard
long hours and not thinking nah, no good for ‘em, ha ha Imagine
your cars Pal, they may be individual again, think about it, terrible
shame it would be, terrible…’ The every lasting deluge of phases
poured and poured forth. As John spoke he seemed to be dancing to
the sound of his own voice. He’s getting a bit too much thought
Henry, he’d lost track long ago and was watching the city pigeons
peck at asphalt.
The clock rung the hour,
a bell rang deep inside its heart; they went back to their respective
offices to change the world.
December 2nd 2025, Lap Land.
Santa sat, presiding over
the workshop, it stretched further than he could see, row after row
of industrious elves, working fast, working well, never stopping.
They were lined up like robots, each elf connected to a pipe via an
intravenous needle, this in turn leads to a drip bag, all the elves
connected in identical arcs, the contents of each bag fuelling every
elf. The endless columns of drip bags looked like sepia gravestones.
The endless rows of elves look like rolling mounds of green grass.
The overall effect was not one of life.
Santa cared little for
the elves, their eyes were abysses of want, no other emotion
remained, they were functional and that was all. It was Mrs. Clause
XVII that Santa leered over. He twitches sporadically and a single
drop of saliva hangs like dew from the corner of his mouth, like a
vision of evil, he stares. His eyes seemed distant but focused, some
bones which barely pass for arms are tightly crossed as if he were
freezing, his fingers grasp his red suit with all their feeble energy
and his taut veins build blue ridges under his translucent skin.
There but not there, full of chemical energy he may as well be dead.
Mrs. Clause XVII moved slowly from workbench to workbench in red
leather underwear. She is pinning the latest attainment goals right
in front of each elf, where they can but fail to see how they are not
succeeding. Her movement is methodical, almost rhythmical, bend, pin,
adjust and move on; bend, pin, adjust and move on; again and again -
an echo of movement. Santa loved the way she would bend over, a
thong of red leather hugging her lips and deeply penetrating his
filth ridden fantasies. It is as if she is dancing for him, and him
alone, the others in the room, the subdued slaves, well they could
barely be counted as organisms anymore, mechanised and predictable as
a machine; they failed to noticed anything but what fed them. The
drip, the needle, the flow of toys; The drip, the needle, the flow of
toys. A continuous pattern of connecting flows, that led only to
decline and desolation.
Mrs. Clause XVII was
Santa’s favourite new toy, the latest concubine, a young girl just
recently of an age suitable for Santa. Her legs were strong and
long, her brunette hair which nearly touched the top of those smooth
thighs waved like a torrent of henna down her back, her delicate
features with a final subtle shade of make up seemed innocent but
ferocious. Santa’s mind rushed through fantasies with her, dances,
caresses, penetrations, his mind leaped from image to image like a
roll of still slides flowing in rapid motion. For a moment he lost
reality, but regained it with the twisted memory of her abduction, in
a Paris hovel he snuck in and took her away. The poor are the best
to abduct, their families cannot afford to make too much trouble.
You just take your pick, pluck them from their sleep, carry them away
from their tender dreams towards abuse and drug addiction, to
horrific nightmare, only escapable by a very real death. Yes, even at
that tender young age in which she was plucked from society he could
tell that she would grow into a buxom beauty, and she is well on her
way now. His malicious eyes of needs reached for his glass pipe,
another good friend of his, another addiction, another perversion.
Sonart, a little elf in a
little green felt suit held back a gag, he hated that paedophilic
prick. ‘Before the New Year things would change.’ He thought
resolutely to himself.
Mrs. Clause II was
writhing around on the cushion next to Santa when he hit her in the
face with the back of his hand. She did not need asking; she
subserviently picked up the filthy purple velvet cushion, on which
lay a fire blackened glass pipe. Santa’s glass pipe. Using golden
tweezers and a forced elegance, she dropped a crystal rock of
purified and dehydrated quinous extract into the pipe bowl. Quinous
that came from the jungle covered mountains of Carlmulltra, the fifth
planet of Alpha Centuri, her home, her lush paradise of mountains and
sweeping plains, a vibrant jungle of smiling eyes. She longed for
that home and her near forgotten family, the peace, the calm and the
feeling of life which every breath held.
However, she longed for
the glass pipe beyond anything else. Any glass pipe, not only that
one. Even this life could be tolerated in a quinous nullified
reality. Santa’s cracked blistered lips and skeletal face gave a
dirty smile as he harshly fondled Mrs. Clause II arse. ‘You’re
old darling, you’re past it, look at you, your wrinkles scar your
drug deformed face, why don’t you fuck off and die in the freezing
snow.’ Mrs. Clause II suppressed a flood of hurt emotions, she
didn’t cry anymore. The black cloak of depression encased her mind
and would unleash a vivacious weeping concealed deep within her mind;
she knew its was safer around Santa to show no emotion other than
subservience, she wanted a pipe and not to be thrown out into the
freezing snow. She was only thirty-two years old, she should be in
her prime, but it was true drugs had taken her youth, Santa had
robbed her of a young ladies life. She however had her ways of
medicating hurt, or was it forgetting hope; crack quinous the cause
and the answer. She diligently put the pipe in Santa’s mouth, held
a burning wax candle on the underside, watched Santa inhale and
witnessed his mind recede.
The quinous leaves should
be made into tea, this lets the reindeers fly at great heights
without loss of breath. This hovel of degeneration was unnatural,
they changed the path of quinous, and they subsequently changed the
path of their lives. Humans and even superhumans need to work with
nature, link into nature’s cycles, become one and flow together, a
shared vector and a shared destiny. The purification of nature will
create imbalance and this is what follows: addiction, perversion and
finally death. She was not a reindeer, but needed with every aching
bone, with a suit of painfully itching skin to be flying far away
from her reality. Santa having taken his hit had let the pipe hang
down between his fingers. She pulled the pipe from him, loaded it
again and less gracefully floated away from this room, floated far
from all her pain and all her suffering to a world she could bear
because she could forget.
Both however were spread
like fallen corpses on the threadbare cushions, very much on the
ground if not seeming to sink into it. Occasionally they jerked,
their eyes never coming to the front of their sockets.
After ten or so minutes
they came round, shacking as if freezing, speaking in sawn off
phrases that made little sense. Now they seemed to hate everything
and everyone. They would look at the pipe, hatefully. They would
look at each other, hatefully. They noticed little else, not even
death’s ever increasing presence.
Every morning after two
hours of deep sedative induced sleep Sonart awoke to the sound of a
siren. Its shrill cry would piece his morning haze like the
explosion of a thousand ball bearings hitting ground. He sat up with
a jolt from the cold concrete floor, he tried not to wretch from the
stench of sweat and excrement. The room was overcrowded, fifty elves
where there was room for twelve, there were four metal buckets for a
toilet at one end, Sonart’s end. There were well over a thousand
cells like this. All cramped, all festering, and all rife with the
misery of life. As a matter of course they all stripped naked, stood
and followed each other in the most logical and efficient order to
the showers. The showers were broken so they scooped up pans of
nearly frozen water and tipped it over themselves. This would remove
the last traces of the heavy sedative from their minds. They
returned to their cells, dressed and left for forced labour.
Every morning they
prepared like this before filing to work, in a long line of elves, a
long line of drudging pointed green felt hats which barely even
bobbed up and down, all just like him, all the same. No chanis were
needed, they were imprisoned by a needle. Well most of them anyway,
some like Sonart had duped their captors, escaped the crippling
addiction and played along with the hope of a brighter future.
However for now they all sat down like a machine in clockwork
precision. Every elf turns in time. Pulls the hard wooden stool out
from under the workbench. Sits down, eyes forward, no expression
displayed other than want. They connected the drip into a permanent
vein-piecing hole with habitual nonchalance. Instantly the
production starts; toy after toy would rise before each elf. Every
elf would work a difference into a single toy at one time, before it
descended away from view, it then moved underground to the next stage
of assembly, where it would rise before a different elf who worked a
different change into the toy over and over again. In this way every
elf was connected to every other, by this production process. All
connected but all different, every elf performed their monotonous
personal task, which was different to their neighbour’s. For every
toy that leaves every workbench, a small amount of meth amphetamine
is feed intravenously via a drip into the central nervous system of
that elf. The meth amphetamine is a highly addictive stimulant, it
makes the elves work faster and dissolves their brains. There is no
escape, if the drug supply stops, insanity will come knocking within
a day. Unless there’s lots of support, which there isn’t.
Sonart hates this and he and his fellow rebels will free them, this
is their fight, the liberation of their kind. How he and the rebels
escaped solely by chance, he is not special, not particularly strong,
not a dominating intelligence or not even a natural leader. He just
happened to seek out the free and bring them together. He guesses
they were just the lucky ones, unnoticed blockages in their drip
feeds stopped any meth amphetamines ever reaching them and they had
escaped the system. Three-foot high liberators of the Christmas
message. This festive period would be the time for action, no longer
could he bear the endless rows of sepia drip stands, the rows of the
walking dead and this sweat shop worked by mystic elves. With a well
thought out plan he and his rebels will shatter the Lapland slave
camps and avenge their brutal capture from nature. Santa will be
killed and the elves will walk free, he just hopes Saint Nich is
alive and holding up.
December 2st 2025, Shanghai.
‘I WANT IT… bitch
mother’
‘Tommy, darling’
‘It’s fucking Tom
bitch’
‘Sorry Tom, you have to
wait twenty-three days until Christmas Day darling, Santa will bring
you your new toy, and please… I’m begging… You’re only nine
years old… please don’t speak to me like that’
‘What ever, I’m
playing a computer game, FUCK OFF’
She left, crying, she’d
lost her only child at such a young age, there he was drinking his
Caina Cola, in a different world. Even the dragon’s breath from
that morning couldn’t stem her tears. She was lost and lonely; she
had tin foil and china white, eyes of death and a receding future.
December 3rd 2022, Lap Land.
Santa’s new
three-dimensional videophone had already rung several times that day,
a callers face growing from the obsidian like box, inflating like a
cartoon animal balloon, twisted and shrunken then life like and more.
Santa, however, was too wasted on quinous to notice or care. His
eyes were still fogged over and his mind far away amongst the stars.
He lay on his back, head hanging over the back of a thread bare
cushion, his filthy mass of white hair stuck to his head.
Decrepitude stemmed from the rot of him and his surroundings.
It was ringing again, the
holographic image of John Jr 4th was looking more and more
enraged, through the flicking semi solid images, scarlet flashes and
clenched teeth were pulsing through half the room - a swamp of
digital rage. The perpetual hollowing bored holes deep into his head,
injected pain into his central nervous system and shattered his
peace. Finally a bone wrapped in flesh reached out and hit the
answer button.
‘Get your drug fucked
arse of that stained couch, you fucking waster.’
‘Wha’ jesus, fuck, it
fucking early, you fuck.’
‘fuck you, its fucking
two in the fucking afternoon’
‘Be polite John, man, a
very good afternoon to you too, good to hear from you…hello’
‘Fuck you bum’
‘Hey man, less of the
bum, I had a shower yeater… a couple… well I don’t fucking
smell alright’
‘I wouldn’t know it’s
a image and sound only videophone, thank fuck they don’t transmit
smell or disease, look at yourself in the mirror, take some fucking
pride, your meant to be fucking superhuman.’
‘hu’
‘Sort it out.’
Santa reached for the
pipe, dropped in a rock and woke up with the flash of a disposable
lighter.
‘Jesus, leave of that
for just a few hours Pal, is that new LSD impregnated spray ready? We
need all the toys this year to be dosed in it. Pal it’s the dog’s,
LSD straight through the skin at the slightest touch, the kids, the
parents, a fucking hippie wouldn’t notice this trip it’s so
subtle. All those chemicals flowing on Christmas Day, the people of
this fine world will be susceptible to any well placed idea.’ The
airy videophone image becomes dwarfed by a toothy smile coming
towards Santa like a twisted laughing clown. ‘This year’s
Christmas Day is sponsored by Caina Cola. We’ll have it all!’ A
voice from a mouth contorted by hysterics grew and grew, enveloping
the room from the inside.
John Jr 4th
relished in his plan, running it over his mind in vain pleasure. We
fund the presents for the poor of the world, all those smiling little
faces light up with the generosity of our multinational, the public
think we’re angels, the stupid fucks, they are the losers who pay
over the odds for our products and really buy the presents, they
think I’d kill my profit margins to see a kid smile, the dumb
fucks.
‘The world will be
tripping, and with our subliminal advertising they’ll, the kids,
parents, fucking camels will never buy anything but Caina Cola
again.’ Santa’s room was fit to burst with pixcelated horror,
dust captured in turbulence and light.
Ha John Jr 4th
thought, finally we will rule the world with our cooperate dream,
with me as king. I will sail this world into the new age of
consumerism, blind consumerism where people will just hand all their
money over to me and in return… I will just feed them cheap shit;
they will give me a fortune. He remember his grandfather’s idea of
slipping hallucinogenic drugs into kids breakfast cereal whilst
subliminally suggesting the need for consumerism on breakfast T.V.
Now the kids just scream want at their parents, his grandfather had
said ‘we stole all the children and now we own the world!’ This
would be the final step, the passing away of free choice; he would be
celebrated by people in black pin stripe suits for centuries to come.
He was leaving his mark.
The intensity of colour
fortified into a near solid image pressing close to Santa’s face,
the voice slowed as higher vocal harmonics strengthened to deliver a
sinister emphasis, ‘Just make sure you’re on track, and get
away from that fucking pipe, failure has severe consequences, we
shaped you, we can obliterate you’. The image rapidly shrunk to a
pin head size and flashed as the phone rang dead. The room
contracted, breathed and fell to a spongy silence.
Santa sat back, filling
the pipe again with a morose smile. At times he wondered if he had
gone too far. Should he release the fur coated Saint Nicholas from
bondage, bring him up from the deepest depths of the glazier.
Release him from eternal imprisonment in ice. Free him, let him sort
this out. Santa thought he could jump to his death, leap deep into
the frozen ice away from the judgement of others, dead and inert to
the guilt of the crimes he committed. Where did it all go wrong, the
drugs, the young girls, the enslaved magic elves... Now without the
drugs, without his sedation, his escape, he surely could not go on,
without the drugs this surely could not have happened. The pain of
no hope.
The glass pipe, a
possession from the basest facets of debauch, always there to nullify
a deeply buried consciousness or pain, as if heaping more soil on top
of a semi conscious corpse.
November 3rd 2025, A Forgotten Cellar Deep Below the Ground
‘Come in Miss. Emily,
come in. O.K. we haven’t got long before our non-presence is
noticed, let’s get straight down to the essentials.’ Sonart
looked around pensively, the small group of rebellious elves had
gathered earlier and now Miss. Emily had come, the group was
complete. She was their link to the outside world and the leader of
the Mrs. Clause Clan. Sonart’s face was grave as he spoke. ‘Miss.
Emily, have you got the liberty cap mushrooms we need?’
‘Yes, Sonart, fifteen
seasons worth of pickings, the best the pastures have to offer. We
have plenty. All the free elves of the world rallied to our cause,
we now have the liberty caps in liquid form, easy to vaporise and
dispense.’ Miss. Emily shared the grave seriousness, but smiled a
smile so radiant it could melt every iceberg in the southern ocean.
She was a stunning young elf, dressed in black leather with a
midnight shade of lipstick to match; she looked liked she could
arouse a frozen Neanderthal. Not that she had necrophiliac
tendencies, that’s just the way she looked. She looked the
business for a subversive leader, an almighty conquest for a lover –
a lady you’d want on your side. Without this look there was no way
she would have slipped through Santa’s net of degeneration. She
has worked for many years, inspiring hope, freeing the Mrs. Clauses
that could be freed. She whisked them away from the temptations of
addiction before it was too late, she has promised them a better day,
and this day is slowly coming.
‘Thank you, Miss
Emily.’ Sonart stood calmly, his serene voice with its gentle
rhythm caressed the cellar. ‘O.K. you all heard, we have the
antidote to the decrepitude of this planet. This Christmas we will
put a self-exploding capsule of liberty cap liquid into every present
we send out. When the presents open, everyone within a fifty-meter
radius will be affected. With the coverage Caina-Cola has so readily
given us with their presents for the poor campaign, this will be more
than enough. The whole world will be affected, every baby, every
child, every adult, even pets and wild animals will receive a dose.
Where the populations are more concentrated, the doses will be
larger. This is needed as in these areas the people are far more
ensnared in their non-animistic beliefs. They’ll need more to be
freed into nature.’ Sonart bowed to everyone and smiled. His
modesty befits his chiselled face whose shadows danced orange in the
candle light.
‘What about the
hallucinogenic paint, that Caina-Cola plans to put on the toys the
year?’ CamPi asked raising her hand, with a look of concern.
‘It’s subliminal
manifestations futile against the power of the liberty cap, even the
Christmas Sherries will be washed away for good. Donald, how are the
reindeers looking?’
‘All trained to pat
Sonart. On Christmas Day morning, they’ll fly from horizon to
horizon, covering the whole world in a scattering of our magic dust.’
Donald replied smiling, proud of his work, happy to be up for the
fight and eager for the day. He was imaging the beautiful effects of
this plan. The world awaking into a new existence, an existence
without war and famine, without anger and separation, a unified free
world for all to live in.
‘Carmella, err sorry
Snow Leopard, I’ll get used to your code name soon.’ Sonart
chuckled in loving despair.
‘Look Sonart darling I
ain’t going into battle without code names and grappling hooks,
we’ve got to do this properly, balaclavas and stealth, that’s the
idea.’ Carmella joked but had a seriousness that everyone in the
room respected; she would be the front line, an infiltration leader
with a practical flare.
‘Quite Snow Leopard,’
Sonart replied, an endearing smile soaked into snow leopard, ‘Does
your team know the drill?’
She flashed her hand in a
barely noticeable movement, the nine other members of her team jumped
to their feet and stood to attention. ‘At ease, friends.’ She
replied gesticulating gracefully. ‘Yes we are ready, the five
nights proceeding the Christmas Eve present run, we will place the
capsules in the toys, hidden of course but waiting to explode, then
when the toys are unwrapped, there will be no avoiding the blissful
consequences. Our liberating capsules will be on their way. It’ll
be like clockwork, we’ve trained hard, many nights spent stealthy
sneaking around this castle, observing movements, habits and
timetables, and now we know them to a tee. It’ll be smooth, real
smooth darling.’ Carmella, was also proud, proud because she was
part this movement, proud of her team, proud of her race of elves.
Yet again the altruistic elves were helping to save the humans from
themselves, at least they didn’t have to flood the world this time.
‘You’re a champion
Snow leopard.’ Sonart smiled again, things were going well.
‘Miss. Emily you’ll
be able to keep Santa tied up on Christmas Eve?’ Sonart Looked
confidently across to Miss. Emily.
‘Yes Sonart, I’ve
told him he’s getting a Christmas present this year.’ She smirked
with the superior knowledge she had over that bastard upstairs. He
was going to get one fucker of a Christmas present; somebody wouldn’t
eat turkey sandwiches for months after this feast day.
‘O.K. my team, we know
how to take care of the evil imps, those little terrors will try to
defend Santa to the last, they have an easy life here; they have no
discipline. Too many easy to control slaves, they just shout
occasionally to look important. They’re weak through years of
laziness and lack of motivation we can take them down easily, we just
need to get them too drunk to move and lock them away down here.
Locked away they will pay for their treachery to the planet by
rotting away.’ There was a murmured cheer throughout the room. ‘So
Snow Leopard when our two teams come together we should have a clear
run to liberate the remaining thousands of elves, we need to act
quick, get them off the drugs, get them back to their families for
rehabilitation, Miss. Emily the families know the plan?’
‘Yes they are waiting
Sonart.’ Miss Emily replied with a look of sorrow. ‘They will be
ready to take back the shells of those who are still alive. Speaking
of shells, I’ve found Saint Nich, he’s not holding up to well, he
thought I was the human incarnation of Aurora Borealis, I think it’s
better to free him after the liberation, he’ll need a lot of
attention.’
‘That’s fine its your
call on Saint Nich, right that’s all, lets get back before we’re
noticed, good luck my friends, we’re going to need it.’ With
that he bowed low to the ground, turned and walked out. He knew this
was all or nothing, it had taken so many difficult years to get here,
this was the only chance.
August 18th 1932, On a Small Island in The Atlantic.
The gentlest of sea
breezes moved the air, like a child’s breath rippling through soft
neck hair. Drenched in the magnificent embers of a falling sun the
tranquil lapping waves wash ashore with faint repetitive splashes.
The tethered fishing boats, silhouetted against the sinking sun,
danced upon incandescent waves. A fishing hamlet on the mainland is
already hidden amongst the blue shadows of dusk. The day is ending
and a billion stars begin to appear from deep within the inky
blackness of night. Saint Nicholas and Santa Clause stood side by
side watching the earth’s spectacular goodbye to the day. The
ocean seemed to put the land into perspective, its magnitude dwarfs
the green hills, seems to wash away the barren deserts and leaves a
single person small and insignificant. The two friends had come here
to this small island off the West Coast of Scotland for getting on
forty years now. It was there holiday, their rest from Lapland
before the final push for Christmas took place. It is breath taking
and peaceful, serene in its rocky harshness, the jagged edges quelled
by a carpeting of grass. They slept in a small cylindrical castle on
top of the only hill, on top of the island; from here the view is
panoramic. Inland the mountains just begin to take root, foothills
which lead all the way to Ben Nevis and the rugged heart of Scotland,
out to sea lay only Greenland then the Americas, but they were lost
somewhere in the far distance, many miles past the horizon. Here the
two friends just walked and talked, nestling deep in contented
happiness. The elves were also on holiday, scattered in different
directions all over the globe, visiting friends, catching up with
family or simply exploring new folds of land. In a couple of weeks,
the Lapland workshops would fire up again and the final stages of toy
crafting would take place with gusto.
‘Hey Nich, I off to
Black Eyed Johns Cave before dinner, fancy joining’
‘No you go, I’m off
for a Whiskey in the library, come and join me when you get back and
I’ll put a couple of those Angus steaks on the coals, fry up some
chips, batter some onion rings. Maybe a bit of salad, Oooohu. It’s
time to eat, there’s no time for caves.’ He Nodded his head in
self approval as he spoke.
‘Sounds good, get a
couple glasses and a couple of bottles.’ Chuckles came from all
over Santa as he rubbed his hands. ‘That sounds very good.’ He
nodded to Nich and set off at a hearty pace towards the most distant
tip of the island - Black Eyed Johns Cave.
As he neared the cave the
crashes of surf against rock became louder. He loved it down here,
he loved the power of the water, the thrashing waves, the frothing
swell; there was always too much energy; the excess would pulse
through him, taking his mind to sublime relaxation. Santa stopped
dead in his tracks, shock taking all colour from his face. A man in a
black suit, white shirt and red tie sat next to a brief case in the
mouth of the cave. He sat smoking a cigarette looking out to sea;
looking peaceful, captured by the waves. He thought he and Nich were
alone on their isolated island, who was this? How did he get here?
Human? Supernatural? Good? Evil? Thoughts of a few splits of seconds
that would soon be answered as the man stood up, conveying not a
trace of menace, only determination, he confidently strode over to
Santa and held out his hand.
‘Hello my friend, sorry
for the fright, my Names John and you, I know are Santa.’ Man in
Suit spoke with his body which added layers of solidity to his words.
Santa shuck his hand from
politeness, he was confused, this man didn’t beat around the bush,
he spoke quickly and strongly with a confidence that only comes from
success. At least it wasn’t Black Eyed John, he’s was one mean
reprobate of a pirate, the type man to eat soup from victims skulls.
Anyway if Black Eyed John was anything more than a myth he had died
long ago, so who was this man in a suit, who knew his name and had
oodles of confidence.
Santa started slowly,
gathering time, ‘That’s right, what gave me away, the belly or
the beard. What can I do you for?’ Man in Suit still strongly
held his hand. ‘Have you come to see the castle? We’ve got some
streaks back up there, ready for the barbeque, come back up if you
want.’ Man in Suit finally let go of his hand and began to weigh
his words with a rapid delicacy, as if he was remembering a speech he
spent hours going over in front of the mirror.
‘Thanks but I just had
some haddock in the village, it’s good food up here. Lets take a
little walk, it’s perfect at this time of dusk.’ They turned to
walk along the rough pebble beach, the violent brush strokes of dusk
intensifying out at sea. ‘I just wanted to meet you, meet you and
Saint Nicholas.’ The emphasis left on the word you making the rest
of the sentence seem vaguely superfluous. ‘I’ve this idea see,
and I thought I’d swing it passed you, the two of you. You know
the work you guys do is well worthy of your superhuman status ’ He
looked deep into Santa’s confused eyes and rewound a little, ‘I
thought you’d be along here about this time, you’re a creature of
habit you know, good habits that’s why I know you’ll love this’
He throw the cigarette butt out to a watery grave as matter of
polluting habit.
‘Well what can I say,
you know more about me than I about you. It is just amazing here,
the endless beating of the waves, each wave different, each wave with
the same purpose’ Santa spoke and he began to connect with this
stranger, his previous anxiety dissipating like a wisp of smoke in
the breeze. It left only his trust to be won; he still had to be
convinced.
‘Quite, yeah, this is
one of the finest places in the world, a good place for a retreat
from your amazing works.’ John seemed genuine enough, even virtuous
in the way spoke, with his eyes came a feeling of honesty, but all
honesty shows is that you believe in yourself, but at least that’s
a start. His fingers, however constantly moved as if something was
missing, they were constantly searching for something, this something
was not to do with his words, it was something from the subconscious.
He lit a cigarette but this did little to relieve the subtle
gesticulation which broke through the disguise. ‘Yes, your work’
he continued, ‘it is amazing, truly amazing and that’s what I
want to talk about, You see..’ he stopped and turned to look out
towards the sea, standing gazing over the waves next to Santa. He
clasped his hands together looked at Santa for a moment and gave a
smile of determination. ‘I work for the Caina Cola cooperation, and
last year to great success we used your image to sell our product,
and well I thought I better come and have a word with you about this,
see what you think, see if you have any ideas… Any further
thoughts.’ He clasped his hands tighter and the tendons rose to
white ridges. Turning firmly to Santa, looking directly into his
eyes, allowing a slight serious smile onto his lips and the gentlest
nod of his head he said. ‘So wha’ do y’ think?’
The pieces fell into
place for Santa, this was the man, the cooperation that had used his
image, his look – him, to flog bottles of fizzy drink over the
Christmas period. Annoyance crept up through him. ‘Well, I’m
more into giving than selling, I wasn’t very happy about my image
making money, if the truth were told’ there was the slightest venom
he his words and he never lost eye contact as he thought to himself:
‘Enough words for now, let him do the speaking, let him do the
explaining, let him dig his own grave, best way to handle people like
this, arrogant overeducated clueless buffoons. Let them do the
juggling, them do the thinking and them make the mistakes.’
‘That’s what I
thought, that’s what I told the board or directors, you know what
them types are like, arrogant buffoons, but I know what your about so
I told them, I said look we shouldn’t make money from a person with
near divine morals, we should run it past him at least, see if we
can’t put the profits to some good: help some disadvantaged kids,
build an orphanage, I don’t know, we’ve a lot of money you know.’
There eyes were still locked. John strained to keep his eyes
forward, his now sweaty hands began to unclasp, he’d bated his
line, by the look that moved into Santa’s face, he’d got a bite;
he just had to land the catch. ‘Well so that’s that, that’s
what I’ve come to chat about, how can some of the money we make go
back into Christmas, how we can help, help those little kids, make
them smile, give them the festivities they deserve. You know your
toy’s are the best there is, every kid wants one and thanks to you
guys every good kid gets one, every kid that believes anyway. We can
also help with the future, a few words of advice here and there, toys
are changing as you know. More sophistication, more technology. We
can help with the R&D, sorry research and development, the kids
will love it; they’ll be smiling for centuries to come.’ He left
only the sound of the waves to carve the idea he’d put plainly into
the open.
‘Well if that’s the
plan, obliviously a lot of kids need a lot more help than others,
blankets for the cold ones and such and such, that would have my
support with out a doubt, but we try to run the whole thing without
money, it is hard sometimes, very hard a lot of times.’ He was
really thinking now, ‘there were so many benefits out there, but it
seemed a little too easy, Johns comments a little too trite. This
isn’t final, he wasn’t signing anything and he wanted Nich here;
best just to stop it here’. He looked back towards the sea and
spoke ‘It does work, but I guess times are changing…’ His glum
smile highlighted his thoughts about these changing times, money
becoming more of an issue each year. Looking back towards Johns
eyes, looking away from the everlasting sea he half mumbled,
‘there’s only so much magic, and the rest comes from hard labour,
and as you say kids do seem to want a little more as the years go by,
a little money could be put to good use. It could help, but…’
‘Good I thought you’d
say that, how about a scotch, we can run all this by Saint Nicholas
and put our feet up. I’ll follow you up in a short while, I just
want to walk a bit further, enjoy this view, its not often I get to
see anything as serene as this. Don’t worry I know the way around.’
Santa left him, glad of a
few moments, happy that he could put this to Nich without John here,
he had some ideas about John but Nich would hopefully have some too.
Somewhere in the 20th Century, Lap Land.
Saint Nicholas sat trying
to stare through the impenetrable opaque prison wall. This helped
him to meditate his thoughts to fruition. A bulging moon sent silver
shafts of light down the length of this crack in the ice. The silver
light was so intense it seemed to tear through the ice, fracturing
the planet. In the moonlight Saint Nicholas saw no life, in its
single colour spectrum everything was beautiful but the same,
everything looked on the eve of nothingness. Time had eloped.
Turning to nothing but
air he said, ‘See I told you Greg, when the moon is this size it’s
always bigger than the stars.’
However no reply could be
heard, there was no one there. There was certainly no friendly snow
beast with a penchant for Hob Nobs cream cheese and sour kraut, who
answered to the name of Greg, but when you’ve become forgotten,
living encased in an icy prison for many lost years, does it really
matter who you’re friends are?
‘And also you see my
friend, when the moon is approaching full it saddens me, it reminds
me of the start of the end, when that evil man came to our Island in
Scotland. It seemed very strange right from the start, right from
when Santa came back and got three, not two, but three Angus steaks
out from the fridge. What did he say now…’ Saint Nicholas looked
to the side, frowned and continued. ‘Yes that was it, he said I’ve
met someone, all the way out here on the Island, he wants to help us
with Christmas. Yes very odd I thought, he’d either rowed or swam
out here for starters, and why was he here now, why not in Lapland,
we had an office here you know. I wonder now if it’s still there.
It looked out over a fiord so deep it was the colour of a midnight
storm cloud, as you sat and looked out over the sea you could almost
imagine life erupting from the deepest depths of the ocean. Erupting
from the dark depths into to glorious life. It was beautiful the
view from that office, that’s where we kept things in order, you
know files and such like, which kids were bad which were good, the
relevant information. Beautiful it was and maybe still is. But, arr
yes something odd there was about him, he looked sincere enough, but
there definitely seemed to be something lurking below the surface, it
seemed that if you pealed away his skin, slowly mind you, there would
lie a hidden truth, embedded deep within his flesh. A very strange
man, but Santa seemed to like him, and well I trusted his judgement,
after all he had the advantage of youth in a rapidly changing
society…’ Saint Nicholas dejected eyes looked to the stars for an
answer. ‘ How wrong I was Greg, how very wrong.’
August 18th 1936, Black Eyed John’s Cave.
‘Look Santa, don’t
you see, this is the only way, come on now.’
‘Slow down, please. I
don’t see why the toys need to have Caina-Cola written on them,
John.’ Santa forehand rested in his palm as he sat on flat rock
next to John.
‘It’s simple, look,
the kids love Caina Cola, they also love trains, lorries, the planes,
whatever you make, just stick a small Caina Cola label on them;
combine the two loves. Now what’s the harm there. Hey pass your
glass over here, have some more whiskey.’ He seemed nervous,
agitated and even a little annoyed, his gesticulations hurried and un
composed.
Santa slowly passed
across his glass, he was distracted in thought, looking at his feet,
he really didn’t understand, wouldn’t the kids be just as happy
not to see the sticker? Would the kids be persuaded to buy Coca-Cola
if they saw the sticker? Every time they picked up their toys it
would be there, itching at their minds like an unreachable mosquito
bite. He seemed to sense the brutality of this idea, but John was to
convincing, such a good talker, he could also see his point of view.
‘Just one sticker, one
on each toy where’s it appropriate, I don’t know, you’ve
treated us well so far.’
In his pause John
interrupted with a chuckle, ‘Yeah we have treated you well, we like
what you do, we want to help you keep up to date. This will be a
good thing for everyone, the kids will smile just that little bit
more.’
‘Yeah I guess, Nich
should be here as well you know.’ Santa was looking up now, his
arms lightly crossed on his lap.
‘Nich’s an amazing
man, amazing ideas, a heart of solid love, but you’re the one with
feeling for how the world really works. Leave Nich to fundamentals
and you can be the one to take Christmas into the future. Hey but
also we could give you a bit more financial help with the Christmas
fund, a little extra cash, a bit better food for you, Nich and the
elves. That would be good wouldn’t it. You work hard, you deserve
a bit more back, a bit of pleasure. Hey speaking of which how’s
Mrs. Clause, now she looks like a feisty little elf.’
‘She’s fine thank you
for asking, its three years this October, maybe a few kids in a
couple of years.’ He answered tersely at first but became more
lucid as a personal smile spread from his lips.
‘Hey great, a family of
do gooders, is just what this world needs.’ The sarcasm eluded
Santa.
‘You want some of this
by the way Santa, it’ll perk you up’ John held a piece of old
newspaper in his palm, it was barely the size of a post card, on it
was a thick line of fine white powder.
‘What is it?’ Now
Santa was really confused, it looked vaguely like quinous extract but
John would never be able to get his hands on that, would he? ‘It
looks like quinous, what the reindeer use for altitude…’
‘Cocaine Santa. It’s
OK I do it all the time. It’s safe, it just focuses the mind a
little. He took a platinum straw from his top pocket, placed it up
his nose, placed the other end at on the start of the line of powder.
He smiled a little as he looked up at Santa and breathed in sharply
through the straw. Moving the free end down the line, his body
seemed to suck with all its strength. He sat up straight and shook
his head briefly, smiling a lot more. He then placed the straw in
Santa’s hand, ‘It’s probably similar to your quinous.’
Santa thought what the
hell and took a deep breath of the times to come.
This cocaine did very
little for Santa, later that year however when he tried the same with
quinous extract, his mind definitely became focused. He could think
quicker, he felt supremely confident, as if he could do anything in
the world. Best of all, he came up with such good ideas. Ideas
which were as clear as day and would benefit every person who would
believe them. At times he believed he had never met anyone quite as
good as himself. He felt he was the man, maybe even god. He just
wanted to feel like a reindeer, flying amongst the clouds,
unstoppable as he soared on thermals and turned in eddies, and he
did. John seemed to survive on his extras, so why shouldn’t he,
cocaine for humans, quinous for superhumans. John was trustworthy,
his ideas were already working wonders in Lapland, and already they
had televisions in the workshops, lots of meat to eat everyday, lots
more alcohol to drink. Their lives were getting better by the day,
more frills and more extras; no more simple living for the Christmas
workers, that was for sure.
Many nights were spent
dancing under the moon with Mrs Clause, with the silver light
spreading over the snow fields, a blanket from under which nothing
could escape. A blanket from under which nothing would want to
escape, the unimaginable warmth of the iciest spectrum. The huddled
herds of reindeer, littered like dark boulders as far as the eye
could see, the valleys, the hills, the ice and the purity. All this
becoming a part of the dance, as if the music came from this rugged
friendly landscape, as if the dome of stars were their ultimate limit
and these stars would take an eternity to reach. The Milky Way the
path down which they waltzed, swooping in circles, spinning in unity
and unfurling to the world. This silver road visibly crosses the
eternity of space, a crescent from horizon to horizon. On those
moonlight nights dreams became alive, anything was possible and in
those stolen moments time dissolved.
Somewhere towards the end of 20th Century, Lapland.
Saint Nicholas’ head
was tilted to the right and his mouth hung slightly open at one side
as if falling to the ground. His eyes were half open and unfocused.
He suddenly jerked up in to reality. His eyes moved from object to
object, from side to side. His neck hurried to follow his eyes.
Each time they rested on something the stare had a vivacious
ferocity. His voice started with an almost a pained shout and trailed
off towards the end. ‘You see Greg, no you see don’t do you -
Penis the Penguin is correct.’ His eyes moved horizontally from
right to left and back again. ‘Correct, yneeeess she knows that it
will surely snow when the clouds explode into white dust. It will
snow…’ now he spoke very slowly as if choosing only the
absolutely correct words, ‘ And when it snows the blanket that
covers the world, it will cover all hurt. Every hibernating animal
from the smallest grass-eating beetle to the largest carnivore will
be encased in the white bliss. Like these walls, their permanence
can only be temporary and that is bliss, the lack of eternity. Why,
why, why? Well if eternity lasts forever, and as some thinkers say
if eternity is bliss, then what is opposite must be insignificant, as
it is not infinite and therefore irrelevantly small. So there would
only be bliss and no comparison, and this is illogical, you always
need to compare to gain meaning. Temporary time must therefore
contain bliss, because in non-infinite time you can have that
opposite. Do you see Greg. Of course that assumes that infinity can
only rest with one side of the coin that is bliss or melancholy,
which must be true unless there’s a perfectly even split. But what
about the side the coin, the million to one chance, no they cannot be
even. So in eternality there is nothing, no good, no bad, no
feeling. You don’t understand, I can see in your eyes, Penis the
Penguin understands, look at the way she smokes a cigarette.’ He
turned slowly to his left and lowered his voice so barely a whisper
escaped, ‘we should eat the nonchalant bitch, turn her into a
candle or something ’ He turned back raised his voice to a near
shout before letting it trail off to a sound like a rustling leaf. ‘
What’s that Penis? No honey I’m only joking there’s far more
meat on an acorn, if only it wasn’t winter we could feast. Penis
darling you’re by far the best one of us here, you can stand up
straight all day in the cold. I wish I had you here when Santa got
stuck into the quinous, he would have listened to you, he just looked
at me like an old piece of shite, I would cry myself to sleep most
nights. They way he just looked at me like I would never understand,
he never even tried, his condescending eyes seemed to look straight
through me, like I was a sheet of melting ice, soon to be washed
away. He would telephone John, laugh away, I could hear through the
closed office door. My office, which I open to share and was never
allowed back in. As his laughter grew my misery descended, even some
of the elves in the work shop seemed to be laughing at me. I felt
trapped, I didn’t want to leave my room, the walls of the outside
world seemed claustrophobic. What had he told them, what had putting
all that quinous up his nose done, he was becoming an animal, savage
and base. He had money all of a sudden, money and many girlfriends.
Poor Mrs. Clause, she was heart broken the day she fled to Stockholm.
Whatever happened to her I wonder. She couldn’t take it, she just
left, ran away from the horror that was manifesting. Her eyes caught
mine on her way out she seemed to apologise for leaving me. As if to
say, ‘sorry for leaving you with him but what can I do.’ What
could she do, he already beaten her a few times simply for standing
up for herself. She was beautiful, maybe the purest beauty the ever
breathed. Her fairy tale looks should have had rose petals showering
down over her from ice capped mountains, not a quagmire of hate
pulling her through the sodden soil. She had to go the poor darling.
She was fractured beyond repair, broken beyond recognition, shattered
into a million pieces; she had to go. That left me with him, his
plans, John’s ideas to get more money to ‘improve’ Christmas,
all they did was dissolve it, letting the ethos erode away and drift
far out to sea. They dissolved Christmas like the drugs dissolved
Santa’s brain.’ Saint Nicholas sighed, his head slumped and he
stared at the floor. ‘Penis, Greg, you’re all I have now.’
Gregorian New Years Day 1940, Lapland.
‘That’s it, there
here, the last crates have just come in now.’ John put his arm
around Santa’s shoulders and led him to somewhere they could get a
strong drink. ‘We’ll have our output exploding now Pal. With all
the elves on this shit, it’ll be crazy, we wont be able shift the
toy’s quick enough, na ha ha.’ John’s enthusiasm was spreading
like a rampant disease, Santa was very much caught in the moment.
‘They’ll love it as well, the chemicals flowing through them,
raging through their veins, triggering blossoms of euphoria that
explode around their thoughts. Not to panic however, they’ll be a
lot more focused, they’ll never want to stop, they’ll keep going
for days flying through the bliss without a blink of tiredness. A
happy worker is a productive worker after all, don’t you agree,
just let them sprinkle a little in their coffee and they’ll work
like troopers, they’ll sing along to the tune production. Before
long my good friend, you’ll be churning out the Christmas lists in
half the time, and then we can start on the sidelines. And that’s
where the money’s at my friend, great hey, what do you think?’
John tightened his grip on Santa, embracing him, embracing the shared
dream. ‘And then, when this is set up, I’m retiring, off to an
Island in the sun, my only sibling we inherit this amazing legacy.
I’m too old for all this now. It’s easy street for me from now
on’
‘Pour some of that
vodka into those glasses and pass the mirror over here.’ The
glasses were filled and Santa drew out a single large line of quinous
extract onto the mirror and snorted his way into the new phase of the
business, with a toast to an x-partner.
Somewhere at the start of the 21st Century, Lapland.
‘I can’t hear myself
think, Be quiet I can’t think’ Saint Nicholas cried, his head was
rotating in random arcs, his eyes were glazed over and tears streamed
down his checks, they froze before they hit the ground. It was hard
to tell how long he’d lived in this state, it could have lasted
hours or days, but the mound of frozen tears was slowly reaching his
feet; it was probably a while. All of a sudden he stopped, looked
slightly to his left and with a stern stare burst into hysterical
laughter exclaiming, ‘Henry where did you find that pet mammoth?
She’s a hoot.’ His laughter now seemed unstoppable like the tears
before them. ‘What? Did you say she’s your wife, sorry I forgot
you’re a mammoth as well, so I guess that’s your baby mammoth,
what’s her name, Rug?’ His laughter stopped, everything was
stationary apart from his lips, which moved only enough to pronounce
the faintest words. ‘Well so we’re all here, come close my
unfiendish allies, do you know when I was little I drew a circle on a
piece of paper. The circle was circular but the paper was
rectangular, at the time I didn’t know the significance so I placed
it scrumpled up in the bin. Now I know that with the angular nature
of man, the decisions that are made have a result that alter the
vectors of life dramatically, unlike the circles of nature which
change slowly in never ending random spirals. Nature and cognition
cannot be combined so simply without an intermediate. The pencil was
not sufficient. It was like when our little elves started taking the
artificial quinous Santa sort out for them, meth was what he called
it… He told me it was good for them it would make them enjoy life
to the full. I had learnt not to question, the beatings he
administered with birch canes were harsh. I had lost my opposing
voice. The first generation soon got addicted and had no escape, the
poor souls, they were too far gone to oppose the daily compulsory
consumption of the drug.’ Saint Nicholas was moving his eyes from
left to right and back again now, as if addressing a large party.
‘There minds were lost in a haze, their sparks of imagination
extinguished, they were lost. They constantly needed more of the
drug anyway, and the only way to get it in was injection. There’s
something fundamentally wrong about seeing an elf grey from a deadly
overdose, with a syringe hanging from their vein. Day by day I felt
as if was going mad, but I felt too feeble to make a stance. The
elves couldn’t cope with the high levels of that drug for prolonged
periods of time, maybe only twenty or so years, before their brains
gave up and melted, leaving them stranded, mindless bodies that soon
flaked away and died. It was when the other elves throughout the
world heard the rumours, the tales of abuse, degradation and
degeneration that no more began to pledge their services. Then Santa
began to hunt them down, kidnap them and imprison them with drugs.
He would go out at night rip the young ones from their beds, he did
the same to young girls. He would bring them back, and that was
that. He took so much quinous, he was even smoking it by now, he had
fallen from the rocks while walking across the river. He had fallen
in turbulent waters of lust. That’s why I’m here, I finally said
no, he simply beat me in the head with a ski pole until I was
unconscious and I woke up here. He went too far, I would hate to
see what happens in that prison now.’ With this Saint Nicholas
began to scream, his head once again rotated in random arcs, tears
adding to the frozen pile on the floor.
Summer 2025, Lapland.
‘Come here. Come to
Santa. I own you; I’m going to break you.’ Santa slouched as he
spoke and Wendy’s eyes widen eyes with fear. She saw an old man, a
young man passed his age. He stared at her body. His face wrinkled,
yellowed, covered in a wire grey beard. Brown black sockets and
black eyes that burrow deep beneath the skin, prise the pores apart
ripping through flesh. His face beckoned, his cracked lips creaking
words, throat rasping , hands clenching.
‘Come here young
lady’…’come here and become’
Hands massage and tight
sweaty palms caress each other. Faded and stained red suit with
matted white fur. Holes with white skin poking through. Toes poking
through ripped black leather
Boots. A curling finger
as Santa’s voice rose and slowly spoke ‘Come here I said, you
little bitch.’ Wendy stood still, frozen by fear.
‘Get the fuck over
here.’ Anger trembled through his clenched teeth as spit flew out.
Wendy began to tremble,
urine ran down her leg, pooling around the sole of her left foot.
‘You filthy little
bitch, are you disrespecting me, are you disobeying me?’ His voice
rose, malicious waves hurled towards a young girl.
‘N…nno’ Wendy
stammered, silent tears rolling down her dimpled checks. She raised
her foot to walk, petrified, lost, confused. Who was this person,
why was she no longer in her bed? Where was she? Wake up please she
implored her mind, screams came like hurricanes through her body.
She collapsed to the floor. She hoped the nightmare would fade to
the smell of cotton and the Dorset summer. No fade out, only this
man, throwing aside something, standing in full rage, shaking with
violence striding towards her, kicking her in the stomach, the side,
the ribs, pain eclipsing the room to white, countless blows reaching
deep inside her. A hand clenching her jaw, a slap, the jaw clenched
again. Words from far away ‘open your eyes and be grateful, bitch’.
Her mouth forced open. A sharp chemical taste making her gag. More
blows more pain, but something else: reseeding pain, escape,
numbness, dissociation, a dream where she is in trouble but
ambivalent. A grotesque man pulling at her delicate night clothes, a
bad man, pinned down, locked to the floor. On a cloud far away. A
burning pain far deeper than any other pain. A blanket of white.
Lost.
…
A room, a lady sat across
from her. Scream, a deep scream. The lady still there, she’s
crying, sobbing. A full body of pain, deep pain that will never
leave. The lady speaks, ‘honey, I’m so sorry, so so sorry.
Anything you need call for me, my name’s Emily. There’s cup of
coco and ibuprofen on the side. Shall I stay, or leave you for a
while.’ Emily smiled deeply, she wanted to take Wendy in her arms,
carry her away from all this, carry her to where the pain would go
and she would be safe. Emily saw a young bruised girl on the bed,
kidnapped, beaten, drugged and raped. She loathed this and would
take whatever revenge she could.
Christmas Eve 2025, Shanghai.
‘That’s beautiful
Tom, just beautiful, I love you my sweetest cherub.’ Mrs. Harris
spoke with a peace that she rarely felt. She was in the house by
herself, her little Tommy had gone out, he hadn’t said where, just
slammed the door and left. Mr. Harris had told her he was out at
work, she assumed sticking his dick up his boss’s poop shoot. Yet
again she was left deserted, she tipped some more of her white
medicine onto the already burnt tin foil and inhaled a wisp of
freedom form life. Now she was wondering through a waking dream, her
Little Tommy was painting a picture, he was happy and so was she.
The picture was for her and the colours were alive, circling over the
page, the reds and the oranges portrayed a fiery passion, whilst the
blue soothed the very air you breathed in. The picture was abstract
but conveyed love, a heated love that even all the water in the world
could not sedate. Everything seemed connected to everything else in
this opiate dream. All joined, all loving, together for eternity.
Christmas Eve 2025, Lapland.
Sonart caught the last
Imp with his left boot and sent it flying headfirst into a dark cell.
The cell was already covered in snoring drunken imps. It grunted as
it hit the seething pile of debauch, which was the colour of shit and
didn’t smell much better. Looking at them, lying there in that
pile, he felt no remorse about locking this scum away, they’d swap
there own mother for a shot of home made liquor and think they’d
got a good deal. Indeed Sonart had brought every Imp in this place,
all eighty of them, with just one hundred bottles of the cheapest
liquor available. They consumed until they were sick and now they
would pay the price. They wouldn’t see any booze for a long time.
Sonart slammed the heavy oak door, pulled the forged iron bar across
into the lock and closed the light hole. The first task was over,
the first task was a complete success.
She could barely watch
but she had no choice. She watched as the last present was wrapped
and the last capsule of freedom was hidden away. Carmella couldn’t
bare the endless rows of living dead, the endless rows of her own
kind, the slaves to addiction and capitalism. This would change
tomorrow, freedom lay around the corner. The outside world would be
waiting in eager anticipation for there run of the mill pre-packaged
Christmas. Some people in this Lapland Sweatshop, however, were
waiting for something of unimaginable more importance. There would
be no run of the mill Christmas this year, it would be the greatest
party the world had ever seen.
Miss. Emily looks deep
into Santa’s eyes, deep into the macabre abyss that had become his
soul. Placing a beckoning finger in the line of vision, she
continuously curls Santa towards her. She looks shit hot. Santa’s
already naked and semi hard in his only readiness. Despite his
drugged fuelled emaciation he rubs his hands in glee, as he leers
over Miss Emily. Her strong legs from hours of cross-country skiing
lead all the way to the perfect curve of her arse. Her calves and
her thighs stand like aged old oaks with the supple delicacy of
saplings. Her black stiletto strappings wrap around her lower leg,
climbing to her knees. She stands sideways, her front leg bent with
its toes at the heel of the back leg. Her skin is Glistening with a
deep tan that is far from Nordic. The perfect curve of her arse is
the shape of a rolling hill, carved with precision over of millions
of years by the gentlest glazier. The cut of her black leather hot
pants lay softly, in a sweeping arc just above the bottom of her
delicate cheeks. They are solid leather, and don’t even rise as
far as her hips, where yet again her lightly bronzed skin looks as
soft as a balloon, but of course, it’s toned to perfection. Her
flat, lightly muscled stomach is purposely turned slightly towards
Santa, this highlights her perfect stomach and gives a strong
silhouette of the back breast against the red silk curtain that seems
to flow like a waterfall of blood behind her. She wares a black
leather bra, it conceals enough but gives away plenty. Even beneath
the thick leather her erect nipples protrude as if to mark the hidden
erotic treasure. The valley between her ample breasts look like a
leap into the sublime. Most of her long pitch-black hair is platted
and falls along way down her back, the few strands that aren’t
platted fall tantalisingly across her face down to her chin. It
follows perfectly the curve of her almost round face, framing this
beauty. The arm that isn’t beckoning Santa hangs just a few
centimetres away from her body down by her side. The hand is holding
a birch cane held at right angles to her forearm. Her eyes are
deeply focused on Santa, you would not argue with her eyes, you would
submit and follow. They are a deep hazel and swim with passion on a
perfectly white, aqueous lake. Her jaw line flows perfectly into her
neckline, which in turn sweeps into slender but strong shoulders.
Her lips again are a shade of midnight black and when they move the
world freezes.
‘Come here Santa.’
‘Come here on your fucking knees’
Santa drops his glass
pipe, it falls slowly towards the concrete floor, where it hits and
bounces twice, slowly from end to end before finally shattering into
countless fragments. He drops to his knees, never loosing eye contact
with Miss. Emily before crawling on his knees, through the broken
glass towards her. As he inches forward, she slowly raises the cane.
He inches forward more, their eyes still locked, he inches forward
more, the cane slowly rises. An inch further forward, the cane an
inch higher.
She draws the cane hard
across his naked back leaving a bloodied laceration. He whimpers with
pleasure.
‘Lie on your fucking back’
He turns over. The
trickles of blood are seeping across the floor. He is lost in Miss.
Emily’s spell, subservient to all her wishes.
‘Put your fucking disgusting wasted
arms behind your head’
The glistening glass
shards penetrate deep into his decaying flesh and slash at his
emaciated his arms. He shuts his eyes succumbing to the pleasure of
pain, he gasps through his chemical ridden and tar filled lungs for
air. This rasping breath grates the room, like course sandpaper
removing flesh. Miss. Emily flings the cane away. She bends over,
without bending her knees, loops a rusted chain into her hand,
uncoiling it from the floor. Still bending she turns her head and
looks deep into Santa’s eyes, looks through into his soul, as if
searching for the final justification and motivation for her action.
Half her mouth smiles, on one side, the side facing Santa, her lips
turn up and an ominous twinkle or a sinister glint comes across her
deep hazel eyes. Her midnight black lips are full bodied and in
control, seemingly they lust towards the perverse, seemingly they
would make your fantasies come true, but the world is not always what
it seems. She unfolds her body, her figure stands straight, her
crystal clear eyes captivate her only guest. The room is silent but
the chain rustily clinks its slow percussion. The only sound, the
only movement. Two hearts are now beating with silent anxious
breaths. Letting a foot of the rusted chain loose, she takes a single
step forward, a length of the rusted chain hanging down from her grip
and swaying gently, the slow percussion drives this song towards a
coda.
She starts swinging the
chain in a perfect circle. She moves around him, encircling him with
her domination, she never looses his eyes, he is trapped, she stalks
her prey. The souls of Miss. Emily’s feet crepitate on the glass;
the crunch adds to the percussion of the chain swinging. A regular
rhythm, regular circles. Minutes pass in this hypnotic standoff,
time freezes and consciousness heightens, senses refine, sensations
amplify, the outside world floats with the inconsequential and
existence is this room only. Her prey is too stupid too know that
he his already dead. The predator is too humbly efficient to think
of her prey as already dead. She walks her circle, she crepitates,
the chain circles, circle crepitate circle, circle crepitate circle,
circle crepitate circle, circle crepitate circle. She breaks the
spell. Stops. She looks straight at him and speaks slowly and
clearly with masterful precision, ‘I am your fucking master now. I
am in control. One fucking word and I’ll bite your festering dick
off. Nod if you understand.’
He nodded.
She stopped her circling,
stood over him, straggling him, the chain swinging in circles. One
foot rooted either side of his pelvis, she almost pitied him, pitied
his dilated pupils and his withered frame. Pitied his dying and
hopeless body. Hate, however outweighed pity and she let the chain
loose into his knuckles with a painful crack.
He whimpers but dares not
scream, she stares but shows no remorse. He doesn’t want this to
end as if this sublime dream is rampaging through his reality. He
plays the fantasy to fruition in his head, he lets her have a bit of
fun, a few games, a moment of control before he takes over. He sees
himself slipping out from under her eyes and roughly grabbing her and
throwing her heavily to the ground and jumping on top of her and
pinning her down and ripping off her clothes and without mercy
pumping her and pumping her and pumping her until he cums. Dreams as
everyone knows rarely work out, well not as entirely as one would
wish.
Miss. Emily instantly
notices this change in her submissive. A flick of a pupil and a
twitch of a smile flutter from mind to face; he is no longer
subservient. He is having delusions of grandeur, visions of
authority, thoughts that will never happen, not at least with Miss
Emily here. She raises her right foot, as if she is about to move
away and change position. Instead she spits in his face and stamps
her stiletto down on his sternum. She breaks his skin and regains
control.
Now he screams, now he
feels the reality of pain through the ferocity of her reproach. He
is pinned to the floor with a pool of blood collecting on his chest
around her slender black heal. Miss. Emily secures the chain around
his limbs and through his mouth. She moves with an efficiency that
leaves Santa no time to struggle. He is imprisoned and trapped and
bound. She raises her leg, pulling her heal from within his chest,
she steps backwards to his feet and with a look of venomous hate
flooding from her eyes she kicks him heavily in the balls, heavily
enough to cause a flat thud. Heavily enough to express her hate. She
padlock’s the chain and maliciously strokes his wizened hair.
‘Now your fucked, you
cunt. Ladies.’
From behind the red silk
curtains slip out no fewer than eight of Santa’s sex slaves, what
followed was a brutal slow death, devoid of any pleasure.
That Christmas Eve the
reindeer raced through the silver moonlight with a love they could
barely remember. They flew from one end of the earth to the other,
across great deserts, over gargantuan mountains, meandering along the
paths of colossal rivers. Their trail of golden stardust was like a
comet sweeping the skies, leaving in their wake countless specks of
brilliant gold light. This year was the first year for a long time
in which true serenity, true bliss and true magic came from the
essence of the act. From village to city and country to continent,
no homes were missed no people disregarded. It felt like the first
Christmas in many years.
A very long night had
occurred, much work was accomplished, many elves were freed, many
families would be welded into loving relationships after too many
years. Many of the elves families, after they were told of the
pending liberation, set off to greet their once lost loved ones.
Many families set off to Lapland to provide a vigil for loved dead
ones. The emancipated masses of Lapland as if released from a spell
saw the first dawn surrounded by love and slowly melting glaziers.
The were limp, flaccid, grey and half dead, but flicks of life caught
deep within their eyes as arms enveloped them. Half dead morphed into
half alive. Even with drug addled brains and a limited future they
had a future free from bondage. What better dawn than the Christmas
dawn. Christmas had brought people together, the elves walked free,
dysfunctional families began to function. Boundaries of self
dissolved to communal.
Christmas Day
The whole world froze,
its hard angular edges melting, freed from the precession of time to
the rhythms of naturally lubricated minds. The entire world together
and searching. Too few people could comprehend the implications of
the coming hours, the freedom that would be envisaged and eventually
come.
Pulses of psychedelia
were rippling across vast oceans, waves sweeping onshore, each wave
reaching slightly further up the beach. The next wave arriving in
slightly less time than the previous.
In Lapland the perfect
blue sky brushed with the lightest clouds spread across a cold flat
white plane. In Shanghai an open plan spiral staircase unfurled to
the universe. In the heart of America the fragrance of roasted
turkey hugged and enveloped a young family. A fishing community in
Scotland stood on a beach and sang in unison to the billowing clouds.
Two friends in Central Park exchanged swigs of liquor and watched a
bird dance through a cloud of insects. Beauty flowed freely from the
sky. Christmas had arrived and melted a permafrost of inhibition.
Tommy cold see his mum.
Tommy could see his Dad. They were stood with arms around each
others waist. They were smiling, looking into Tommy, looking at him
looking at them. Tommy felt an urge, an impulse. He ran towards
them, screeching with pleasure as if he had found love for the first
time. Wrapped his arms around tightly his parents, felt their
warmth, felt their comfort, felt their love. They stood hugging and
thinking of long love for as the world around them danced in unison.
Two friends sitting and
talking, sharing a bottle liquor, sharing a life. As if they had
walked form the Rockies to the Mississippi together, jumped the train
and slept in corn fields. They looked like they’d done it all and
found the only way. Patting each other, passing the bottle. They
glance at the orchestra, the musicians in black and white. Gentle
cello notes support delicate oboes whilst light percussion riffs keep
the world moving. A slow deep southern voice rings out with
Christmas song. The trees and path pick up and dance. The two
friends waltz with the world lost in the music, lost with everything.
Dancing, tendrals of music and systems of nature entwining to become
one. Togetherness and harmony - the same.
A family sit and eat a
lovely spread. A glistening turkey with buttered carrots, folding
cabbage, rolling potatoes, covered with oozing cranberry sauce and
gluppy gravy. Blossoming sprouts served with deep red wine. Plates
are filled and smiles fill the room, food passed between people.
Laughing and joking feeling the same as each other, equal in spirit,
equal in life.
Sonart, hand in hand with
Snow Leopard, led Saint Nicholas away from a huge crack in the ice.
They smiled breathed in the moment, the freedom, the love, but mainly
life. Saint Nicholas excitedly cajoled a tribe of snow beasts and
penguins and mammoths, even little kittens to follow him home to, ‘a
warm fire and slice cake.’, ‘A cup of tea and a sit down.’
‘At least he seems
happy.’ Snow Leopard whispered in Sonart’s ear as her head lent
on his shoulder, ‘You know, to be free with his friends, his loved
ones. Whoever or wherever they are.’ A gentle chuckle spread
across the ice sheet.
John, the family; the epilogue.
With this new sense of togetherness.
This new world. There was no time for the cooperation, people were
to in love to care about marketing; the Caina Cola empire became
unprofitable, the legacy was not upheld, the family lost most of it’s
money. John (whatever) the last in the family line died of exposure
on a February night on a lonely street in America.
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