Christmas. What’s In A Name…? Part 4

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The spelling of Chrismasian, Christmastians, or Kryzmastions, had never been fully agreed. This suited the President as he had no idea how to truly spell any of them. At a push, he could spell his own name as long as people didn’t say it with an accent. The evening after the Chris…, Christ…, Kryz…commemoration, he sat in his office/bedroom (they both amounted to the same thing), stroked his extra furry pet Persian (no idea there either) and watched the mayhem, that he had instigated, unfurl across the world.

He couldn’t help but smile and congratulate himself on his miraculous achievements. If the Fundos, Isis, or whatever they wanted to call themselves, wanted a lesson in how to terrorise, then he had just provided them with a truly beautiful example. He phoned his friend, who lived in Russia, to boast.

Being on the streets was not the safest of choices.

Sleeping on the streets was asking for trouble. If you had nothing and nowhere to go, sleeping on the streets wasn’t an option, it was a dangerous necessity.

Marzena had no option. She did have a sleeping bag and a large cardboard box. She had had a safe shelter in the recesses of an alleyway, in the darkness beyond the pissing and festive fornication of the drunks and revellers. For both sets, it was a form of relief. For her, it was merely another unwanted intrusion. Fortunately, the rats and the weirdos didn’t seem to bother her.

She had been on the streets since the summer months and had managed to survive. Her landlord had made it obvious that her rent would either increase significantly or his ardour would. She left after pissing in the wardrobe, a scent that would linger and mature with time, one that would not be easy to find.

These days, almost everything could be found. There was no longer a world in which people could disappear for any reasonable length of time. CCTV, Satellites, mobile phones (smart to some, too smart by half), and the all too forgettable digital footprint, thumbprint, imprint… Marzena had lost her phone, more than likely, it had been stolen. It did not matter as she had nobody to call and nobody who would care to call her. She was, in this age of extreme visibility, invisible.

To some, she was not even a person.

 

The President had been thinking about this. He had been thinking about the matter of those undesirables who were intent upon destroying his world. It had been such a bout of thinking, all at once without a break, that it had caused him to experience an agonising attack of migraine. Again, this was down to the undesirables and fundamentalists. They were not just a pain in the arse, but also a pain in the head, his head that was now throbbing in a bid to explode.

What he ought to do, he thought again as another crippling idea seared through his frontal lobe, what he ought to do was…   The idea almost flew away before he could get his big pudding hands on it and pull it back to Papa. What he was gonna do was to round up the fundos and the weirdos and send them all packing. That way the headaches and the arse-aches would disappear along with a very sizeable chunk of the unwanted an unwashed.

He felt another speech coming on.

 

The followers of Santa had managed to make the Feast of Christmas a year-round thing. It had ceased to be a singular event a long time before, a long, long time ago. These days, each and every day had a magical sprinkling of seasonal cheer. The fizzy, sugar-loaded drinks that should have included cocaine (as a way of dealing with what was coming) were never far away in the assurance that, ‘Holidays are coming..’ Therefore, the funeral of Papa Noel still left a decent chunk of time in which the President could announce his, ‘Credible citizens need not be affeared Census.’

“We just want you decent folks, decent loving family folks, to be confident that the people living next to you, sitting at the desk opposite you, sharing communal facilities, are not the heathen hordes that are intent on snatching the very life-blood from our dearest veins, the veins of our elderly parents, our wonderful kids, and our reindeer. Jesus, the fundo fuckers have already sent Santa to hell on a hand-cart!”

He didn’t mean to say that last part but he couldn’t help it.

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“Census, fellow decent human-beings, Census!”

The population went wild for this latest defence against their lives. They loved it, one and all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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