The Chances Of Anything Coming From Mars…
During the first days, only the cranks and kids spoke about it. There were those who would always speak of such things ‘that were out there’ so, when things came along that promised hidden secrets, the group of ‘know-more than is seen’ were happy. It was coming for us and it looked like a giant cigar. That was when one bright spark called them the Church-Aliens.
It was approaching Christmas as the Church-Alien ship was approaching Earth. In all the last minute Christmas shopping rush, the news of its approach was somewhat overlooked. A man dressed as Santa had blown himself up in a grotto in London.
The Islamic State would have announced their guilt for this if it hadn’t been for that fact that it was felt that any fundamentalist dressing as a Christian icon would not be sending out the right message. Anyway, it was very doubtful as to whether a fundamental Father Christmas would ever be allowed through the golden gates of heaven. And what sort of virgin would wish to sleep with a fat man with a white beard who is constantly dressing in off-putting red?
The truth of the affair was that it wasn’t anything concerned with the infamous fundamentalists. The explosion was as a result of a Yuletide habit of personal consumption of any, and all, alcoholic spirits that the said Santa could get his hands on. It was his way of blurring the personal embarrassment of his personal status in the new world.
The spirit-sodden Santa would not have exploded if it hadn’t been for an undetected gas-leak (which the store owners had chosen to ignore) and the spark-enabling friction that was caused by the man-made material of the Santa outfit that the disgruntled Santa had to wear in order earn his Yuletide pittance. Oh, and let’s not forget the somewhat obese eight year old boy whose self-plonking on the unfortunate knees created the spark that lit the gas, that ignited the breath, that consumed the fake Father C and the fat boy of eight, and gobbled-up the mother of the fat boy who had never been told to limit his eating of all things sweet, all of the time.
Bloody terrorist! Eh?
The fact that a real terrorist strike had killed hundreds of Sufi-Muslims at prayer did not make it onto the front pages of any of the serious newspapers; only the broadsheets.
It was the sadness of the now dead Santa and the tragedy of the chubby boy and his indulgent mother that plucked at the heartstrings of all that were to read, see, or hear about it. The news of the heinous attack, on the very bastion of western-Christian sacred customs, reached epic levels with the number of Santas, fat boys, and weak mothers, reaching into their hundreds. In one oral myth, the figure had risen to Moony levels of a thousand. Surely such madness would bring about the end of the world as we know it?
Not quite, but the big cigar was going to be won by those ‘know-more than is seen’ who had spotted the approaching object even before they were able to actually see it.