223 lines
11 KiB
Plaintext
223 lines
11 KiB
Plaintext
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OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO oOOOO OOOO. OOOO OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
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OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO" .OOOOOO OOOOOo OOOO OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
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OOOO oOOOOOOO OOOOOOO. OOOO oOOOO
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OOOO .OOOO OOOO OOOOOOOOo OOOO OOOO"
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OOOO oOOOO OOOO OOOO "OOOO. OOOO OOOOo .OOOO'
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OOOO .OOOO" OOOO OOOO OOOOoOOOO "OOOO. oOOOO
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OOOO oOOOOOOO..OOOO OOOO "OOOOOOO OOOOoOOOO"
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OOOO .OOOO"""OOOOOOOO OOOO OOOOOO "OOOOOOO'
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OOOO oOOOO ""OOOO OOOO "OOOO OOOOOO
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|-----------------------------------------------------------------------------|
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| There Ain't No Justice |
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| #54 |
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|-----------------------------------------------------------------------------|
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- The Last Christmas -
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by Kel'anth
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It's December again, and all around, people are putting up their
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Christmas trees, hanging lights around their windows, stockings above the
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fireplace, or anywhere they can find a good place in their apartments.
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Silver bells are ringing in the streets. Soon they'll be carolers in the
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suburbs, sometimes even here in the city. There aren't a lot of people
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brave or stupid enough, to go around outside for hours singing here,
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anymore, but every year, there are some of them, somewhere. The TV news
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people always catch them for a gooey marshmallow-type story. I've never
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really seen them myself. But then, I don't live in the nicest part of the
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city.
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I'm walking down the street, where for once the people seem almost
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kinda happy, who do I see but Santa Claus. I know it's a fake, some old
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drunk who can't find another job. I still feel like ripping his guts out.
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A little girl, looks five or six, she's sitting on his lap. She's
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smiling and telling Santa what she wants for Christmas this year. She won't
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get any of that stuff. Just something cheap and stupid, or maybe even
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worse. She doesn't know what Santa's REALLY like. The little boy (her
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brother, I guess) has the right idea. He's crying and he won't let go of
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his mom and go sit on Santa's lap. He knows to be scared.
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They're all waiting for Santa Claus. And this year, so am I. This
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year, I'm ready. This year. The last Christmas.
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***
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I remember when I was little. I believed in Santa. I knew that much of
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the truth. But I didn't know him, not at all.
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When I was five, I wrote my Christmas list, in red and green crayons.
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It wasn't easy writing that list, I didn't know how to write real well
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then. I remember just what I wanted: a new tricycle, a Super NES, and a
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million dollars. I closed up the letter, and sent it to Santa at the North
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Pole. I went to bed Christmas Eve, visions of sugarplums dancing in my
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head, or whatever.
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Do you know what I really got for Christmas?
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When I woke up in the morning, and ran to the Christmas tree, I didn't
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find any wrapped presents, I found my mother and father. Dead. All I
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remember is blood and stuff, and the little bows stuck neatly on top of
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their heads, pink for my mother, blue for my father. The cops told me later
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they'd both been stabbed through the side of the head with the fireplace
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poker.
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Right now, I gotta admit the bows were a nice touch. Real
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professional.
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The other thing I found, that mysteriously got taken off the police
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report, was a trail of my parents' blood, leading into the fireplace.
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***
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I wonder if anyone, lately, has REALLY tried to catch Santa. I'm going
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to try my best, this Christmas. I spent years saving up for the fancy alarm
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system I have now. I spent more years saving up to rent a house this
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December, with a fireplace and chimney.
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This thing's really pretty amazing. It's got heat sensors, it's got
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some kind of invisible light beams across the front of the fireplace. I
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don't really know how it works, but I tested it, it seems to work great.
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And I don't think Santa could possibly expect me to have such expensive
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stuff, in fact, he thinks he's made sure of it.
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The bedroom's like some kinda fort. I got guns, I got a bulletproof
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vest on, I got grenades, the works, really. I bet I could kill all the pigs
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in town with this junk. But I'm saving it for someone special.
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I turned out the light now, and I'm waiting here in the dark. He'll be
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here, I know he'll be here. I bet he'll be armed too. But he can't bring a
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bazooka down the chimney with him, can he? I just don't know.
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***
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You know all those kids that you hear about sometimes, the ones that
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have like 50 foster parents because none of them were any good? Well,
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that's me. None of my relatives were alive, only one grandmom, and she was
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in an old folks home. I got stuck with the foster shit. One of my fake
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stupid dads made me stand in a corner for hours, and everyone else ate
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dinner, and they watched TV and stuff, and if I moved or I tried to look at
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anything he would punch me in the back of the head. He just made me stand
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there, the bastard, and finally I was too tired and I just couldn't stand
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up, I started to fall down and he hit me again, I just SCREAMED, "I CAN'T
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STAND UP ANYMORE, I JUST CAN'T!" He hit me again but his wife made him
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stop, she came down and said she couldn't sleep with the screaming and
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would he please call it a night? And they weren't the worst ones, there
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were a lot worse, one guy...well, I just don't want to talk about it
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anymore. You probably heard it all before anyway, some news special or
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something, and you said too bad then, but you didn't really care so why
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should you care now?
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But anyway, I ran away from home alot. One time they didn't catch me,
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the "folks" didn't even report it, I guess. I guess they caught hell for it
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when I disappeared, I hope so, they deserved it. I was 17, just out of high
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school, when I finally got away. I got into drug dealing, it was the only
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way I could make money, I couldn't get a "real" job, I thought they'd send
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me back.
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I made enough money, I guess. A lot, really, but I spent a lot of it
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on stuff like whores, when I shoulda spent more on weapons and stuff. I
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gave it up when I was 19. I was thinking of being a pimp, but I decided not
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to, I thought, well, it's no use breaking alot of laws, I was lucky, the
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reason I gave up drug dealing is I almost got arrested, I don't want that
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to happen again, it would ruin my plans. You see, I was already planning to
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kill Santa Claus.
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I got a REAL job, at a McDonalds, and I waited, until I had enough
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money to afford this stuff, and that's where I am now. Waiting for Santa
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like some little kid, only THIS little kid's got GUNS.
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***
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Well, it's over now. All the waiting, and everything. I'll tell you
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how it all turned out.
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At 12:30 in the morning, the alarm went off, and I went downstairs
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with my assault rifle. Yeah, it was Santa all right. He seemed like he was
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expecting me. He shoulda been, with the alarms and everything, right?
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Well, I pointed the gun at him, and I said, "Sit down, Santa. We're
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gonna have a nice, long, chat, and then I'm gonna kill you. If you try to
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get away, or you won't talk, then you'll just die sooner, so you better
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talk."
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He sat down and he fucking SMILED. He said, "Well, child, what so you
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want to talk about?"
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I almost shot him RIGHT THEN. But I made myself smile back at him, and
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I said, "I'm not your child, and I think you know what I want to talk
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about. Or maybe you don't remember. Maybe you kill so many damn people you
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just can't remember them all. Poor Santa. But you killed my mom and dad.
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Remember the little pink and blue bows? I thought that was very
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professional. I figured you must kill alot of folks, right?"
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"Absolutely.", he said.
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I was expecting that, and I said, "But WHY??"
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"Because you ARE my child. My son. Before you could be my child, I had
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to get rid of those pretenders."
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"I'm no one's child any more, bastard."
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"Ah, but you are. I've had others to raise you in my place. Your
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brothers and your sisters. They raised you to be like me. They raised you
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to HATE. I see it in you now, my son."
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"I'M NOT YOUR FUCKING SON!!!!"
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"Don't deny it. Please don't tell me you don't know who I am. It's not
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that hard to figure out. I only switched two letters. Didn't you ever
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wonder why you never see Santa and Satan at the same time? Why we both wear
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red? How such a fat man could get down a skinny little chimney, where he
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gets magic flying reindeer? I am Satan, and you are my son."
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I was really angry, and I was so angry that I shot him. He started
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laughing. I shot him again. He laughed louder. He started to fucking MELT,
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and soon all that was left was this spooky-looking thing, like a ghost you
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see on TV, only made of fire.
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I kept shooting at him, but he only laughed, and he flew up the
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chimney again. He left me there, and I was thinking. I guess I really am
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his son. I keep looking back on my life now, and thinking how people are
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dope addicts now because of me, and the guy I killed once when I was 18.
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And how I tried to shoot him. And, well, he's right, I'm just like him. I'm
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as bad as my "folks". And I don't want to be his son, but I am, I'm just
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like him, and I can't help it anymore.
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I figure, I got all these weapons, and I don't got anybody to use them
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on, or, I got only one guy. And why not? I can't kill him, but I can kill
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his family, just like he killed mine. Look out, Dad, I'm coming home for
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Christmas.
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If it can't be the last Christmas, it'll at least be mine.
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