Christmas Special (part seven)

©2011 David Jasmin-Green

As Ian and Kerry tried to coax George out from under the desk another Santa emerged from door nineteen, but this one was no short-arse - in fact he was so tall that he had to bend down to avoid banging his head on the top of the door frame. The gangling individual was lean and long limbed, and he bore more than a passing resemblance to a giant stick insect. The man (if he was a man, which was debatable), wasn't properly dressed for the role of Santa Klaus, Ian reflected; though he wore a flashing musical Christmas hat of the very tackiest type, which was playing a somewhat jazzed up version of Jingle Bells, instead of a traditional Santa suit he wore a bright red cassock with gold braiding and royal purple tassels like something a bishop might wear on special occasions.
“S-shit, it's the bloody R-rev,” Kerry stuttered. “Or at least I fink it is. 'E's eivver morphed, which 'e does now and then when 'e 'as a mind to, or 'e's wearing one of 'is Yuletide fancy dress costumes - last year 'e dressed up as what I took to be a cross between Princess Margaret and a Christmas puddin'..... Tread carefully now and watch what you say, Ian, 'cos 'e's probably got a right cob on.” Suddenly the Rev burst into song.
“Dashing through the snow in a one horse open sleigh, o'er Sugar Loaf we go, chortling merrily all the way. Bells on bell-ends ring, making spirits bright, what fun it is to laugh and sing our bollocks off tonight!” the Rev trilled as he danced the craziest jig that Ian had ever witnessed – it looked a little like The Prodigy might look performing Firestarter at three times the usual speed. Quite unexpectedly the music stopped dead and the dancer froze in mid step, staring blankly into space as if he was playing an alternative dimension version of musical chairs.
“He doesn't look particularly angry to me,” Ian whispered. “He looks full of seasonal cheer and goodwill and thoroughly unreasonable whackiness – whackiness purely for the bloody sake of it, if you ask me. Or he did, until he stopped moving. I wonder if someone's pressed the pause button on his remote control? I wouldn't be surprised if he starts bouncing kiddies on his knee and dishing out sumptuously wrapped prezzies once he gets over the strange fugue that's suddenly overcome him.”
“Breaking kids' backs over 'is knee, more like,” Kerry replied in a similar conspiratorial whisper. “Don't be fooled by the Rev's awkward attempts at 'umerous entertainment, Ian, 'cause it's all a stunning cunt. I mean a cunning stunt..... 'E's totally unpredictable, 'e's an absolute monster - 'e's a complete fuckin' 'eadcase if the truth's known. 'is few remaining screws get looser by the minute, and, worryingly, 'e's supremely powerful in the comfy little niche that 'e's carved out for 'imself 'ere, so be bloody careful.”
“Hello Reverend, erm, Fuckalori, is it?” Ian said, burying his trembling hands in his lap as the improbable monster cancelled his fugue and started to approach him. “Please correct me if I've mispronounced your name or got it wrong altogether. Good evening, and Seasons' Greetings to you, Sir, Merry Christmas and all that. I, er, I don't really know what else to say.”
“I'll help you to break the uncomfortable silence, then, shall I?” the Rev replied. “Ooh jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way, oh what fun it is to ride on a one horse open sleigh, ooh jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way, oh what fun it is to ride on a one horse open one horse open one horse open SLAY, MAIM, DISEMBOWEL!
Hello, Ian James. THE CAT'S GOT THE MEASLES, THE MEASLES, THE MEASLES, THE CAT'S GOT THE MEASLES, THE MESSLES GOT THE CAT! Tell me, Veal Dame, why does a crisis always come up when I'm busy or when I'm trying to chill out? Why does something like this have to happen when I'm watching Neighbours or washing up, grooming Tinkerbell, my ginormous, dangerously psychotic mega-poodle, when I'm tuning the engine of my vintage Sikorsky Sea King helicopter or, even more infuriatingly, when I'm halfway through having a quiet crap or a nice, relaxing five knuckle shuffle?”
“I really don't know,” Ian said, rooted to his chair, trying desperately to ignore the fact that the Rev was a trifle confused about his name and the added certainty that his host was a complete nut job. The Rev snatched the uncompleted questionnaire from Kerry's desk and started to read it. Or pretended to read it, Ian pondered, because there was something odd about his eyes - they looked too still, too lifeless, too dry to be real.
And that wasn't all. There was something wrong with the monster's face, something desperately wrong. The Rev's sickly, greyish white skin looked like an overstretched condom stuffed with mouldering lard. His face was misshapen, and it sagged as he leaned forwards as if it was melting, as if the muscles beneath the skin were slowly falling away from their bony foundation. Even his hands looked strange; they twitched incessantly as if they didn't belong to him, and they seemed to have their own indecipherable agenda. It was as clear as day that the Rev wasn't human, Ian reflected. He was a fiend masquerading as a human being, a fiend that wasn't particularly proficient at the art of disguise and didn't care a monkey's cuss about its incompetence in any department that mere mortals find so infuriatingly important. It was as if a sentient parasite had taken up residence inside a corpse that wasn't quite the right size and shape for its needs, and it was struggling to master the controls of the slowly deteriorating body under its command.
“So, Ena Blame, me old bud, me old mate, me hairless, Fandango loving, cheesy knob gobbling platypus,” the Rev continued. “How's life treating you? FUNBAGS! NITRIC ACID! Is it a bowl of blithering, irradiated, rather embarrassed looking cherries? No? What do you mean, no? WHERE DID THAT POXY PINATA COME FROM, EMILY, AND WHO THE FUCK PUT THOSE BLOODY TROTTING HORSE STEAKS IN MY FORMERLY IMMACULATE ARMANI HANDBAG? QUACK QUACK, WOOF!
Ooh, what a pickle, what a bother, what a conundrum, what a bloody nightmare. KING KONG'S PENDULOUS DONG, STALE APPLE STRUDEL, NICEY-NICEY KIDS' TV PRESENTERS, CURIOUSLY APPEALING DANGLY-FLAPPED VAGINAS. I RATHER LIKE TURTLE AND SLUG SOUP, BUT KINDLY KEEP YOUR CONGENITAL GENITAL WARTS AWAY FROM ME, NANCY KOMINSKI. QUACK QUACK, WOOF! How d'you do, Miss Edith Thames. Those are fine, firm looking norks you're pointing in my general direction, and it looks like it's cold outside, you sprightly, well shaggable young filly. Would you like a sweetie? You are a proper woman, aren't you? My eyesight's playing up, I must remember to go to Specsavers. How do you like this fine weather we're having, Brian Baines – or was it Vangelis Transvestite? Staphylococcus Mandrake? Morton Tinned-peas? I seem to have forgotten.....
YOU WANNA COME BACK TO MY PLACE, COCKA? PHWAAR! LAME LOBSTERS, LIMP LENTILS AND DRIED UP CRUSTS OF BREAD. RATATOUILLE, RUSTY SKODA WHEEL NUTS AND PAST THEIR SELL-BY DATE BUTTON FUCKING MUSHROOMS. ARE YOU NIGEL MANSELL? IF SO, IN MY HUMBLE OPINION YOU'RE AN UNBERARABLY BORING PRICK, AND I DETEST YOUR MOUSTACHE – WHY CAN'T YOU GROW A PROPER ONE LIKE MAGNUM PI? I MUST ADMIT, THOUGH, THAT I'M THOROUGHLY CAPTIVATED BY YOUR ELASTIC PLASTIC CLOCKWORK ROCKING CHAIR. NO, NOT THE ONE THAT COVERTLY ELECTROCUTES SJHREWS AT THE DEAD OF NIGHT, THE ONE THAT PLAYS THE THEME FROM LITTLE HOUSE ON THE PRAIRIE WHILE IT ROCKS YOU GENTLY TO SLEEP. LUVVERLY..... BROKEN SPIRIT LEVELS, MANKY BLACKCURRANT JAM, SEXY CRANKSHAFTS. AREN'T ARTICHOKES EXASPERATING? GRRRRR!
Look, just stop it, you fat Teletubby bastard - stop it right now! I'm talking to a client, you moron, and you're interfering with my carefully considered words and making me look like a proper prick!
NO, I WON'T STOP IT, YOU GORMLESS, INEFFECTUAL, WHINNYING OLD MARE. TRY AND MAKE ME – COME AND HAVE A GO IF YOU THINK YOU'RE HARD ENOUGH.
Stop it immediately, or I'll stop you, syphilis breath.
OH ALL RIGHT THEN, SEEING AS YOU PUT IT LIKE THAT.....
Aah, the unsolvable quandaries of existence, Ian – I'm about as sick of them as I'm sick of my otiose inner bickering. Questions, questions, bloody questions.
How many fish are there in a decent sized shoal? How many plankton in the sea? How many strawberries to a tun, and how many Brussels sprouts to a QUACK! kilo. How many tiny tea-leaf fragments does Mystic Meg require to read my fortune in the bottom of a cup? How many mosquitoes merit the perfect swarm, and how many pieces of silver would you expect me to cross your palm with for betraying your own CUNT FUCK mother? How many bloody cars in a bleeding traffic jam, you pink, swollen, disgustingly ulcerated twannock? How many wolves in a pack, and how many mutant WOOF WOOF bacteria comprise a virulent plague unknown to modern science? Oh, buggery! Oh quackery, my voluptuous yet depressingly vacuous valentine. OH, AND JUST OUT OF INTEREST, BUSTER, HOW MANY STEAMING, FRESHLY HARVESTED HUMAN HEARTS AND KIDNEYS CAN YOU SQUEEZE INTO A REGULAR, TWO GALLON PLASTIC BUCKET WITHOUT SPILLING ANY INTO THE DIRT AS YOU CARRY YOUR STILL BLEEDING BOUNTY THROUGH ACRE UPON ACRE OF DENSE, UNDULATING WOODLAND TO YOUR COOKING FIRE AND YOUR HUNGRY BROOD? TINY TINA TAPEWORM, MY NOISOME, STEAMING HOT VINDALOO, MY PRETTY VACANT YAP YAP GOLDEN KITTEN, MY SOUR PLUM PUDDING, MY TASTY LOOKING LAMB FUCKING CHOP? ANSWER ME THAT, GORDON BISCUIT DUNKING, DRIPPING GUZZLING, TOAD FONDLING, PILCHARD TEASING, GRANDMA SHAFTING, BANANA AND CUSTARD FLAVOURED SHAME? HMMM?”
“Aaaaah,” Ian mumbled.
“What sort of answer is 'aah,' you numb fuck?” the Rev growled as his right eye slithered out of its socket on a trail of pus and splattered on the edge of the desk with a soft, wet plop. Kerry emitted a faint gurgle of fear or disgust or perhaps a combination of the two, it was hard to tell for sure.
It was a real eye, the terrified victim concluded, somehow thinking reasonably logically despite his fear, but it was decidedly putrid – in fact it was so rotten that it had lost the milky cast characteristic of the eyes of corpses in the early stages of decomposition and taken on a greasy texture and a greyish brown colour. The Rev must have been quietly festering for some time, Ian reflected. He could smell the sickly sweet aroma of his breath and he fancied that if he looked into his captor's rotting face he would witness a horde of maggots squirming in the vacant eye socket as they tried to escape from the light, but he reckoned that if he survived this experience he would sleep better without that image seared into his memory, so he tried to divert his gaze.
“I, er, not a very good one, I suppose,” he said.
“Right. Too right. QUAAACK!” the Rev replied. “Look, Paul, George, Ring-piece, Ian - you haven't fully completed our compulsory questionnaire, you pathetic, gut-sucking little ninny. MOO, QUACK, BARK. THE NINE FIFTY FIVE FROM EUSTON STATION TO HOPOTIKKI, WESTERN GUATEMALA, HAS BEEN CANCELLED BECAUSE THERE ARE LEAVES ON THE TRACK – YES, SODDING LEAVES, CAN YOU BELIEVE IT? Oh, what a fiasco. You've only answered six questions out of twelve, Gloria, I mean Hologram, I mean Lion. No, Tulip. I'm sure you understand that I have to knock points off for that, but it's not my main concern. My main concern YAP! is the somewhat disturbing answers you gave to the questions you did answer. QUACK QUACK BARK, HONK, BAA, GRRRRR!”
“Now hang on,” Ian said. “I didn't answer all of the questions because we were disturbed by a little Santa called George being chased into the room by a group of miniature psychos intent on dragging him back to whatever nightmare lies beyond door nineteen. What did you say they were called, Kerry - monkey imps? Luckily I soon sorted them out. And what do you mean by 'disturbing answers'? I just told the bloody truth.”
“Yes, I know,” the Rev replied, his remaining eye twitching ominously. “And I respect you for that,, honestly I do, even though in your case the truth is less than pretty and probably very NNNNNGH! unhelpful, damaging, even. THE RAIN IN BAHRAIN FALLS MAINLY IN MY BRAIN. Killing one of my WOOF imps and seriously injuring two others was very naughty of you, Mahatma Grasshopper Kontiki, but imps are expendable – they're ten a frigging penny, so I'm not really bothered. They're a bit pissed off mind, and they're demanding retribution ASAP, the vicious little shits. MOOOOO! It's this questionnaire that really bugs me, Veronica. What the hell were you playing at, man? Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way, oh what fun it is to ride in a one horse open CHICK-CHICK-CHICKEN! MERRY EASTER, YOUR HOLINESS!”
“Look, Rev, you'll have to speak a little more clearly, because I have no idea what you're trying to say to me,” Ian said. “I'm finding your conversational style a bit, erm, confusing to say the least.” He wanted to be specific – he wanted to complain about the anomalous inserts in the monster's dialogue, inserts that he found very distracting indeed, but he guessed it wasn't a good idea.
“Then I shall try to speak niiice and slooowly so that you don't have any problem understanding me, you simpleton,” the Rev said. “I realise that these questions are rather complex for a nincompoop like you to WEEEEE! process, so I'll do my best to boil them down to their bare bones. How does that sound? The first question, which we refer to as question one – is as follows. YABBA-DABBA-DOO! No, that isn't it. Let's see..... 'Have you ever broken the law of the god-damned, COO! COO! land still humorously referred to in some circles as Great Britain?' Your reply was 'No comment, you bacon flavoured undercover police woman twat'.”
“That was not my answer – I distinctly said 'no'!” Ian grumbled.
“That's not what it says here,” the Rev continued. “This is a very grave GERANIIUM COCKANINNY transgression, Algernon, you ridiculous little popinjay. I guess you might have deliberately given the wrong answer out of a childish sense of mischief; if that's the case, bloody well stop it and behave yourself right now - if you refuse to take your situation more seriously I'll really make you suffer. Not only did you more or less admit that you're a criminal, but you also verbally abused an undercover policewoman. WOOF, QUACK, PERT LITTLE TITTIES PLASTERED WITH JISM ANDS VANILLA ICE-CREAM!”
“Kerry is not a policewoman, she's a fucking receptionist,” Ian said.
“That's what you fink, you slaag - you're going down!” Kerry replied.
“I didn't realise that you were against me, Kerry,” Ian said, “but I guess I should have expected it. Congratulations. Give yourself a pat on the back and stick ten gold stars on your employee of the month chart. Back of the fucking net.....”
“Question two,” the Rev said. “'Do you have a criminal record for anything YAP! sick and twisted, you disgusting looking pervert? We need to know if you're on the Sex Offenders' Register for schoolgirl fondling or showing your bits to old women, or maybe buggering reluctant pooches or anteaters, that sort of thing. You answered 'Yes, I'm a twisted, dangerously psychotic class A sicko and I ought to be burned alive or devoured by ravenous hyenas or DEMIS ROUSSOS shot,' etcetera and so on. Tut-tut-tut.....”
“That's not true,” Ian sighed, “but I guess I'm wasting my breath denying it. I said 'no, I've never committed a sex crime of any description, or words to that effect, but your sly, conniving git of a receptionist falsified my answer.”
“I did not!” Kerry roared. “How dare you imply such a fing!”
“You're a lying bloody bitch,” Ian said.
“He's right,” George agreed, poking his head out from underneath the desk. “Kerry Fisher is a sneaky, two-faced, lying little fuck.”
“Order in the QUACK QUACK! courtroom, please!” the Rev said. “Question three - 'Are you a fish smuggler? What's your taste, then, Ian? Turbot? Sticklebacks? Bloaters? Hmmm? Walrus? Tiger sharks? Tiger moths or tiger lillies, maybe? Venus Williams?” Ian wanted to point out that walrus were mammals rather than fish, but by the time his inquisitor had finished there were a number of other non-piscine items on the imaginary contraband list. “I think you know exactly what I'm talking about, you sly, fishy tart,” the Rev continued. “Your answer was 'OK, it's a fair cop. I admit everything, so slap the cuffs on and get your MOO! MOOO! tits out, you cock sucking pig slapper. Strangely, though, you suddenly and inexplicably changed your plea. You said 'I'm possibly guilty, but you have no evidence against me, copper, and if you smell anything fishy the reek is probably wafting from your unwashed, seriously overripe, pork flavoured MIAOW! pig pussy.' Now I'm sure you understand that you're in very deep trouble indeed, Steven.....”
“Whatever,” Ian mumbled.
“Question four,” the Rev continued. “Let's try and get this shit out of that way as quickly as NEEEIGH possible so the we can get down to business. Have you ever had sexual relations with a dumb animal? Think along the lines of little doggies, big doggies, mice, goats, medium sized doggies, wallabies and Tory politicians, or perhaps your kink leans towards comparatively articulate creatures like talking parrots or apes that use sign WANKER! language or Nick filthy fascist bastard British National Party leader fucking Griffin. Your answer, Bill, was 'OK, I admit to shagging various HONK HONK geese, gophers and tapirs over the years, plus an occasional sleeping porcupine, which wasn't particularly kind on my NAKED GREASE WRESTLING LIBRARIANS cock, but at least I've never lain with a bleeding Nazi, so I can't be that sick.'”
“Not true,” Ian replied. “I said 'no, nay, definitely not' or something of that ilk.”
“Let's move on then,” the Rev said with a sigh. “Shit, you're a sad case..... Question five – are you a predatory BLEEDING, BUSTED ARSEHOLES homosexual? Your answer was 'Yes, I'm as gay as a gay day, I'm as camp as a Scouts' jamboree, I'm as bent as a nine pound note and unfortunately I'm cursed with a vicious nature, so I'll brutally bone any man that keeps still long enough for me to GRRRR! ravish him.' Then you said 'No, I take it back. I'm not a predatory homo, though I have to admit I've shafted a few blokes by accident while I was drunk, especially at fancy dress parties where certain daft bastards insist upon dressing up as ASTROTURF WOBBEGONG HAMPSTEAD HEATH women and cry like girls when you innocently give them one.'”
“Lies,” Ian said. “Lies, lies, twisted lies.”
“He is gay, Reverend,” George mumbled from his hiding place. “And he definitely belongs under the 'predatory' category - he tried to slip me one under this very desk while he was pretending to console me.”
“Don't you start, you Janus-faced dwarf,” Ian said.
“And finally we reach question COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO! six,” the Rev said. “Have you ever killed another human being, Ian? LAWNMOWERS, JAUNDICED SEA LIONS, VERTIGO, VASELINE. Your answer, young man, was 'Yes, I'm a vicious, despicable, utterly inhuman FUCK ME! bastard,' and you expressed a wish to be electrocuted or hung by the OH, YOU ARSE! neck, you total bloody weirdo. SORE UDDERS, DOMINOES WITH NO SPOTS ON, COLD NATURIST BISON TWATS, YAP YAP FUCKING YAP!”
“I said 'no, I could never do such an awful thing,'” Ian said, “but I guess it's a foregone conclusion that you're not going to believe me. And anyway, you're suffering from Tourette's syndrome and you're totally and utterly off your rocker in countless other ways that I'm not even remotely qualified to diagnose, so I don't have much chance of fair treatment, do I?”
“Nonsense!” the Rev roared. “I'm the bestest, bounciest, sexiest SWEATY BUM-CRACK judge in the multi-verse. I leave no STARS AND STRIPES stone unturned during my meticulous investigations into criminal behaviour; I take absolutely everything into ARC-WELDING WOMBATS ON ACID consideration, I carefully dissect, weigh and measure every mitigating circumstance and I'm confident that I give everyone a fair CUNT trial. I can't believe that you think I'm a MENOPAUSAL FRUIT BATS, SLIGHTLY STINKY CUYSTARD PIES AND BIFURCATRED CARPET PYTHONS fruitcake, Nigel. QUACK, BARK, QUACK, GRRRRR! I can't imagine where you got that WOOF idea from, because no one is saner than the UNCLEAN, UNCLEAN, FUCKING UNCLEAN Rev – no one, do you hear me? Boy oh boy, am I going to show you who's the gaffer around here, you jumped up, tapir poking little ponce.....”