Christmas Feast

Traumatised shoppers stumbled through the Christmastime aghast, minds blown not by the money-saving bargains but by the sheer pointless masochism and their own compliance with it. The people in the high towers drew energy from this ritual as much as any other, turning it all into a 'big corporations profiting from' spendathon. Of course, it was the citizens, the same worker bees who had built these towers for them and who paid for their armed guards and upkeep through their taxes, who were driven further into poverty and debt slavery as a direct result. In many cases, and happening faster than the concurrent population explosion, spending money they didn't have on this nonsense was leading to their bankruptcy and homelessness.

This had been the case for Trey Appletree, or Tree Trey as the few mates he had on the streets called him, who observed the shoppers now from his tatty sleeping bag in a cold windswept doorway. The stench of a previous night partygoer's urine had not been swept away with this wind, unfortunately. A sea of multicoloured carrier bags, and, above that, an endless flow of bowed heads, eyes fixed on the ground, ears absorbed in mobile phone chat and mp3s. No smiling at one another or recognition even. Automatons. But Trey had been the same and would be again in a heartbeat if given the opportunity to have a home and family to bring Christmas shopping back to again.

In other news and parts of the world, other human beings were being bombed and terrorised at the behest of these same people in the high towers who ran things. 'Yes such a shame,' a few of the Western bloc's citizens would agree with each other over Christmas dinner table talk whilst tucking into a brutally slaughtered dead bird. The odd human who saw all sentient life to be equal would post a video of a turkey being murdered on Fakebook and be ridiculed for caring or unfriended for showing those preferring not to think about where their food came from such things. The same for those who sought to encourage others to think about what the people in the high towers were doing to the planet and its human citizens too deeply. Cat videos on the other hand, in all seasons, remained social media gold. Earlier in the year one of Trey's friends from the streets, Charlie Goodman, had become a viral video smash when someone filmed him being arrested for disturbing the 'peace' whilst trying to awaken the sleeping masses. He was put in psychiatric after that, Trey had heard.

"Happy Chris'mas, Tree," a voice from above startled him, and a splash of liquor sploshed down on the dirty pavement in front of him. A teetering figure, beer-bellied and reeking of whisky, laughed at this greeting he had uttered while trying to maintain balance in his black Dr. Martens boots. Trey couldn't place this guy's name but recalled having had a drink and a blather with him the other week, putting the world to rights talking about all this messed up stuff that was happening in it and how things would be better without those damned people in the high towers running things.

"Av a swig o' that, Chris'mas Tree", he offered Trey the bottle, almost spilling more, and having to hold on to the wall with his other hand so that he didn't fall. Trey took the bottle and had a glug, but, as soon as he did so, he realised it wasn't only whisky.

"What the fock's in this mate?" he opened his mouth to ask, when boom, it hit him, and Trey, the Christmas Tree, was felled.

He woke up in a white straight jacket on a white stretcher in a white lift, two white-clad men taking him up, one of these men pasty white, the other's skin dark brown. Through the whited-out windows, with head tilted, he saw the concrete city below them getting ever further away. He looked towards the two men, but they both looked away. His mouth was gagged so he couldn't say anything to them.

At the top, and that was very high up, the shoppers looked like tiny ants scuttling along. Trey never thought that he would get to see the top of a high tower. Only murderers and rapists of the very lowest order generally did. However, this didn't appear to be him being welcomed into their fold, chosen to enjoy a life of luxury and comfort amongst the one percent in their elite heavenly-towered kingdom. There was no red carpet treatment or white carpet, instead he'd been drugged and kidnapped off the street. And as soon as the lift's doors pinged open, his worst suspicions were confirmed - he was met with the sight of a load of world leaders, politicians, and royalty with bibs and party hats on, salivating around a white table-clothed stretcher-sized table. Little did he know his friend Charlie Goodman had gone a similar way last Easter.