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There Aint No Justice 054
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| There Ain't No Justice |
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| #54 |
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- The Last Christmas -
by Kel'anth
It's December again, and all around, people are putting up their
Christmas trees, hanging lights around their windows, stockings above the
fireplace, or anywhere they can find a good place in their apartments.
Silver bells are ringing in the streets. Soon they'll be carolers in the
suburbs, sometimes even here in the city. There aren't a lot of people
brave or stupid enough, to go around outside for hours singing here,
anymore, but every year, there are some of them, somewhere. The TV news
people always catch them for a gooey marshmallow-type story. I've never
really seen them myself. But then, I don't live in the nicest part of the
city.
I'm walking down the street, where for once the people seem almost
kinda happy, who do I see but Santa Claus. I know it's a fake, some old
drunk who can't find another job. I still feel like ripping his guts out.
A little girl, looks five or six, she's sitting on his lap. She's
smiling and telling Santa what she wants for Christmas this year. She won't
get any of that stuff. Just something cheap and stupid, or maybe even
worse. She doesn't know what Santa's REALLY like. The little boy (her
brother, I guess) has the right idea. He's crying and he won't let go of
his mom and go sit on Santa's lap. He knows to be scared.
They're all waiting for Santa Claus. And this year, so am I. This
year, I'm ready. This year. The last Christmas.
***
I remember when I was little. I believed in Santa. I knew that much of
the truth. But I didn't know him, not at all.
When I was five, I wrote my Christmas list, in red and green crayons.
It wasn't easy writing that list, I didn't know how to write real well
then. I remember just what I wanted: a new tricycle, a Super NES, and a
million dollars. I closed up the letter, and sent it to Santa at the North
Pole. I went to bed Christmas Eve, visions of sugarplums dancing in my
head, or whatever.
Do you know what I really got for Christmas?
When I woke up in the morning, and ran to the Christmas tree, I didn't
find any wrapped presents, I found my mother and father. Dead. All I
remember is blood and stuff, and the little bows stuck neatly on top of
their heads, pink for my mother, blue for my father. The cops told me later
they'd both been stabbed through the side of the head with the fireplace
poker.
Right now, I gotta admit the bows were a nice touch. Real
professional.
The other thing I found, that mysteriously got taken off the police
report, was a trail of my parents' blood, leading into the fireplace.
***
I wonder if anyone, lately, has REALLY tried to catch Santa. I'm going
to try my best, this Christmas. I spent years saving up for the fancy alarm
system I have now. I spent more years saving up to rent a house this
December, with a fireplace and chimney.
This thing's really pretty amazing. It's got heat sensors, it's got
some kind of invisible light beams across the front of the fireplace. I
don't really know how it works, but I tested it, it seems to work great.
And I don't think Santa could possibly expect me to have such expensive
stuff, in fact, he thinks he's made sure of it.
The bedroom's like some kinda fort. I got guns, I got a bulletproof
vest on, I got grenades, the works, really. I bet I could kill all the pigs
in town with this junk. But I'm saving it for someone special.
I turned out the light now, and I'm waiting here in the dark. He'll be
here, I know he'll be here. I bet he'll be armed too. But he can't bring a
bazooka down the chimney with him, can he? I just don't know.
***
You know all those kids that you hear about sometimes, the ones that
have like 50 foster parents because none of them were any good? Well,
that's me. None of my relatives were alive, only one grandmom, and she was
in an old folks home. I got stuck with the foster shit. One of my fake
stupid dads made me stand in a corner for hours, and everyone else ate
dinner, and they watched TV and stuff, and if I moved or I tried to look at
anything he would punch me in the back of the head. He just made me stand
there, the bastard, and finally I was too tired and I just couldn't stand
up, I started to fall down and he hit me again, I just SCREAMED, "I CAN'T
STAND UP ANYMORE, I JUST CAN'T!" He hit me again but his wife made him
stop, she came down and said she couldn't sleep with the screaming and
would he please call it a night? And they weren't the worst ones, there
were a lot worse, one guy...well, I just don't want to talk about it
anymore. You probably heard it all before anyway, some news special or
something, and you said too bad then, but you didn't really care so why
should you care now?
But anyway, I ran away from home alot. One time they didn't catch me,
the "folks" didn't even report it, I guess. I guess they caught hell for it
when I disappeared, I hope so, they deserved it. I was 17, just out of high
school, when I finally got away. I got into drug dealing, it was the only
way I could make money, I couldn't get a "real" job, I thought they'd send
me back.
I made enough money, I guess. A lot, really, but I spent a lot of it
on stuff like whores, when I shoulda spent more on weapons and stuff. I
gave it up when I was 19. I was thinking of being a pimp, but I decided not
to, I thought, well, it's no use breaking alot of laws, I was lucky, the
reason I gave up drug dealing is I almost got arrested, I don't want that
to happen again, it would ruin my plans. You see, I was already planning to
kill Santa Claus.
I got a REAL job, at a McDonalds, and I waited, until I had enough
money to afford this stuff, and that's where I am now. Waiting for Santa
like some little kid, only THIS little kid's got GUNS.
***
Well, it's over now. All the waiting, and everything. I'll tell you
how it all turned out.
At 12:30 in the morning, the alarm went off, and I went downstairs
with my assault rifle. Yeah, it was Santa all right. He seemed like he was
expecting me. He shoulda been, with the alarms and everything, right?
Well, I pointed the gun at him, and I said, "Sit down, Santa. We're
gonna have a nice, long, chat, and then I'm gonna kill you. If you try to
get away, or you won't talk, then you'll just die sooner, so you better
talk."
He sat down and he fucking SMILED. He said, "Well, child, what so you
want to talk about?"
I almost shot him RIGHT THEN. But I made myself smile back at him, and
I said, "I'm not your child, and I think you know what I want to talk
about. Or maybe you don't remember. Maybe you kill so many damn people you
just can't remember them all. Poor Santa. But you killed my mom and dad.
Remember the little pink and blue bows? I thought that was very
professional. I figured you must kill alot of folks, right?"
"Absolutely.", he said.
I was expecting that, and I said, "But WHY??"
"Because you ARE my child. My son. Before you could be my child, I had
to get rid of those pretenders."
"I'm no one's child any more, bastard."
"Ah, but you are. I've had others to raise you in my place. Your
brothers and your sisters. They raised you to be like me. They raised you
to HATE. I see it in you now, my son."
"I'M NOT YOUR FUCKING SON!!!!"
"Don't deny it. Please don't tell me you don't know who I am. It's not
that hard to figure out. I only switched two letters. Didn't you ever
wonder why you never see Santa and Satan at the same time? Why we both wear
red? How such a fat man could get down a skinny little chimney, where he
gets magic flying reindeer? I am Satan, and you are my son."
I was really angry, and I was so angry that I shot him. He started
laughing. I shot him again. He laughed louder. He started to fucking MELT,
and soon all that was left was this spooky-looking thing, like a ghost you
see on TV, only made of fire.
I kept shooting at him, but he only laughed, and he flew up the
chimney again. He left me there, and I was thinking. I guess I really am
his son. I keep looking back on my life now, and thinking how people are
dope addicts now because of me, and the guy I killed once when I was 18.
And how I tried to shoot him. And, well, he's right, I'm just like him. I'm
as bad as my "folks". And I don't want to be his son, but I am, I'm just
like him, and I can't help it anymore.
I figure, I got all these weapons, and I don't got anybody to use them
on, or, I got only one guy. And why not? I can't kill him, but I can kill
his family, just like he killed mine. Look out, Dad, I'm coming home for
Christmas.
If it can't be the last Christmas, it'll at least be mine.
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±±±²²²²²²ÛÜ First United Church Kalisti: 602/753-3784
±±²²²ÛÜÜÜ The Cell: 817/870-1060
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