Sunday, September 5, 2010

Volume 4: The Drunk's Christmas Special

THE DRUNK'S CHRISTMAS SPECIAL
The Adventures of Schmoopy and Other Tales from the 23rd Floor
By J. Ian Manczur

“And that, kiddos, is how I killed zombified Santa Claus and took over as the new Santa.” Mike turned to his assemblage, a baker’s dozen of ten year olds. “Yes, what do you want?”

“Doesn’t Santa Claus wear red?”

“Red was the color of the old regime, besides red is a communist color. Do you know what communism is, kiddos? No, well it doesn’t really matter anymore. I had all the elves vote and we chose Hawaiian shirts. Why? Because I firmly believe in the wondrous tenets of democracy, through a federal constitutional republic, and you should too. Those tenets chose, or dare I say demanded, that Hawaiian style shirts be worn. I guess it’s not really Christmas-y per se, but I do have the big bushy beard. And presents! Snickers, Butterfingers, Baby Ruth, Charleston Chew…I‘m keeping that for myself. Here, kid, have this Hershey kiss instead. Alright, glasses, what do you want?”

“Mom told me Santa Claus wasn’t real.”

“Santa? Not real? I’m right here.” Mike backhanded the kid across the face. “That real enough for you, you little shit? Give me that candy bar back and get the fuck outta here. Here, tubby, you look like you would enjoy this. You, the ugly one.”

“I..”

“No, not you, the ugly, fat girl next to you.” Tears welled in the girl’s eyes and she ran away crying. Mike turned to the original responder. “Fine, what were you going to say, Scrappy Doo.”

“My name’s Billy.”

“From here on out, it’s Scrappy Doo, got that children? Santa deems it so.”

“Will you finish the story that you started last night?”

“And that is why you are Scrappy Doo, because you are an ungrateful little monstrosity of a child. You’ll just have to wait for Uncle Ike’s big birthday bash tonight to find out what happens to him, Uncle Dave and Jack. But, I will let you in on a secret, one of the three dies.”

A group of adults rounded the corner. “Hey Mike, keeping the children entertained?”

“You know it. All set up for the bonfire tonight?”

“Oh yea, almost time to get blitzed. See you later, Mike.”

“Catch you later, Dave. So where was I?”

Scrappy Doo spoke up. “You were telling us why you weren’t telling us the story.”

“No, no, I finished with that. You, glasses, wait, I‘m naming you Sherman, you pasty ginger asshole. Now, what is it?”

“Mom told me that we shouldn’t listen to any of your stories. That you lacked morals and smelled like a hobo.”

“And who is your mother, Sherman?”

“Caitlyn.”

“Caitlyn…” Mike laughed. “Well, she may have the right to criticize my hygiene, but MORALS? Bah, I’ll talk to her about morals the next time I catch her on her knees out back of Ed’s.”

One of the girls rose her hand. “What does ’on her knees’ mean?”

“Well, darling, that means Sherman’s mother is a dirty prostitute. Anyway, if she thinks my stories have no morals, I’ll give her one with plenty of morals. This is a story of what it means to be an American. This story is about freedom, self-determination, and gratuitous nudity. This is the story of Simon.”

It was a wonderful time to be alive. Everyone else was dead, all the people that had pissed him off and what a list that was. Simon had the amazing ability of immediately finding a damning flaw in almost every person he had ever met. Those who escaped his keen eye for wickedness usually proved themselves equally worthy of demise within five minutes of conversation.

Yet, even in his revelry that the entire rest of humanity was gone, Simon knew that it was mostly speculative. The only death he was entirely sure of was that of the ugly Ms. Aberdash’s prized dog Schmoopy. Simon didn’t know the breed of dog Schmoopy belonged to, but he did know it was small, loud and had the penchant to poop in his doorway. He hated that dog and when he realized that Ms. Aberdash was most likely dead, he took his revenge. Kicking in her apartment door, which was next to his, he found Schmoopy lying in her bed. Probably knowing his intent, and with equal hostility, Schmoopy went for the ankles. It was a daring attack, but the dog soon found itself launched off the 23rd story balcony to the streets below.

In celebration of his victory, Simon threw all of his own clothes off the balcony. He had long before decided that nudity was natural and that should the opportunity arise to live naked for the rest of his life, he would take it. It seemed to Simon that the time had come. He had only been clothed in order to appease those who had demanded he wear clothes. They were dead now, so their rules, their laws, no longer applied.

Before, he had to be careful about his public nudity. Yes, there were the occasional opportunities at the nude beach, but it was a long drive away. Simon’s public nudity had been mostly regulated to the locker room of the local gym after his biweekly swimming sessions. No more, though, his buttocks was for the world to see. Simon was the only person left alive. It was now his place to make the rules. The new rule, the new law, would be everyone had to be naked.

He decided to announce his decision from the balcony. After all, weren’t all great moments of history shouted from balconies? With furious declaration, Simon shouted to the world, “I’m naked!” The zombies had no opinion on the matter.

A distant “SHUT UP” echoed through the streets. Damn, someone else survived.

It didn’t matter, though, they, and a likely clothed they, were probably on a lower floor than he. Simon had the height, Simon had the higher balcony, Simon had the rule of law. They would have to listen to him and be naked too. Then, Simon came to a realization. There were a number of other high-rises in the area. If they were even on the 24th floor of another apartment block, then Simon would have to be clothed once again. That wasn’t going to happen, he needed to be proactive.

Gathering what goods he cared to keep, which were few, Simon climbed the stairs to the top floor of his apartment building, the 25th floor. The likelihood of any other survivor having a higher floor than the 25th was nigh impossible.

Upon reaching the pinnacle of his lawmaking career, Simon had a very difficult choice to make. There were two apartments on the 25th floor. Although he had already decided on occupying the whole floor, for how could he risk having another live on the same level, he still needed to choose between his living quarters and his office as president of the world.

He sat in the hallway between the two, deciding with the grave importance of a man whose job it was now to make grand decisions on things, whether to live in the apartment that sat opposite or the same as the one he had until ten minutes ago lived in. The deciding factor ended up being the view from his apartment, one that he would sorely miss. At first, it seemed obvious that he would choose the apartment on the same side that his old apartment was on, which he had lived in not thirty minutes ago. Then, came the realization that he would be spending the majority of his days legislating and proclaiming his will; so let it be written, so let it be done. Only nights would be spent in his living quarters. Thus, it was finally decided to take the apartment that sat opposite the building of the apartment that he had lived in previously, fifty-six minutes ago.

What a choice it was, too, the apartment was unlocked for him. Upon entering, Simon was surprised to find five men who all looked surprisingly similar staring at him. He couldn’t quite comprehend why the five men were sitting in his apartment, but he was too worried about the ramifications to say anything meaningful. Meanwhile, the men were also dumbfounded by the sudden appearance of a rather naked man in their threshold.

After a rather long and rather awkward pause, one of the men asked, “Why are you naked?”

“Why aren’t you naked? It’s the law!” Simon quickly fled. He had debated fighting them for the right of presidency, but he had only one gun, which was downstairs, while three of the men had already pulled guns while the other two went for theirs. He could no longer stay in his apartment building. It wouldn’t be long before the men demanded Simon wear clothes and he could have sworn that they owned a cat, and he hated cats more than he hated ugly Ms. Aberdash’s stupid dog Schmoopy. People who own cats could not be trusted.

His next law was going to outlaw pets of all kinds, except birds. The only place he could think to go was the hospital. It was the tallest building in New Shroudsburg and Simon doubted anyone would be living in the hospital. From there, no one could challenge his rule. His only stop on his way out was to pick up his trusty cat-killing rifle and a rather large stick that had caught his fancy one day. Simon left his apartment, his sanctuary on the 23rd floor, to brave the new world, naked.

“And what do you think of that, kiddos?” The chaos of children in front of him sat still, unsure of what to make of Mike’s story. “Fine then, but you must admit there are at least two, probably more, morals to that story.”

“I‘m confused.”

“Sherman! Jesus Chris..topher Columbus. Not another word, NOT ANOTHER WORD! Fine, if I must spell out everything for you, this was a tale about individuality, about carving your own path in life. Your life is your own, never let anyone else stop you from being you. Yadda, yadda, yadda. But, in reality, in times such as now, we need the enterprise of every single person still alive. There are still men who will be dishonest, men who will lead you astray, men who will try to take advantage of you. The only real defense you have against them is to be true to yourself. Remember my wise words.”

“What happened the naked man, Santa?”

“Oh, well little girl, he died. I mean, he was naked. And crazy; really crazy… So, I guess that makes my point moot. Instead of this being a tale of morality or a parable, let’s make this a cautionary tale. Individuality is bad, trying to make your own way in the world will just lead you to your deaths. So, remember kiddos, conformity is the key to success. Do what your elders tell you and always agree with the majority. Yeah. That’s the American way. Now, who wants cookies?”

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