(An email sent on 26th December 2013)
(This SCMD is dedicated to those who, despite sacrifice,
pain and struggle, made and continue to make this world a better place for the
rest of us.)
I awoke. My arms seemed to be
pinned to my sides. I couldn’t see anything. I tried to open my eyes for
several moments before I realised they had been open all along. The darkness
lay over me like a blanket. Another several moments passed. Then I pushed the
blanket off my face.
I took deep heaving breaths of
damp, murky air.
“Bonjour.”
The voice came from nearby.
I tried to move to see it, but a
shooting pain from my back screamed a bright cacophony that kept me still.
“Who are you? Where am I?”
“It doesn’t matter who I am.”
The voice had an accent; a thick
French accent. The type of accent of someone putting on a French accent but had
never even tried fondue.
I tried to muster as much anger
into my voice as I could, “Where the hell am I? And why can’t I move?”
“Lay still, Ricky Bubby, and you
have fractured your T8, T10 and T12 vertebra.”
Ricky Bubby? Before I could
question him on this he rattled off in monologue.
French
Stewart: Last year you ‘ad le displeasure of fighting with le père Noël. That
is Father Christmas, you salaud. And he, well he broke your back. Silly thing
to do, taking on le père Noël. I wasn’t there myself, of course, being in this
prison, but I hear it was quite a short fight. You were beaten like a little
girl.
Me: Ok, I get it.
French Stewart: No one said anything about
crying, but I bet you were crying.
Me: Alright.
French
Stewart: Like a little girl
cry. Like a little weehhhh weeeeehhh weeeeeehhhh.
He went on
to make rather distasteful crying noises in the semi-darkness.
Me: Can you just hurry up
with the story already. I mean some people could be reading this for the first
time.
French
Stewart: Pardon?
Me: I’m breaking the fourth
wall.
French
Stewart: You are in no
position to break any walls. You are, pardon my French, fucked up beyond all
identification.
Me: Can you just get to the
story?
French
Stewart: Ok, I tell you
what I know. Of course, you already know zat le père Noël is evil git. I mean
otherwise you wouldn’t be here. Now, you must not only know, but like a silly
American...
Me: I’m not American...
French
Stewart: Everyone who is
not French is American.
Me: Fine.
French
Stewart: You have decided
to take it upon yourself to rid the world of la evil. Of course you are neither
able nor capable. Yet you continued to try. And like a madman, you continued in
spite of le fact that you continued to fail.
Me: Ok, Ok, I get it.
French
Stewart: Then as I said, le
père Noël sat you down on his lap, apparently back first, and he brought you
here. Into le inescapable dungeon. A broken little girl.
Me: I think you’re mixing
your inflections...but anyway who are you?
French
Stewart: I am la
chiropractor. Now turn your head and cough.
I wasn’t able to move and Jean
Reno began a complex routine of jumping all over me treating me like a puppet. (Not
like Kermit (Not that he didn’t try)).
With a snap, crackle and pop, the
pain disappeared.
French Stewart: Presto, you are fixed, Ricky
Bubby.
Me: Hang on. I had a broken
back. How can you expect it to be fixed after a bad Black Swan routine? And why
the fuck are you calling me Ricky Bobby?
French
Stewart: Oh look, the cage
door is open. Shake and bake.
French Stewart looked a lot like
Borat as he skipped out of the cage. I followed him out. Apparently none of the
prison doors were locked. The prison rooms were built on a number of floors whose
epicentre was a large open area; that now seemed to contain a large number of
people. We were literally down a deep dark hole. Smooth walls ran up the inside
of the cylinder chasing a few sharp rocky outcrops all the way to the top.
Me: What’s going on?
French
Stewart: When I said this
place is inescapable, I was not being entirely accurate. You can try and climb
out. But look, it is impossible.
As he finished his sentence a
large man with very loose pants had been trying to climb out of the hole and
had tried to jump from one ledge to another and fell violently before a rope
tightened around his waist and he was lowered to the ground.
Me: So what you’re saying
is, I should train myself over the next few months, become ridiculously strong,
and because of my strength and strong desire to kill Santa, I will be able to
climb out of this hole?
French
Stewart: No, you stupid
American, I told you, it is impossible to get out of la hole.
Me: Hang on, didn’t you say
Santa brought me down here?
French
Stewart: Oh yes, and he
spent a good two days with you on his lap and he had a twinkle...
Me: I’d rather not know.
French
Stewart: ...leather chains...
Me: Shut up.
French
Stewart: ...and he made you
wear a reindeer head, you know like that horse mask, but a reindeer...with
horns...a horny horse.
Me: SHUT THE FUCK UP.
French
Stewart: ...
Me: So after all this, did
he climb out of the hole?
French
Stewart: Don’t be stupid.
He used la ascenseur.
Me: La what?
French
Stewart: La...how you
say...elevator.
There was an elevator. An
unguarded, unlocked elevator made completely of thick glass and had lots of
buttons. After a long discussion with French Stewart, I found that prisoners
were brought down on the elevator. It would have been mean to just throw people
in. Also lawyers have to visit every now and then and the phones didn’t always
work. And then people have to come down to the fix the phones.
Me: So why has no one just escaped using the
elevator!?!?!?!?
French Stewart: That ‘ardly seems fair, Ricky
Bubby.
I left French Stewart in the
midst of a tirade on American ethics and jumped into the elevator and pushed a big
button labelled, ‘UP’.
Luckily the glass elevator was no
ordinary elevator. It didn’t just go up and down. It went leftways and
rightways and sideways. It burst out of the hole, zoomed straight up, swerving
only once to miss a very annoyed pigeon, before slowing down and hovering in
the stratosphere. This is when I decided it would be a good idea to push
another button before ending up in outer space and fighting some weird aliens.
That would just be ridiculous.
I should mention that the
elevator had thousands of buttons. It covered the walls and the ceilings and
the floors. And lo and behold, a murky red button was marked, ‘CAT CAVE’. It
was next to the one labelled, ‘GOTHAM CITY’.
The elevator, using Apple Maps, decided
that outer space was the best way to get there, so it shot upwards to the
exosphere. This surpassed my unintended mission to the edge of space from last
year and the elevator was a much better vehicle - being enclosed in a glass coffin
gave me a lot more things to look at; including what seemed like a very small
dot in the distance. I didn’t pay any attention to it. Space is pretty much
full of very small dots in the distance.
The elevator, suddenly, went into
a swan dive and crashed into a house. It was dark. But it definitely wasn’t the
Cat Cave. Goddamned Apple maps. The house itself was silent but I had made
quite a disturbance crashing in, which included extremely feminine screaming on
my part. A light was on, but I realised that it was the bathroom. I figured it
was best to get the hell out of there before someone mistook me for a burglar.
I found the right button again
and hit it.
Luckily the glass elevator,
possibly realising its error, came out of the hole it had made and hovered for
a second as little mechanical hands came out of its bottom and repaired the
damage. It was like I was never there.
Just before the blast back into space
I heard a man and woman shouting, followed by gunshots. Unfortunately I was
already in take off, so I put on some Bullet For My Valentine and strapped
myself in.
The elevator returned to orbit. I
noticed that one dot in particular was growing larger. It turned out that a
large meteor the size of Texas was heading straight for earth. My brain quickly
kicked into rocket scientist mode and did the maths. Not being very good at
maths, I tried remembering the plot of Armageddon. I spent ten minutes trying to
remember all the words to “I Don’t Want To Miss A Thing” and then another ten
minutes giggling after thinking that those words would make a pretty good
anthem for a meteor. Afterwards I just came to the conclusion that a meteor
that size hitting earth would be a pretty good way to kill Santa Claus. The
collateral damage would have been horrendous though, and there would be no one
left to throw me a parade. I really want a parade.
But I didn’t have a big drill or
nucular bombs.
Luckily the glass elevator had a
button for just such an occasion.
I pressed it.
“Comet Me Bro” shot a laser deep
into the asteroid and for a second it paused, appeared to have a ‘Why does this
shit always happen to me’ moment and exploded in complete silence. Most
fragments hurtled off into the safety of space while several thousand burnt up
in the earth’s atmosphere. One piece, barely a baby, did manage to get through
the earth’s defences and land in Russia.
Even in victories, there are
unfortunate casualties.
I eventually got back to the Cat
Cave. It hadn’t changed much except for the new skylight that the glass
elevator installed.
It was the middle of February. The
world had kept on turning. It amazed me. The absurdity of it all. Countries
burning itself from within. Countries, with a bit more sense, turning on their
neighbours. Thousands, tens of thousands of people dying for causes in the name
of a god, a flag, a word. And millions more dying just because they’re in the
way. This is the history of mankind, a
perpetual cycle of creation and destruction. It probably looks beautiful from a
million miles away.
Then add Santa as a variable,
though I’m sure he’s at the root of it all, once I sit down and do the maths.
There was a knock at the door.
“Who’s there,” I asked furtively
looking around the room for some significant weapon.
“The Pope.”
“The Pope who?”
“Open the fucking door...”
Well, you really can’t argue with
a knock-knock joke like that.
Outside the door was a little old
man, dressed flamboyantly in dirty white. He had a jittery look about him. He
looked like he belonged in a Star Wars movie or as an extra in an Asterix
comic.
“Yes?” I asked.
“I have found the truth?”
“Well that’s nice. Was it between
the couch cushions?”
“Listen my son, be serious, I
know that Santa Claus is evil.”
“I don’t know what you’re on
about.” You can hardly blame me for being suspicious. Although directly behind
me was a ‘Santa Claus is a Git’ poster from when I had planned to picket at the
Vatican.
“It was several years ago, before
I became Pope, that a little boy...a friend of mine...very angelic...”
“You might want to stop right there before I
decide to add you to my naughty list.”
“...this boy sent me the
Chronicles of your pursuit to kill Santa Claus. Whilst mildly amusing, it’s not
exactly Leviticus. Anyway, then I became Pope and have received access to
secret documents. Long story short, it’s disturbing. And I can no longer go on.
Not knowing what I now know.”
“Listen mate, does this story
have a point? You know, because I have things to do.”
He shuffled towards me. He
rummaged deep in his robes and eventually pulled out what looked like an old leathery
sausage roll. I jumped back.
“Mate, put that thing away!!! I’m
well past puberty!!!”
He continued to pull it out and
it turned out to be a roll of parchments bound in light brown leather.
“Take this. Read it. It may
help.”
“Sure mister, but I’m not into
spam. And this will be really difficult to forward to ten people.”
“Listen,” he shouted this time,
flecks of spittle flying out of his mouth, “I can’t go on. It’s been centuries
since a Pope has resigned without dying, and my faith dictates that I cannot
end my own life. But I am between the devil and the deep blue sea.”
“So....?”
“So I’m choosing the sea. Before
I go let me canonize you,” he said with his hand slipping into his robes again.
“Um...no thank you...I’m pretty
sure I’d need to die to be canonized.”
“No problem. Just close your eyes
and I’ll just canonize you from behind, you won’t feel a thing.”
“No thanks, Saint UnderdoG just
doesn’t make sense.”
“Oh well...” Disappointed, he spun
his robes in an impressive ballerina display and took off. In fairness it took
him about five minutes to ungracefully make his exit and by that time I had
made a cup of coffee and opened the scrolls.
“Oi, you holy bastard,” I shouted
after his long departed shadow, “You could have at least translated it for me!”
It was written in a complicated
calligraphy in a mix of several old and dead languages and required quite a bit
of Google translating; so allow me to précis the writing.
It is written that a beast rises out of the earth and with forked
tongue will deceive the inhabitants of earth to profess love to a false image.
It will consume and spread like a hungry fire across the forests. It will rise
to infamy, prospering in lies, deceit and shadows. It will sit in its nakedness
upon a destructive ball, sullying its tongue to the masses. And the inhabitants
will welcome it, and sing its name.
It is the Anti-Kristos.
It is further written of the Second Coming of the Messiah, to face the
Anti-Kristos. The dead will rise to be witness to the destruction and creation.
This will be the End of Days.
This was all stock standard
stuff. Then on the final scroll in a typeface that screamed secrecy.
The many stories of the End of Days show similarities – truth
traversing culture, religion and heresy. It is, however, not so. Each story comes from
the source of truth but is clouded by the hand of fear, the voice of error.
This is the truth:
The beast will be born. But it will have gentle face and healing hands.
It will be welcomed. The beast will rise, hailed as a saviour by some. But it
will suffer persecution and betrayal which fuels its anger and hatred. It will
not forgive.
It will be reborn.
This is the Second Coming of Krist.
Just like the Mayans, it was nice
to be given some written down words. But they didn’t really help me. Just for
once I’d like someone to pitch up with a dusty old book that has one page in it
that says, “And this is how you kill him...”
Studying and translating these
texts (it was comprised of 218 scrolls with very few pictures and the gist was
the few paragraphs above), took me several weeks. Ironically I finished the
last page on the first of April and spent a few moments wondering if this was
all some cosmic joke.
I had seen neither hide nor scale
of the Croc. Santa was also rather quiet after the full scale attack of the
previous year. I concluded that he assumed I was still Alice in Chains – Down
in A Hole.
I was still wasting a lot of
time. But I had zero cunning plans. Maybe it was ok to take a break. While I
was under the radar, to recuperate. To forget the world for a change. I was
beaten and battered and weather worn. And all for nought. And it had literally
become a pain in the back.
But then I remembered the words
of a man greater than I,
“Do not judge me by my successes,
judge me by how many times I fell down and got back up again.”
Well I’d done a fair job on the
falling down bits so far.
But Santa had been quiet. I
didn’t know where to start.
I turned on the TV. And the
universe, in its wickedness, delivered.
Two pressure cooker bombs had
gone off during the Boston Marathon killing three people and injuring hundreds
more. Later, the suspected bombers were shown and the world noted their youth
and Russian ethnicity and their Muslim beliefs. As far as the story went, they
claimed not to have allegiances to any known terrorist groups. That raised an
eyebrow. Santa Claus did not run a terrorist group. He doesn’t do it for
political purposes. He doesn’t even do it for religious purposes. He does it
because he is pure evil. And being evil for the sake of being evil – that’s
fucking terrifying.
But I could not confirm that
these two idiots belonged to Santa Claus’ vast network of evil. This world is
full of ignorant and idiotic people who are accidentally evil.
At the same time, it was just
such an act that would awake Claus from his slumber. Evil, one must remember
does not need to arrive on a grand scale. Evil comes from one seed and grows
and spreads. This is why Claws sinks into children. It infects like a poison.
And perhaps this is the true World War Z. People infected with animosity. The
little day-to-day rise of anger. When someone cuts another someone off in
traffic. When someone has the last cup of coffee without brewing a new pot. When
an apple fanboy bangs on about the new iPhone. When some idiot says YOLO
thinking they don’t sound like idiots. Anger leads to fear. That’s why we walk
past those in need of help; and those in need of help, in turn become, angry. Soon,
the whole world will become one heartbeat of hatred. Santa Claus will have won.
I was always looking for the big
bombs. The wars. The carnage and blood. And yes, Santa was responsible for his
fair share, but that may not have been his end game.
The thing to remember about
humanity though; is that it reacts amazingly well to adversity. When cornered,
humanity shows courage and strength against the odds. People will rise and
stand together. That is our hope.
A lot of fucking good it’s done
me so far. You still think this shit is fictional!
The Cat Cave became a prison in
its own right. I had enough food and running water. Uncapped, unrestricted
internet access. And even a giant hamster wheel for exercising in. But I was
stagnating. I wondered where the Croc had gotten to, not that I missed him.
But speak of the Devil. A few
days later I received an email.
Iron Maiden. Bring beer.
Croc didn’t believe in too many
words, always stating that he had much better uses for his mouth. I hoped he
was just referring to drinking and smoking various substances but I had never
had the courage to ask.
I had to detective my way to
figuring out he meant Belgium (and by the time I did he tweeted me to meet him
in Switzerland instead).
Belgium. This was the last time
that I had almost come face to face the Claus before he was fooled by the Croc
to turn his attentions to some poor innocent cows in a neighbouring field.
Kill Santa Claus.
See Iron Maiden.
I don’t have a kick-the-bucket
list, but there’s two things right there, and I wasn’t making much progress with
the first.
So I did the arbitrary paperwork,
spent some money and got on board a plane. It was mid-July and I found myself
in Zurich. I contemplated visiting Geneva to yell at someone as to why there
weren’t any Clauses in the Geneva Accords that would actually help me, but Croc
had laid root in the city of Lucerne.
I got off the train at Lucerne
and was greeted by the Croc in the midst of what I can only hope was a
rainstorm.
“Where have you been?” I asked
Croc after avoiding a hug.
“Do you really want to know?” he
said. He sounded surprisingly sober, but I would hazard a guess that some small
towns would run out of alcohol before the Croc began feeling tipsy.
“No, not really.”
“Let’s go.”
The Croc was staying in a lair 3.6km
from the city centre and we walked the entire way.
“I see you are increasing your
security concerns,” I wheezed as we got past the first 100m, “Staying out of
the main areas and reducing the use of public transport.”
“What are you talking about?”
The 3.6km was littered with small cafes and bars and we stopped every few hundred
metres to have a drink.
“I have decided we are going to
mount Pilatus,” he exclaimed with vigour after the second drink at the third
cafe.
“Hang on, I have no idea who
Pilatus is and I have no desire to mount...him?”
“It’s a mountain.”
“Oh, that’s new.”
“We’ll approach from the rear.”
“That’s not so new.”
Climbing a mountain wasn’t the
worst plan. There was always the chance to meet an old, wise hermit who was
less touchy-feely than Guru Shaun the Monster. And maybe they’d have a good
idea.
“But the weather’s pretty shit,”
I said.
“Yeah, I saw images from a webcam
online at the top of the mountain. There’s zero visibility!”
“So what’s the point?”
“No one will see me coming!!!”
So the next day we walked back to
the city, stopping several times for drinks and making our way to the base of
Mount Pilatus. The weather was, to quote several award winning authors, shitty.
The Croc’s enthusiasm did not wane but he was distracted by a small cafe called
Betty’s Bistro.
“We should stop and have a pint
to eat,” he said.
“You mean a bite to eat?” But he
had already wandered into the cafe.
The cafe was small but inviting.
A large man at the bar greeted us with a smile.
“Where are you guys from?” he
asked.
“South Africa.”
“South Africa? That is excellent.
I have read tales of a South African who is trying to kill Samichlaus.”
“That’s him,” Croc said pointing
at me but paying attention to the beers on tap.
“Oh my God,” said the barman, “And
you must be the Croc!!!! You deserve a shot. What does the Croc say??”
“Make it two,” said the Croc.
After giving us two shots of
Jaeger each, Croc ordered two beers and a pizza. I had forgotten Croc’s habits
and when the drinks came, he quickly drank both before demanding the next
round.
The barman had snuck off. I was
about to yell at Croc for being so blasé about giving away my secret identity.
Well I didn’t have a secret identity, but yelling out, ‘This is the bloke
you’re after’ didn’t help my cause in the slightest.
The barman returned with two
smoking glasses on a tray that was set on fire.
I was ready to flee, except it
smelled enticing, which is not a good reason to stay when something’s on fire.
The barman was a
true...um...anti-anti-krist...and was happily doing his best to show his alcoholic
barista skills.
The drinks, called a Coffee
Pilatus, was a potent mix of coffee, Stroh rum, liqueurs and cream and setting
it on fire did little to diminish the alcohol potency.
Finishing it set my head alight
and my heart afire and I could see that even the Croc’s left eye was twitching.
The next thing I remember, we were hiking up the mountain, singing such hits as
‘Who Put the Dick on the Snowman’ and ‘Santa’s Whore is Coming to Town’.
It must have been an hour later that
I came to my senses. Mount Pilatus is 7000ft up. And we were about half way to
the 3000ft first check point. Sobering up. Without a drop of water between us.
Thirst is relative and we were in the middle of nowhere. Not that there wasn’t
water. Running water surrounded us. But they were inconveniently placed at the
bottom of ravines and at the bottom of back breaking drops.
Soon I was contemplating doing a
Bear Grylls but just as suddenly, the path evened out and we reached the first
checkpoint. Luckily it had a bar.
Croc quickly ordered a bottle of
water and two beers.
He downed both beers.
It was a beautiful setting, I
noted, as I inhaled the water. We faced the peak, looking like an unframed
painting, and the sun had broken through the thick clouds.
Realizing it was becoming quite a
romantic setting, the Croc and I bought two tickets to the top and rode the
last two legs in cable cars. This became no less romantic.
At the top, it was cold. Not
North Pole ice igloo prison cold, but cold nonetheless. But for thirty minutes,
the die of luck fell in my favour. The clouds and mist separated giving us panoramic
views of the world - quiet and serene below us. Croc quickly went off on his
own. I didn’t follow. I was soaking in the magnificence of this world, and I
didn’t want it to be soiled by the vision of Croc literally mounting Pilatus.
While Croc went off on his
excursion, I entertained myself by hopping on each foot in an effort to keep
warm.
“Playing hopscotch by oneself is
often a short skip away from madness.”
The voice came from behind me and
I jumped three feet away in self defence straight into a bank of snow.
“Very good form though…” The
voice came from a little man with lots of hair on his face and not so much on
his head. He was wearing a towel around his waist and little else.
“Who are you??” I asked looking
around for available weapons as I pulled myself out of the snow.
“I have many names, but I am
often called Guru Putitin Harvajay Jay.”
“Are you the wise man of the
mountain?”
“Wisdom is a never-ending journey
on the path of enlightenment…”
“True, but why are you up this
mountain?”
“One must always be somewhere.
The sun lives in the sky but is everywhere. The fish lives in the water, but is
cooked in oil.”
This man was definitely a guru.
He answered all questions in an annoyingly unsatisfying way.
“How long have you been up here?”
“Time is a beating of pulses in
the pot of…”
“Aren’t you cold?” I asked,
cutting him off.
“Coolness of the body is in
contrast with the warmth of the soul.”
“Well yes…until you get
frostbite.”
“Oh I’ve had that. Hurts like a
bugger.”
He started fidgeting inside the
towel that had a Holiday Inn insignia stitched onto it.
“Listen Guru, I am trying to
kill...”
“Life is precious…”
“…Santa Claus…”
“Oh that bastard,” he asked
looking around furtively pulling a pipe out of the depths of the towel, “He’s
not here is he?”
“No.”
“Good,” he scooped a handful of
snow and stuffed it into the pipe stem, “That explains why your aura is so
dark. I can give you a thorough cleansing if you want.”
“No, I’m quite clued up to what
you Gurus mean by thorough cleansings and have no desire to be canonized.”
He put the pipe into his mouth
and looked thoughtfully into the distance, sucking long and hard.
“I am looking for advice on how
to kill him.”
“There are two primary choices in life: to
accept conditions as they exist, or accept the responsibility for changing
them.”
“Well that’s not helpful at all.
I’ve made the decision. I’ve come to the realisation that Santa Claus is an
evil git and I have decided to rid the world of him.”
“What counts is not necessarily
the size of the dog in the fight – it’s the size of the fight in the dog.”
“I am the UnderdoG and I
literally broke my back fighting this cretin.”
“That which does not kill you,
makes you stronger.”
“You know these words of wisdom
sound awfully familiar.”
“Reader’s Digest Quotable Quotes.
It’s $0.01 on Amazon.”
Just as I was going to tell him
just how useless he was, the Croc returned. The mist and clouds rolled in like
billowing sails behind him. Within minutes I could see neither the Croc nor
Guru but I could hear a lot of shuffling around.
I turned suddenly to find the
Guru right in front of me.
“Fancy an angel’s three-way?” he
asked.
“I’ve only heard of the devil’s
three-way? What the fuck is an angel’s three-way?”
The Guru smiled at me, “Three
dudes.”
If the cable car hadn’t been
there already I would have hopped over the side wall and run down the mountain.
The following days were a blur of
alcohol. I liked how much we were moving around. But I don’t remember half of
it. We spent one short night in the dodgy side of Luxembourg. I got pissed. I
was so pissed; I decided to leave a female bartender alone with the Croc. She
seemed quite sure of herself and Croc seemed quite pleased with himself the
next day.
Again, ignorance is my friend.
Soon, we returned to the scene of
the crime of two years earlier. Graspop Metal Festival.
Three days of music.
Returning to the fine balance of
life-affirming passion and excruciating pain. I had walked up mountains, had my
back broken by a fat man; but nothing compares to just standing around for over
fourteen hours a day.
It was on the first day when the
Croc and I were doing just such standing about, waiting for Coal Chamber to
take the stage, when a strong hand grabbed me and dragged me off. Being sober
for the first time in days, I resisted enough to look back to see the Croc
similarly accosted.
I managed to look at the man who
had hold of me. A bald, angry looking man who looked like he had seen the
inside of a Jim or two. Bald and clean shaven was a higher bet than fat and
bearded, but I still wasn’t happy about it. He was shouting at me in a language
I didn’t understand. So I started yelling at him, which helped, as he then started
shouting at me in English.
We were taken to the side of the
main stage under a tent when our abductors claimed to be from the Federale
Politie.
I looked at them carefully,
ignoring their badges. Santa’s minions could easily forge credentials, but it
was much harder to forge a lack of evil. Evil always leaves traces. Usually at
the corner of the lips. I gave them the benefit of the doubt. The bald man took
away our passports and a different, much friendly looking copper asked if he
could search my bag.
It was a good thing I really
don’t bother carrying small arms, and other than a picture of Cat the Third (my
late genetically modified giant hamster) I didn’t have anything to hide. The Friendly
Looking copper then requested to search me while the Bald copper took Croc. I
was hardly patted down. I think the coppers realised we weren’t pickpockets;
although as I turned to look back at the Croc, the Bald copper spoke in a
hushed whisper, “Spread wider.”
I decided not to look back any
further and let Bopper fend for himself.
Eventually they realised we
weren’t a threat and admitted that they were on the lookout for pickpockets.
“Good thing you weren’t on the
lookout for the guy who’s trying to kill Klaus,” Croc said absentmindedly as he
put his pants back on.
“Shut the fuck up,” I whispered
urgently but I could see the damage had already been done.
“You’re him?” asked Bopper.
“No...no...not at all...who is
Santa Claus anyway?” I mumbled.
“You are. You are him,” said Flopper
under his breath.
I didn’t reply.
“We heard you were coming.”
I looked back at Croc who
shrugged.
“Everyone is Belgium follows
@CrocHasen. His beer drinking skills are legendary! Hey Croc, What does the
Croc say?!?”
Bopper’s face then became serious
and he lowered his voice.
“The heightened security is
because of you.”
“What?” I asked trying to aim a
kick at the Croc who was pretending to be a bell.
“If we knew you were coming,
surely de kerstman knows as well. This place was crawling with little Italian
elf hitmen, but you will be happy to know we have arrested them all. But there
are thousands of people here. You should not be here. It is not safe.”
Croc interjected anything I was
going to say, “Listen, we’re here to see Maiden. Nothing else matters.”
“That's Metallica.”
“Listen mates,” I finally found
my voice, “I appreciate the work you guys are doing, but the Croc is right,
we’re here for Maiden. If Santa knows where I am, he can come and get me. But
I’m pretty much going to do everything, and everything else, to make sure I see
Maiden.”
“That is beautiful!”
“Just do what you can to keep us
alive until Sunday. After that we’ll do our best to get out alive. Can we go?”
I turned and walked out of the
tent, and I just heard the Bopper’s final sentence to Flopper.
“I can’t believe it! I searched
the Croc.”
“He won’t tell anyone,” said the
Croc striding next to me, “But I searched him too!”
The weekend passed without
incident after that.
We passed the Slipknot test for
the second time. I admired Corey Taylor’s endurance for pain as he played
injured for Stone Sour the day after. In Flames. Papa Roach. Meeting new faces,
among the many the names, of Heaven’s Basement and Amaranthe. And POD
surprisingly blowing my mind.
No hint of Santa Claus. The
police were doing such a good job that when the TV people came around, Croc and
I gladly gave an interview without any propaganda.
And finally, it all climaxed.
Iron Maiden.
I ran to the hills. I had no fear
of the dark. I was the trooper.
I had never seen Croc so happy
without a drink in his hand.
Life changed on that last night.
For all the days gone, all the pain and scars and joy and victories, life would
never be the same again.
The Croc decided to stay on in
Belgium and sample the hundreds of different varieties of beer. I would never
survive that, so I returned home.
I was invigorated. Ready for the
fight.
Still Santa continued to lie low.
I couldn’t understand why. He had defeated me, his greatest foe in years and
left me a broken man down a deep hole. He should have been running riot on the
world and having his laps rubbed raw by the behinds of little boys asking him
to give it to them.
But it was an almost tranquil
peace in the world.
So I did what any foolhardy,
overconfident man would do. I took out my phone and made a video.
Here’s a little holiday greeting I wanted to send to the Claus, I
didn’t know how to phrase it until now. I am the UnderdoG and I’m not afraid of
you. I know you’re a coward. So I’ve decided that you’ve just died, pal. I’m
going to come get the body. There’s no religion here, just old fashioned
revenge. There’s no Christmas tree, it’s just you and me. On the off chance
you’re a man…here’s my home address – ten-eight-eighty – Cat Cave Point. I’ll
leave the door unlocked.
And I uploaded it on YouTube.
Then I lost myself in reliving
the Maiden voyage, every second of it.
Coming out of my reverie, I found
I had several dozen messages. I was too cheap to enable mobile roaming and I
had forgotten to deactivate the roaming text service, so it had been piling up.
I listened to the first, dropped
the phone and headed out the door, causing a Porsche to swerve violently in
order to miss me.
There are people in this world
that rise above the ordinary.
There are people who complain
about the rain and then there are people who go out and invent the umbrella.
My country has an unflattering
history. A history of injustice, persecution, fear and hatred. But as I’ve
said, humanity finds a way to fight back when cornered.
In a history littered with
amazing people, people who fought back for right, who stood up for the
downtrodden and spoke for an entire people, there was one man who wore the face
of change. A man who is synonymous with courage and hope.
And it was he who beckoned me
now.
I walked into a dimly lit room, with
a single lit candle raging against the backdrop of the glowing machines. It was
deathly quiet but for the whizzing and buzzing.
Me: Madiba?
Madiba: Sit, my friend.
He was ill. He had been fighting
illness for a long time now. But he was sitting up in the bed, a warm smile on
his face. If he was weak, his eyes showed no signs of it.
Madiba: Welcome.
Me: Thank you. I am not sure what I am doing
here.
Madiba: I am well aware of your struggles.
Me: But how? How?
Madiba: Let us not be bothered by the
irrelevant details. I have been following your exploits for some years now.
Me: I don’t know what to
say.
Madiba: Everyone loves an UnderdoG.
I was humbled. A long pause
descended on the room. It was haunting as the candle flickered projecting dancing
shadows on the wall.
Madiba: I am not long for this world.
Me: Don’t say that. I’m
sure...
Madiba: Death is unavoidable. I have
lived a long life, and I will be happy to reunite with my comrades, my family;
to return to my ancestors. I thought it was time you and I spoke. Let me
rephrase. It was time I spoke so you could listen.
He spoke
slowly but precisely.
Me: ...
Madiba: Good. You know how to listen.
There are many
people who feel that it is useless and futile to continue talking about peace
and non-violence against an evil whose only reply is savage attacks on an
unarmed and unknowing people. We must use time wisely and forever realize that
the time is always ripe to do right. There is no easy walk to freedom anywhere,
and many of us will have to pass through the valley of the shadow of death
again and again before we reach the mountaintop of our desires. Courage is not
the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. The brave man is not he who does
not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear.
The candle, in its age began to
slip into its own shadow. But the flame burnt valiantly on, almost brighter
than before.
Me: ...
Madiba: Don’t worry, my son. You have a
good heart. You have a good head. This is always a formidable combination. Now
go. Fight your battles. Continue your walk. Do not be a passenger on your
journey. Be the Captain.
Me: Hamba kahle, Madiba.
The candle
flickered and gracefully, with its final breath, whispered its last goodbye.
The entire world mourned the next
day, and the mourning after and after that.
A week later the world’s leaders
arrived at South Africa to pay tribute to the man. This was worrying. It was a
perfect opportunity for Claus. One present dropped from a reindeer-fly-by would
do all sorts of damage.
Just as I was figuring out who to
call and warn, I received a text from the number 666. No country code. Just
666.
Claus.
A single word.
Ceasefire.
Ceasefire? Surely it was
bullshit. A good trap always has live bait. Or did his heart grow three sizes
that day? Was this the battlefield Christmas between allies and enemies? We
could fight another day. We could take this moment to mourn and celebrate a
life. Perhaps even Santa could acknowledge this life.
Still, I was on my guard.
Fortunately the memorial went off
without attack. Still, an elf did get in. No one else could understand him, but
having spent many days working with deaf elves, I understood the gestures they
called deafish.
Ceasefire will end. Consider this your only warning. You won’t escape
again.
It was strange because the elf
had only a dozen words to say, but ended up signing it for four hours. He did
sneak in some other phrases but those were the important ones.
Some of the other phrases, in
case you’re interested in watching the videos and trying to learn deafish.
Man, I could sure go for a couple Blitzens.
My fucking hands are tired now.
Couldn’t Santa have just texted him this message???
I took the warning to heart and
fixed the skylight in that the glass elevator had left behind (installed sign –
‘No Entry’).
Christmas morning rolled around.
I hid under the bed with a cricket bat and a towel. A towel is about the most
massively useful thing to have. Everyone prattles on about 42, but they forget
about the towel.
But again, nothing happened.
Until suddenly, I heard a
rumbling in the distance. I hurried out from under the bed, which I realise now
defeats the entire purpose of hiding at all. I looked out of the Cat Cave
windows that looked out on the Indian Ocean. The morning after dawned waved
back.
It was just news helicopters. But
there weren’t any other news helicopters. And why would news helicopters head
my way, and why head my way now? I had uploaded my address to YouTube weeks
ago. I studied the helicopters and did a quick Google Goggles.
The result was not good. The
three helicopters approaching were military helicopters and they dropped their
disguises to show – what I can best describe as – big ass guns.
They fired.
The rockets hit without mercy.
Installing sky lights everywhere.
I stopped, dropped and rolled,
then got back up and ran.
The building rained concrete and
plaster and wood and polystyrene around me. As I run I thought to myself, if
only I had invented a few dozen robots armed to the teeth that I could call on
right now. About 35 armoured suits to attack these pathetic choppers. That
would have been one damned good party. But unfortunately I did not have these
resources, so I ran.
At that instant, a slightly
better aimed rocket hit the hamster wheel behind me and dislodged it from its
platform. I did a one eighty spin, thinking this would be mighty comical under
different circumstances and jumped out the window.
I am not, under any
circumstances, considered to be as a swimmer. I let professionals handle the
swimming. My favourite pool game is called Stay Alive. But here, my first 30
seconds of almost drowning proved fruitful, as the helicopters presumed I had
in fact drowned and buggered off. I under-doggy-paddled to the shore.
I looked up. Through the dark
grey clouds of smoke and the fires still burning strongly, I saw that the Cat
Cave had been destroyed. Annihilated. It used to be there, but wasn’t any more.
I sighed heavily and started
walking. The Cat Cave, being in the middle of nowhere, meant I had a long walk
to the edge of nowhere and then still another hour’s waddle to get to somewhere
at all.
At the bottom of the ocean, I had
found a Nokia 3310 buried in the sand, and once it dried sufficiently, seemed
to work pretty well. And at least typing this out gave me something to do while
I continued my long walk to figure out what to do next...
Ever the UnderdoG,
Kamal (The Captain)
P.S. It seems this Nokia 3310
evolved to have LTE and I’m pretty sure its evolving some intelligence.
P.P.S. What does the Croc say???
P.P.P.S To everyone still alive
and ticking, have a great year and ensure that your resolutions include joining
the fight against Santa #SCMD
