A Slicing Device

A Predator Press adaptation of a 2006 Predator Press adaptation of "A Christmas Carol", written by some other guy.

[LOBO]

My first goal as an "author", I suppose, is to make an impression on people's hearts.

Truth be told, I hate writing. But I'm too short and scrawny to leave impressions on people's foreheads where they tend to be much more effective, and cinderblocks get heavy after a while. Ever try to nail that oblivious jerk hogging the whole fast lane at 56 miles an hour with a cinderblock?

I rest my case.

I've had to learn to be flexible, and adapt my impression-leaving skills.

Firstly, I'm not buying a single Christmas present. At this point, just going to the grocery store is a major pain in the ass. Today at Kmart, I hadda throw six elbows in four minutes just to buy a gallon of Snickers-flavored ice cream, four boxes of Twinkies, a three layer chocolate cake and a six pack of Diet Pepsi.

Either I'm getting older, or those little old ladies are getting tougher. And some of them got back up once or twice! I ended up leaving them spitting and hissing in Isle 14 thanks to an improvised oil slick composed of Snickers ice cream, Twinkies, chocolate cake, and Diet Pepsi.

This won't end on the 25th, either; after Christmas is over, I'll once again be fighting for meals with crowds of people returning the stuff they've already inconvenienced me buying. And they will be twice as cranky because of futile and unrealistic New Years Resolutions to quit smoking, lose weight, ad nauseam.

In truth, Holidays make everyone completely self-centered homicidal jerks that only screw everything up for me, and I hope God punishes them severely for hijacking my breakfast today with their selfishness. Maybe a nice convenient electrical fire or something. I mean, there's a reason we don't have trees in our houses already, right? They're flammable! And every one of these pagans have a living room sprawled with Stetson Cologne Molotov cocktails, augmented by eight pounds of wrapping paper and a tinsel primer. It would be easy for vengeful Almighty God to smite the crap out of them.

As He should, I might add.

... I wouldn't give God any guff this year. As always, we at Predator Press stand 100% firmly behind Him.

Still, some form of formal acknowledgement of the season seems in order. Christmas is, after all, the one time of the year when all nations and religions cast aside their differences to celebrate the birth of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

Isn't it enough to just say "Merry Christmas" you jerk?

[*sigh*]


***

So at like 3:00 am this ghost comes bustin into my bedroom.

"LOOOBOOO!" he says. "I am the Ghost of Christmas Future! Boo!"

"Who?"

"The Ghoooost of Christmas Fuuuture ..."

"Why are you talking like that?"

"Because I'm a ghost, you dumbass. You know, like in that book by Charles Dickens?"

Hah! He said 'dickens'.

"It's 3am you jerk," I says.

"Yeah, I know," he says. "I wanted to catch up with you earlier, but I'm way behind schedule."

"What happened to those other two dead guys, 'Christmas Past' and 'Christmas Plus' or whatever?"

"They got downsized in July."

"Well, they were probably pretty lazy then," I reply. "Dead people are notoriously unreliable."

"I'm here to show you what future Christmases hold unless you change your ways."

"Now? Look, I need at least eight hours of sleep a night. And maybe four or five during the day--"

"Let's go," he persists. "I'm on a tight schedule, as I have mentioned. By the way, where do you find footie pajamas in your size?"


***

"Where are we?" I ask.

"We're at your place a year from now."

"My god it's huge!"

The ghost flips through some papers on his clipboard, puzzled. "This is definitely the right address. Maybe you rent an apartment or sleep in the alley."

"Wow!" I says, noticing an opulent marble statue of myself in the fountain peeing randomly all over an icing courtyard. "That's really cool."

Over the massive, solid oak doors, 'CASA DE LOBO' is inscribed.

The ghost scratches his head, "Well this is unexpected. I guess we should go in."

"What, are you crazy? Knowing me, this place is crawling with giant motion-detecting robot guard dogs with machine guns!"

"We're invisible. Nobody can see us."

"Cool," I concede glumly.

Mental Note: Give robot watchdogs invisibility detectors.

And rabies.

"Oh!" says the spook decidedly, lowering the clipboard, relieved. "We're not going inside anyway. We have to go around to the back. To the shipping docks."

"But we're invisible! How about we just find a really hot chick, and follow her around until she takes a shower?"

"I don't think so."

"You know, for a guy who is already dead, you're pretty inhibited."

"Maybe."


***

It's a little known fact that trucks, in extreme cold, are vulnerable to brake line freezing.

Which means they can't move.

I can see the back-and-forth skid marks the Hawley Enterprises truck left as it tried to break them free. There are footprints in the snow going from the driver's side door --which is oddly ajar, with snow piling into the cab.

We follow the footprints, and they lead to the truck's rear tandems. There is on object sticking out of the snow, and I bend to pick it up. It's a largish rubber mallet, sometimes used to pound frozen brakes directly in an effort to get them to release the tires.

And that's when I spot the immobile, pale blue figure.

It's Cobe.

"Is he--?" I ask the specter.

"Dead? My yes," he replies, matter-of-factly. "On Christmas day, you and Ethan made him deliver your new hot tub to the penthouse. The truck froze up, and he died trying to get it moving again."

"A hot tub, eh?"

"Yes."

"Did he get it delivered?"

"Yes. And he installed it."

I shake my head, "Well, I've got to tell you. I'm not seeing a downside here."

"You're an asshole," says the ghost.