Guffingford
19-12-2005, 13:46
A Short Christmas Carol
By "That Guff Guy"
Without a single cloud in the endless 'ceiling' above the town Saint Denis', Charles Guillespeak wasn't enjoying Christmas and everything that comes with it. On the radio a rather cheesy christmas tune was playing, Sharkfaced Pete the bartender was mopping the floor and outside passed by - ignoring the boozer Charles spends his days. After 5PM all sorts of people start seeping in, first the unemployed, then the workers and after that, the office pen pushers. Sometimes a shady dealer from backalleys comes by, asking if some bozo wants to buy a gun, some eerie tablets of some kind - when asked where they originate from these men always know a way to talk around it. Like politicians. Or they want to barter foreign currency for gold. Stuff like that. Not really illegal, but not legal either. The police and City Watch allow this to happen, as long as people stay away from organised mobs.
The room where the old and worn and battered furniture are, looks messy and filthy. Pete the bartender mopped the floor just a few hours ago and now it looks like a place where fifty men, women and children from the deepest sewers have slept, lived and shat for years.
The stench of rust, paper and Ol' Booze was mixing with the foul odor of sweat and unwashed bodies. Charles was standing in line to get his free meal, an initiative by the bar tender to gather some extra (poor) customers. 'Let 'em come from their shacks or grotty little houses and they get a free meal in here. Real meat! Nothing synthetic!' And yes, many more of the lowest breed came in. But that didn't bother any one. New people, new conversations. All of it is smalltalk, and when you've finished your monologue with Average Joe #1, then there's another Average Joe to continue it. Charles looked at the bunch of nobodies in utter disgust. He couldn't stand them, but somehow he envies their ignorance.
No matter at who he looked, he or she was not clean. That's not really strange now that he thought of it, since running water is a luxury which can only be purchased by the wealthy. Most water comes from wells, and since natural gas is too expensive to cook water just to get rid of the germs, people drink Ol' Booze. And then you have those conspiracy theorists who claim the Ol' Booze company keeps water dirty so people keep buying their horrible product. What fools they are! Charles remembered a time when water was abundant, and running freely. And then people were also drinking Ol' Booze like madmen. What a bull.
Charles looked around again. He felt sober, but he knew it was only a state of mind. How many of them big nips of gin did he took? He lost count. But it didn't matter. Everybody born in this country was born as an alcoholic. A normal soul from any place more rational and realistic than this would've died of some serious food poisoning or just ran away in terror. Unbelievable how I, Charles Guillespeak still live here. I live here! My God, how can I keep on living here? I spend my days living from news bulletin to news bulletin, while eating slop people call "soup", meat tastes like industry grade rubber and vegetables are injected with pesticides and fruit is a rarity. Most vegetables are onions and leek, and butter is lard. Everything's cheap and dirty.
The radio tune shifts from the cheesy Christmas songs to a patriotic song sung in Dutch. It was awful, and the hard toneless voices screamed in the microphones. This for once, was live. And it sounds like rubbish. Why, Charles thought, why oh why is everything so bad. This country can do better he was sure of. But escape would be a better alternative. Nothing changes in the near future. Some things never change. Without even nodding or ordering a drink Pete walked by, so lazy and tired, to drop another bottle of gin. Charles looked at the label, it was a bad imitation of Gordon's. London was misspelled, and instead of a boar head, a pig graced the family blazon. The colors and all were the same. Probably real gin doesn't taste like alcoholic sand.
'Goddamn.' Charles mumbled, yet Pete could still hear it. He raised his shoulders and walked back to the bar where some impatient customers demaned his attention. Charles grabbed his tin mug, uncorked, when he suddenly stopped. 'Jesus' he said to himself, 'what am I doing?' Then, looking around at the misery that stood, hung and crawled around him, he just felt that he'd end up like one of them. Charles still had a brain worth using, instead of being the moronic wage slaves they are. In the meantime Pete was busy hauling in a Christmas tree he chopped down from someone's yard. A few of his friends helped him a hand, and soon the tree stood in a corner of the room.
While decorating the tree with all sorts of second hand junk, Charles kept on struggling with the will to drink the colorless liquid inside. He was able to identify that scent miles away, so strong and penetrating it is. 'I have to escape this. I want to celebrate a Christmas without all of this! I want real friends, real people!'
'I know what you feel.' A voice said in the background noise. Charles looked up in a second, sat up straight, surprised but a tad scared too. Was it meant for him? Or someone else? Am I hearing things? Who said that? 'Who said that? Are you talking to me?'
'Yes I am, I know what happens. Charles.' He recognized the voice. Who could it be, someone from the past no doubt. Charles thought hard - but long. The person came closer and in a split second Charles recognized him. It was Richard Tibbitts! An old friend from the east of this country, and boy was he glad to see him.
'I thought I'd find you in here Charles' He said softly, not wanting to disturb the inane chatter around him. 'It's good to see you. I came to see you, after I left this place decades ago. You remember why?'
'Oh yes of course!' Charles replied. 'You were tired of everything, the people, the food, the beer, the...' And he knew it. Charles knew why Richard said "I know how you feel". Charles understands it all.
'Yes my friend. And I have watched you, so closely I felt bad because I saw you rolling downhill. The booze, the lack of women, no love and no friends. I know how you feel, because I searched for it as well. I left Saint Denis' to find a better place. To start a better life, and I remember I promised you that if I found it, I'd tell you.'
'So you did?' Charles asked.
'I think I have to disappoint you here my friend. I returned, I did not found anything on my little list.' Richard took out a piece of yellow paper from a pocket, and handed it to Charles. 'Everything's still unchecked. Nothing I was hoping to find is here. Only the rich have it all.'
'And neither of us is rich. Unless we find ourselves a treasure trove.' Charles yammered to Richard. He nodded, and his eyes were standing sad. Then he looked at the uncorked but full bottle.
'There is a way to forget' Richard noted. 'And although its temporarily, I think it can still save us from living a life of depression. Hey, let's drink to ourselves. I propose a toast to our future, whatever it may be. Let it be short, painless and perhaps, if God feels like it, fun.'
'I agree with that statement my friend.' Charles replied while Richard wasn't even finished talking and poured the gin in the tin mug. He managed to find another one for Richard, and there they sat. In Sharkfaced Pete's bar in Saint Denis'. Christmas has never been so merry for them.
By "That Guff Guy"
Without a single cloud in the endless 'ceiling' above the town Saint Denis', Charles Guillespeak wasn't enjoying Christmas and everything that comes with it. On the radio a rather cheesy christmas tune was playing, Sharkfaced Pete the bartender was mopping the floor and outside passed by - ignoring the boozer Charles spends his days. After 5PM all sorts of people start seeping in, first the unemployed, then the workers and after that, the office pen pushers. Sometimes a shady dealer from backalleys comes by, asking if some bozo wants to buy a gun, some eerie tablets of some kind - when asked where they originate from these men always know a way to talk around it. Like politicians. Or they want to barter foreign currency for gold. Stuff like that. Not really illegal, but not legal either. The police and City Watch allow this to happen, as long as people stay away from organised mobs.
The room where the old and worn and battered furniture are, looks messy and filthy. Pete the bartender mopped the floor just a few hours ago and now it looks like a place where fifty men, women and children from the deepest sewers have slept, lived and shat for years.
The stench of rust, paper and Ol' Booze was mixing with the foul odor of sweat and unwashed bodies. Charles was standing in line to get his free meal, an initiative by the bar tender to gather some extra (poor) customers. 'Let 'em come from their shacks or grotty little houses and they get a free meal in here. Real meat! Nothing synthetic!' And yes, many more of the lowest breed came in. But that didn't bother any one. New people, new conversations. All of it is smalltalk, and when you've finished your monologue with Average Joe #1, then there's another Average Joe to continue it. Charles looked at the bunch of nobodies in utter disgust. He couldn't stand them, but somehow he envies their ignorance.
No matter at who he looked, he or she was not clean. That's not really strange now that he thought of it, since running water is a luxury which can only be purchased by the wealthy. Most water comes from wells, and since natural gas is too expensive to cook water just to get rid of the germs, people drink Ol' Booze. And then you have those conspiracy theorists who claim the Ol' Booze company keeps water dirty so people keep buying their horrible product. What fools they are! Charles remembered a time when water was abundant, and running freely. And then people were also drinking Ol' Booze like madmen. What a bull.
Charles looked around again. He felt sober, but he knew it was only a state of mind. How many of them big nips of gin did he took? He lost count. But it didn't matter. Everybody born in this country was born as an alcoholic. A normal soul from any place more rational and realistic than this would've died of some serious food poisoning or just ran away in terror. Unbelievable how I, Charles Guillespeak still live here. I live here! My God, how can I keep on living here? I spend my days living from news bulletin to news bulletin, while eating slop people call "soup", meat tastes like industry grade rubber and vegetables are injected with pesticides and fruit is a rarity. Most vegetables are onions and leek, and butter is lard. Everything's cheap and dirty.
The radio tune shifts from the cheesy Christmas songs to a patriotic song sung in Dutch. It was awful, and the hard toneless voices screamed in the microphones. This for once, was live. And it sounds like rubbish. Why, Charles thought, why oh why is everything so bad. This country can do better he was sure of. But escape would be a better alternative. Nothing changes in the near future. Some things never change. Without even nodding or ordering a drink Pete walked by, so lazy and tired, to drop another bottle of gin. Charles looked at the label, it was a bad imitation of Gordon's. London was misspelled, and instead of a boar head, a pig graced the family blazon. The colors and all were the same. Probably real gin doesn't taste like alcoholic sand.
'Goddamn.' Charles mumbled, yet Pete could still hear it. He raised his shoulders and walked back to the bar where some impatient customers demaned his attention. Charles grabbed his tin mug, uncorked, when he suddenly stopped. 'Jesus' he said to himself, 'what am I doing?' Then, looking around at the misery that stood, hung and crawled around him, he just felt that he'd end up like one of them. Charles still had a brain worth using, instead of being the moronic wage slaves they are. In the meantime Pete was busy hauling in a Christmas tree he chopped down from someone's yard. A few of his friends helped him a hand, and soon the tree stood in a corner of the room.
While decorating the tree with all sorts of second hand junk, Charles kept on struggling with the will to drink the colorless liquid inside. He was able to identify that scent miles away, so strong and penetrating it is. 'I have to escape this. I want to celebrate a Christmas without all of this! I want real friends, real people!'
'I know what you feel.' A voice said in the background noise. Charles looked up in a second, sat up straight, surprised but a tad scared too. Was it meant for him? Or someone else? Am I hearing things? Who said that? 'Who said that? Are you talking to me?'
'Yes I am, I know what happens. Charles.' He recognized the voice. Who could it be, someone from the past no doubt. Charles thought hard - but long. The person came closer and in a split second Charles recognized him. It was Richard Tibbitts! An old friend from the east of this country, and boy was he glad to see him.
'I thought I'd find you in here Charles' He said softly, not wanting to disturb the inane chatter around him. 'It's good to see you. I came to see you, after I left this place decades ago. You remember why?'
'Oh yes of course!' Charles replied. 'You were tired of everything, the people, the food, the beer, the...' And he knew it. Charles knew why Richard said "I know how you feel". Charles understands it all.
'Yes my friend. And I have watched you, so closely I felt bad because I saw you rolling downhill. The booze, the lack of women, no love and no friends. I know how you feel, because I searched for it as well. I left Saint Denis' to find a better place. To start a better life, and I remember I promised you that if I found it, I'd tell you.'
'So you did?' Charles asked.
'I think I have to disappoint you here my friend. I returned, I did not found anything on my little list.' Richard took out a piece of yellow paper from a pocket, and handed it to Charles. 'Everything's still unchecked. Nothing I was hoping to find is here. Only the rich have it all.'
'And neither of us is rich. Unless we find ourselves a treasure trove.' Charles yammered to Richard. He nodded, and his eyes were standing sad. Then he looked at the uncorked but full bottle.
'There is a way to forget' Richard noted. 'And although its temporarily, I think it can still save us from living a life of depression. Hey, let's drink to ourselves. I propose a toast to our future, whatever it may be. Let it be short, painless and perhaps, if God feels like it, fun.'
'I agree with that statement my friend.' Charles replied while Richard wasn't even finished talking and poured the gin in the tin mug. He managed to find another one for Richard, and there they sat. In Sharkfaced Pete's bar in Saint Denis'. Christmas has never been so merry for them.