(imagine a cat here)
TURA
Spycam; Pew
———
I walk through the churchyard, stamp my snow-covered boots in the porch, and enter to take my usual pew. I nod coldly at the spycam that I believe to be mounted under the pulpit.
I play the part of a believer, but my mind is focussed on the messages concealed in the hymn board, the Bible readings, and the sermon. The numbers indicate the words and sentences to listen for.
After the service, we file out, each exchanging a few words with the minister. I secretly acknowledge the message received, and we part.
Or, so I like to imagine.
NORVAL JOE
In an attempt to obscure the evidence that he and Linoliamanda were actually floating above the sidewalk, Billbert pumped his legs like he was running. He knew the bullies were probably too thick headed to notice, but someone they passed might. Rounding the corner onto Anaheim Avenue, someone did.
Sabrina’s grandmother stood in their path. She gritted her teeth. “Put that thing down,” she growled.
Billbert de-levitated and skidded to a stop. “How rude. This is my friend. She’s not a thing.”
The old woman shook her head. “Anyone who interferes with Sabrina’s progress is a thing I will eliminate.”
DUANE
This Christmas I will expose the big-Santa industrial complex. St. Nick, the puppet of the toy makers, will be made to answer for years of consumer manipulation.
Spy cams have been set up on the rooftop and near the fireplace and tree. If Santa samples the milk and cookies there will be DNA evidence to identify him.
Their endgame is to get you used to having lots of presents at Christmas. As you get older they deny the existence of Santa. It’s then up to you to buy Christmas presents and stocking stuffers for everyone, so the capitalist cycle continues.
SERENDIPIDY
I know you’re watching me.
I know about the spycam in the television. I know you have my phone bugged, and I know you’re firing microwaves at my brain to read my thoughts.
Of course we’re not! Show us the evidence.” They say, “We just want to help you!”
But I know the truth.
Because the voices tell me.
And the voices are never wrong.
So, I won’t believe your lies, and I won’t take your pills, and I’ve no interest in your ‘help’.
The voices know best. The voices know everything.
And the voices told me where you live.
RICHARD
Enemy
It was sometime in the afternoon of the third day of the march that we came upon the checkpoint.
March, is probably something of a misnomer: If you could call the shambling, stumbling, trudge through the snow and barren countryside anything, a march it certainly wasn’t.
Today was Christmas Day, and fate had seen fit to gift us with the enemy: Oblivious to our presence, and with their guard down.
When we appeared from nowhere, he raised his rifle, panic-stricken.
I smiled at him, and held out a bar of chocolate, “Now, put that thing down”.
Enemy?
Not today.
LIZZIE
“Put that thing down now,” the owner said.
That thing was the spycam, the evidence of foul play.
It was all over the news.
They found cameras in all the rooms. The hotel was closed and the police ripped every mirror and every lamp off the walls. They tossed the furniture aside. They emptied the drawers and shoved them onto the floor.
It was their job, they said.
“This will cost a fortune…”
Well, not really.
The manager held “that thing” up.
“They missed this one. And it has the footage of the cops destroying everything.”
“Blessed be the taxpayer.”
LISA
I believe…
Reuben had been working on his project since March. He was about to prove that Father Christmas was a hoax. It was the big night, Christmas Eve, all quiet in the house except a little mouse stirring his midnight cup of tea.
Reuben had fallen asleep but the Spy Cam was set up and trained on the Fireplace, where a pair of boots appeared and then the man himself.
With a brisk efficiency Santa drained the sherry glass, enjoyed the mince pie, stashed presents in stockings, straightened a picture, deleted the evidence off the camera and returned up the chimney.
PLANET Z
As an answer to St. Patrick’s Day revelries and mayhem, Father O’Reilly came up with Christmas in March.
Despite promoting the sermon as best he could… I mean, two trays of Oreo cookies instead of one… well, the pews were more empty than usual.
So, the next year, he got a bunch of kegs and pizzas, throwing a St. Patrick’s bash.
The next morning, the church was a mess.
Trash, vomit, clothes everywhere.
But the collection box was stuffed to overflowing.
O’Reilly committed to a sermon-party every Sunday.
And the pews were removed to make room for the dance floor.
“Interesting” test results sounds a little disturbing. Here’s to a happy New Year, even if your Christmas couldn’t be so merry, and to boring tests!