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Santa and Snowman sat in second class, sharing sandwiches and a bottle of Coke. It was Christmas Day and it wasn’t snowing. Santa passed a Marmite sandwich to Snowman. ‘Hot, isn’t it?’ said Santa. ‘Hot enough to bake a crumpet and still have hot left over.’
Snowman sucked on his Marmite. The saltiness was bad for him, but it was too late to be bothered by that. ‘Ho, Ho, Ho,’ said Snowman badly.
Two hours later the train stopped. Santa and Snowman stayed on board and waited for the guard, but he didn’t come so they waited some more. Eventually no one came, so they pissed out the train window playing furthees. Santa won, of course, because he had a longer cock and that made hitting the stingers easier. Santa celebrated with a swig of Coke that ran down his beard like tar.
The train clicked and creaked in the heat. The seats breathed dust and the floors sweated oily sick-brine. Outside were stingers, nothing but magnificent stingers. Tall as trees and thick as rock, they punctured the sky with flowery barbs while ragged worker rats pecked at the vicious fruits.
It is Christmas 2040, and most of us are dead. Only our favourite characters survive: Thomas the Tank, Jane Eyre, Jill who went with Jack, and, of course, Santa and Snowman. They live under the unrelenting sun in the shade of the stingers while the planet pants and stinks of baked flesh, Marmite, and Coke.
May 8, 2024