Christmas Story: Tin Man
Entry for the #DBChristmasNightmare.
Items featured: Futura Plugs V2, Futura Knife, Fear of God Hands (Blood, EvoX), God Sickness (Blood).
Full story below.
________________________________________________
2121: Tin Man
It’s the season, and Gray hated it.
Fake snow in a world where real snow no longer existed. Endless displays of Santas and Rudolphs in all sizes and materials, some of which all too lifelike, others deliberately cartoonish and tacky in a nod to tradition. Endless rows of plastic Christmas trees, presumed to look like the real thing from the tales of grandparents. In 2121, Mariah Carey’s Christmas albums were finally given an overdue rest – only because life-sized robo-Mariahs could now sing to you in the comfort of your living room.
In other words, a lot had changed, but it had all somehow managed to stay the same, like humanity was prisoner to its self-made myths and idols.
Not that Gray occupied himself with thoughts on humanity’s likes and dislikes on this merry-merry season. No. There was the hell that was Christmas Eve and the festivities around it. Namely, the table he shared with five other people.
“Hey, Tin Man!” Charlie called from across the table. “Can you make that thing glow green and red?”
Not this – not again. Charlie’s alcohol-ruddy face grinned at him obnoxiously from across the table as though he’d just dropped the bastard child of a brilliant idea and a funny joke.
Gray resisted the urge to react – let alone overreact. “It’s not a toy,” he responded with as much patience as he could muster, a hand passing over his chest almost protectively. The rest of the explanation he’d been repeating to his brother-in-law for the past few years at the tip of his tongue, dying to burst out, preferably accompanied by as many expletives and creatively profane combinations as he could muster.
“Drop it, Charlie” Gray’s sister – in more advanced stages of inebriation than her partner – chimed in. And for a second, Gray felt relieved. A second too soon, evidently, because next up the inappropriately-named Grace spilled half the contents of her glass onto her hideously festive sweater without noticing as she declared that “He’s no fun. No heart, no fun. Get it?”
Get what? It wasn’t even a joke – it didn’t even make sense. But she was busy snort-giggling into the remnants of her drink, joined by Charlie. Who…found that intelligible, but not the concept of dropping it, apparently.
“Come on, Tin Man. Be a good sport, bet you can program it to do some Christmas lights!” Charlie went on, much to Gray’s rising irritation. “Can it sing Jingle Bells?”
“I told you, it’s not a fucking toy. So just drop it.”
Apparently, the profanity is where the rest of the family got uncomfortable and put their feet – or forks, as it were –down, with three other people glancing pointedly at him. But otherwise, harassment was perfectly acceptable. Of course. That's the line in the sand - or the LED light in the damned asphalt.
Having had enough, Gray rose from the table and headed towards the cubicle that passed for a kitchen these days, a hand still passing over his chest – up and down his sternum, feeling the soft humming of the contraption that kept him alive and functioned as a heart. Conspicuous? Yes. Even in this day and age, people didn’t know how to look away and mind their own business and how to not ask stupid questions – or how to not make stupid comments. But Gray was grateful for it. It could glow neon all it wanted. That contraption was his heart, and it kept him alive.
But the jokes. Those were a different story.
At first, they were funny. References to old stories – Tin Man, Iron Man, whatever. They were funny and he laughed, finding the humor in a bad situation. Repetition though was the bane of his existence – the jokes stopped being funny, and indifference was only ever a brief phase before it turned to frustration, then resentment, then irritation, and now…he suspected it was turning to rage.
Fine. This was supposed to be a festive family gathering – one he didn’t want to ruin by allowing rage to get the best of him.
Charlie though. Bless his actual beating fucking heart, but he couldn’t take a hint sober, and he was far from sober. He barged in, following Gray into the kitchen “Come on, don’t be like that. We’re just trying to have fun!” The words came with a more pronounced slur, accompanied by wide, heavy-limbed gestures, Charlie stepping close enough to where Gray could smell the alcohol on his breath.
“Get out of my way, Charlie,” Gray didn’t reply to the comments, instead tried to leave the kitchen, only for Charlie to shift his weight to continue blocking him.
“You’re spoiling Christmas” Charlie declared with the enthusiasm only someone drunk could muster. And logically, Gray knew Charlie was drunk and about as capable of sound thinking as the roasted meat that sat in his rotund belly. “You do this all the time; we can’t say a damned thing to you without you getting all…all…you get all butthurt and shit!”
Who even fucking says butthurt anymore?
Whatever. He was done.
“Get out of my fucking way, Charlie…” Gray repeated, shifting on his feet to try to get around Charlie again, only to be blocked again.
“No! I’m done with your shit, Mr. High and Mighty! You do this all the time!” Charlie’s voice rose, the man moving further into Gray’s personal space to where the whiff became a stench. And to where Gray’s irritation was more solidly morphing to rage. But Charlie wasn’t giving up or giving way – he moved, continuing to block Gray’s way. “You do this all the time. Wah-wah, look at me, I got a…a…a fake fucking heart, don’t talk to me,” Charlie went on.
“Get out of my fucking way right now, Charlie!” Gray interjected but didn’t even get to say more – Charlie didn’t even stop his mocking tirade. He simply carried on, not listening, his voice going louder “Wah-wah, I lost my sense of humor on the operation table, wah-wah, I’m a fucking robot and it gives me the right to sit and sulk and ruin everybody’s time, wah-wah! Maybe this year you should wish for a heart and a sense of humor for Christmas!”
Strange thing, rage. Like the world comes crashing down, and there’s no time for thought and no room for anything other than action. Like there’s no choice but to let it all out, because the alternative was choking on it. There’s nothing else, and nobody else – just Charlie, reduced to flashes. His sickeningly ruddy face, his mocking expression, his obnoxious words, his breaths, warm and heavy with alcohol blowing straight into Gray’s face. The way his body blocked any path forward, and killed any chance that this could end any other way…
Flashes that were joined by the tactile memories of grasping the handle of a heavy knife. Of the physical force he used to drive it into the man before him so he could stop the bellowing mockery. Of the satisfaction of how it went through his flesh.
Over, and over, and over…
Gray wouldn’t remember the screaming. Not his own, and not anybody else’s.
He definitely wouldn’t remember his own bellowed words.
“I fucking told you to shut up! Shut up! Shut the fuck up! That’s what I want for Christmas. There, how does it feel now Charlie? How does it feel now? Now you don’t have a heart either! You find this funny? How about now? How about now, Charlie? Is this funny? You got your wish? Merry fucking Christmas, I got my wish! Merry Christmas!”
A lot has changed, but indeed, a lot remained the same by 2121.
Christmas Story: Tin Man
Entry for the #DBChristmasNightmare.
Items featured: Futura Plugs V2, Futura Knife, Fear of God Hands (Blood, EvoX), God Sickness (Blood).
Full story below.
________________________________________________
2121: Tin Man
It’s the season, and Gray hated it.
Fake snow in a world where real snow no longer existed. Endless displays of Santas and Rudolphs in all sizes and materials, some of which all too lifelike, others deliberately cartoonish and tacky in a nod to tradition. Endless rows of plastic Christmas trees, presumed to look like the real thing from the tales of grandparents. In 2121, Mariah Carey’s Christmas albums were finally given an overdue rest – only because life-sized robo-Mariahs could now sing to you in the comfort of your living room.
In other words, a lot had changed, but it had all somehow managed to stay the same, like humanity was prisoner to its self-made myths and idols.
Not that Gray occupied himself with thoughts on humanity’s likes and dislikes on this merry-merry season. No. There was the hell that was Christmas Eve and the festivities around it. Namely, the table he shared with five other people.
“Hey, Tin Man!” Charlie called from across the table. “Can you make that thing glow green and red?”
Not this – not again. Charlie’s alcohol-ruddy face grinned at him obnoxiously from across the table as though he’d just dropped the bastard child of a brilliant idea and a funny joke.
Gray resisted the urge to react – let alone overreact. “It’s not a toy,” he responded with as much patience as he could muster, a hand passing over his chest almost protectively. The rest of the explanation he’d been repeating to his brother-in-law for the past few years at the tip of his tongue, dying to burst out, preferably accompanied by as many expletives and creatively profane combinations as he could muster.
“Drop it, Charlie” Gray’s sister – in more advanced stages of inebriation than her partner – chimed in. And for a second, Gray felt relieved. A second too soon, evidently, because next up the inappropriately-named Grace spilled half the contents of her glass onto her hideously festive sweater without noticing as she declared that “He’s no fun. No heart, no fun. Get it?”
Get what? It wasn’t even a joke – it didn’t even make sense. But she was busy snort-giggling into the remnants of her drink, joined by Charlie. Who…found that intelligible, but not the concept of dropping it, apparently.
“Come on, Tin Man. Be a good sport, bet you can program it to do some Christmas lights!” Charlie went on, much to Gray’s rising irritation. “Can it sing Jingle Bells?”
“I told you, it’s not a fucking toy. So just drop it.”
Apparently, the profanity is where the rest of the family got uncomfortable and put their feet – or forks, as it were –down, with three other people glancing pointedly at him. But otherwise, harassment was perfectly acceptable. Of course. That's the line in the sand - or the LED light in the damned asphalt.
Having had enough, Gray rose from the table and headed towards the cubicle that passed for a kitchen these days, a hand still passing over his chest – up and down his sternum, feeling the soft humming of the contraption that kept him alive and functioned as a heart. Conspicuous? Yes. Even in this day and age, people didn’t know how to look away and mind their own business and how to not ask stupid questions – or how to not make stupid comments. But Gray was grateful for it. It could glow neon all it wanted. That contraption was his heart, and it kept him alive.
But the jokes. Those were a different story.
At first, they were funny. References to old stories – Tin Man, Iron Man, whatever. They were funny and he laughed, finding the humor in a bad situation. Repetition though was the bane of his existence – the jokes stopped being funny, and indifference was only ever a brief phase before it turned to frustration, then resentment, then irritation, and now…he suspected it was turning to rage.
Fine. This was supposed to be a festive family gathering – one he didn’t want to ruin by allowing rage to get the best of him.
Charlie though. Bless his actual beating fucking heart, but he couldn’t take a hint sober, and he was far from sober. He barged in, following Gray into the kitchen “Come on, don’t be like that. We’re just trying to have fun!” The words came with a more pronounced slur, accompanied by wide, heavy-limbed gestures, Charlie stepping close enough to where Gray could smell the alcohol on his breath.
“Get out of my way, Charlie,” Gray didn’t reply to the comments, instead tried to leave the kitchen, only for Charlie to shift his weight to continue blocking him.
“You’re spoiling Christmas” Charlie declared with the enthusiasm only someone drunk could muster. And logically, Gray knew Charlie was drunk and about as capable of sound thinking as the roasted meat that sat in his rotund belly. “You do this all the time; we can’t say a damned thing to you without you getting all…all…you get all butthurt and shit!”
Who even fucking says butthurt anymore?
Whatever. He was done.
“Get out of my fucking way, Charlie…” Gray repeated, shifting on his feet to try to get around Charlie again, only to be blocked again.
“No! I’m done with your shit, Mr. High and Mighty! You do this all the time!” Charlie’s voice rose, the man moving further into Gray’s personal space to where the whiff became a stench. And to where Gray’s irritation was more solidly morphing to rage. But Charlie wasn’t giving up or giving way – he moved, continuing to block Gray’s way. “You do this all the time. Wah-wah, look at me, I got a…a…a fake fucking heart, don’t talk to me,” Charlie went on.
“Get out of my fucking way right now, Charlie!” Gray interjected but didn’t even get to say more – Charlie didn’t even stop his mocking tirade. He simply carried on, not listening, his voice going louder “Wah-wah, I lost my sense of humor on the operation table, wah-wah, I’m a fucking robot and it gives me the right to sit and sulk and ruin everybody’s time, wah-wah! Maybe this year you should wish for a heart and a sense of humor for Christmas!”
Strange thing, rage. Like the world comes crashing down, and there’s no time for thought and no room for anything other than action. Like there’s no choice but to let it all out, because the alternative was choking on it. There’s nothing else, and nobody else – just Charlie, reduced to flashes. His sickeningly ruddy face, his mocking expression, his obnoxious words, his breaths, warm and heavy with alcohol blowing straight into Gray’s face. The way his body blocked any path forward, and killed any chance that this could end any other way…
Flashes that were joined by the tactile memories of grasping the handle of a heavy knife. Of the physical force he used to drive it into the man before him so he could stop the bellowing mockery. Of the satisfaction of how it went through his flesh.
Over, and over, and over…
Gray wouldn’t remember the screaming. Not his own, and not anybody else’s.
He definitely wouldn’t remember his own bellowed words.
“I fucking told you to shut up! Shut up! Shut the fuck up! That’s what I want for Christmas. There, how does it feel now Charlie? How does it feel now? Now you don’t have a heart either! You find this funny? How about now? How about now, Charlie? Is this funny? You got your wish? Merry fucking Christmas, I got my wish! Merry Christmas!”
A lot has changed, but indeed, a lot remained the same by 2121.