A Shenanigans Tale
Episode I
Soot, Whisky and Ho Ho’s
K.J.BROADHURST
Soot, Whisky and Ho Ho’s
By K.J. Broadhurst
Published by K.J. Broadhurst
Copyright 2012 K.J.Broadhrust
For Nathalie and Nick, two Leo’s
I could not be without
Soot, Whisky and Ho Ho’s
A Shenanigans Tale
Episode I
Written by
K.J. Broadhurst
Soot, Whisky and Ho Ho’s
The bittersweet glow of lamplight exhibited a feeling of warmth and serenity in the room.
Patrick stood at the extinguished fireplace and took from the oak surround a glass of whisky, which he swirled in an anti-clockwise motion, the amber liquid sloshing thickly. He made his way over to his armchair, which he had inherited from his great-grandfather when he was twenty-two and slumped himself down contently before taking a sip of his recently acquired beverage. Patrick allowed - with great pleasure - the liquid to slide smoothly down his throat, feeling its delightfully warm trail run all the way down into his stomach: bliss.
His wife Annie was out with friends and his two boys James and William were in bed fast asleep. He had enjoyed spending the evening with them both without Annie there to nag him. They had baked fresh chocolate cookies from scratch - something he had not done since high school - and allowed the two boys to pour four fingers of his best whisky to put out for Santa, which he now held; the glass fitting snugly in his grasp, as if made especially for the occasion.
Annie would not be home until past midnight so she had left Patrick to arrange and pack the presents into the children’s individual Santa sacks, ready for the morning. This was something he was determined to leave right to the last minute, savouring this precious time to sit back and relax, allowing his mind to wonder without the constant ‘dad, dad!’ and ‘am I left to do everything round here!’
With that thought, he took another sip.
All of a sudden there was a strange bang from above. Patrick with the glass at his lips sat motionless, his ears erect and listening intensively.
There it was again, a thudding noise like footsteps. They had experienced problems before with mice and rats, which was something one excepted when living in the country and next to a spring. But this sounded different, heavier somehow.
There was a scraping sound and then abruptly soot rained down from the chimney.
Patrick froze.
Two eyes appeared, looking straight at him upside down from under the mantelpiece. The whites of his eyes were more obvious than the whiteness of his hair, which hung down thinly like silver tinsel. Instinctively Patrick put his glass in his left hand, freeing up the other to grasp hold of the small antique coffee table, which stood beside him.
‘Wha…wha…what are you doing in my house?’ Patrick uttered, attempting to sound threatening but unable to hide the shaking in his voice.
The intruder clumsily came to his feet with an explosion of soot and then ducked as he stepped out of the fireplace. He brushed himself off and smiled, ‘Hello me old son.’
Patrick’s face was a picture of shock and horror. Not only had he got an intruder in his house but the imposter had now made a ghastly mess of his prized cream carpet. No one was allowed in this room, except in the evenings to watch television and to relax. They most definitely did not tolerate under any circumstances… shoes. This was a slipper or bare foot only zone. Yet at this precise moment, two large boots, blackened with chimney soot, now stood before him.
Once he was able to deter his mortified eyes from the soot-smothered boots, he noticed a short dumpy man dressed in a red sports tracksuit. He had a mousey face, short-cut white beard and thin, silvery hair.
‘That by the way,’ said the intruder pointing at his whisky glass, ‘was put out for me, so if you don’t mind, I’ll go get myself another?’
Without consent the intruder made his way over to the drinks cabinet, which stood in the corner of the room and pored himself a generous measure of Patrick’s finest Whisky liqueur. He then took a long sip and sat his sooty backside on the caramel couch, the bottle still in hand.
Patrick stood grasping the coffee table. ‘Who the hell are you? What gives you the right too…’
‘You know who I am; otherwise you would’ve chucked that thing at me by now.’
Patrick glanced at the weapon, as if surprised it was even there and then put it down. ‘I must be going mad, you don’t exist,’ he whispered.
‘Said like a true sceptic and like all true sceptics you’re just too frightened to believe.’
‘I am not frightened!’
The intruder snorted in a jolly manner, ‘you could have fooled me.’
‘It’s not possible for you to exist. How can you travel all over the world in one night hum?’
The man laughed again whole heartedly. ‘And like a true sceptic you have to see it to believe it.’
Patrick sat himself back down again.
‘Why don’t I tell you who I am and then explain how I do, in fact, exist?’
Patrick, unable to speak just nodded foolishly.
‘Here,’ said the intruder, ‘have some more of this, it will help,’ and he leaned over the arm of the couch and topped up Patricks glass. ‘Now,’ he said before leaning back, ‘I do exist: I have nine incredible reindeer, of which Dancer and Prancer and have been an item for over one hundred years now; Blitzon is my chief inventor and like me, they can all speak every language. The only thing that is seriously wrong with your stories are, I don’t go round delivering presents in one night to every good child, now that would truly be impossible and I don’t live with a community of elves either.’
‘So what’s the point?’ said Patrick, ‘If you don’t deliver presents then why do you exist and why for that matter are you here drinking my Whisky?’
Santa smiled, ‘that’s the best bit’ he said. ‘I have my reindeer because I do deliver the odd present to those who are most worthy of it, but the rest is done telepathically.’
That was it. ‘What are you some kind of nut job escaped from the nearest prison? Did you really believe I would fall for this crap? GET OUT!’
Patrick was on his feet again, coffee table in hand.
Santa however, did not budge, or even look the slightest bit frightened. Instead, he just smiled again, more widely and cheerfully than before.
‘How was it then, that when you were walking home from work the day before yesterday when all of a sudden you had a thought? In that split second you knew, as if out of thin air, what to get your little boy William for Christmas.’
Slightly taken aback by the statement, Patrick lowered the coffee table, perplexed. How on earth, could he have known that?
Santa pointed his small sausage like finger at him and laughed. ‘Got yer there didn’t I,’ he said draining the last of his whisky, and then filling it up again.
‘But how...?’
‘Sit down old chap and I will explain.’
Patrick did as he asked. Without thinking, he drained all of his whiskey in one go.
‘Your stories tell children that Santa and his helpers work all year round, making the presents that will, if good, end up in their stockings. That I’m afraid doesn’t work and cannot work. Imagine what China would have to say about that?’ he laughed, ‘No. I spend the year asleep. I sit on a very comfortable chair and tune myself into what you may call a psychic network. Once I am connected, I can hear the thoughts of all the children in the world. I can hear their pleas, their wishes and their dre
ams and, I do all that I can to help them. I don’t just give presents. I also help them find the support they need. In this trance like state, I can focus on one thought and manipulate it, or add a completely new thought, like yours the other day. Therefore, you could say Santa does bring the boys and girls their presents because I provide the ideas that inhibits you - the parent - to buy them.’
‘So you can get into other people’s heads and put things in there.’
‘If that’s how you see it, then yes, that is exactly what I do.’
‘And drink other peoples whisky,’ Patrick offered sarcastically.
‘Why not hey?’ he laughed again. ‘You do have good stuff here, so good in fact, I’ll just have to have another.’
It was in this moment Patrick realised that he himself had had quite a lot to drink and was beginning to feel the effects. Was that why he was accepting this stranger and his mad explanations? His head was beginning to swim but this man seemed pleasant enough, even if he was completely insane!
‘What you haven’t said,’ began Patrick, ‘is why you lumbered down my chimney, got soot all over my expensive carpet and why you are on my couch drinking my favourite whisky?’
‘Ho ho,’ Santa jeered. ‘That is a good question. The reason I am here is because you asked me to be here,’ said the jolly man, now adding even more whisky to his glass.
In his bewilderment, Patrick noticed that the bottle was now nearly empty. Had they really drank nearly a whole bottle of the stuff… and neat?
‘I never asked for you to come here?’ Patrick objected.
‘So you never sat in your chair and wished your partner would go out for just one evening and, that your two boys would sleep early so that you could have a relaxing evening without nagging or children crying?’
‘Well I…’
‘Have you not… sat and wished you had someone to talk too and drink whisky with? Because when you do go out, you either have to drive, or drive someone?’
‘Well yes but…’
‘And here I am. I ensured that all thoughts were cleared from both your boys’ heads and put the suggestions in the right minds to get you partner to go out for the evening, two birds with one stone and all that.’
Dumbfounded Patrick could say nothing at all.
‘I have also brought you a gift. Your hard work over the last year hasn’t gone unnoticed, well by me anyway,’ Santa said and he began to rummage inside his jacket. ‘Ah, here it is!’ he declared.
Santa Claus made his way across the room to the television, where he painfully knelt to put a DVD into the player. ‘It’s HD so should look quite something on your 51 inch TV.’
‘What is it?’ asked Patrick.
‘Let’s just say - for all your hard work - you’ll be the first person to see this and I am sure you will thank me for it.’
The screen came to life and there in front of him was the main menu for the Doctor Who Christmas Special.
‘I don’t…How?’
‘Have you not been listening to what I have been telling you? Not only have I just sat and told the truth about me but also what I can do.’
‘I know but how did you get hold of this?’
‘Easy, I just made a very nasty and greedy man who works within the BBC make a copy of this disc and walk away with it, before making him feel guilty where he then chucked it into the bin, where I then just happened to pass and pick it up.’
A smile wider than any smile he had offered in nearly four years spread over Patrick’s face.
‘Am I dreaming or is this really the Christmas Special?’
‘Press play and see,’ said Santa, grinning merrily in response to Patrick’s delight. ‘Like I said before, your hard work this year has not gone unnoticed.’
Patrick did so and there right before his eyes, the DVD began and soon he was watching his favourite television programme a whole twenty-four hours before it would be broadcast to the rest of the country.
He did not speak or look anywhere else other than the television screen through the whole episode.
When it was finished, he went to turn and say thank you to this magical man but he was not there. The couch was empty and next to it on the coffee table was a fresh bottle of whisky with a red ribbon round it. He stood and held the bottle before him, reading the tag, which hung from the ribbon:
Don’t forget to wrap the presents, or you’ll be in for it! I’ve laid out two brand new sacks, which I think both your boys will appreciate and I have tidied up.
Love and best wishes
Santa
P.S. You’ll need to watch your boy James and make sure he looks out for an old woman named Aggie!
With that, Patrick wrapped all the presents, and once he was done, he sat back and watched the DVD again: bliss.
Coming Soon November 2013
A Shenanigans Tale
Episode II: War Tape and Tinsel
A Series of Shenanigans
The Shenanigans of Aggies Elbow
‘Care has never been so deadly’
Introduction
Buttons Court is one of two prestigious care homes that are situated within the small town of Kesgrave, Suffolk - just outside of Ipswich.
It is a two story building that consists of four corridors, each with their own communal lounge and divided by four flats on either side. Each flat has its own combined living room and kitchen, a hall, bedroom and bathroom.
Yet despite its immaculate reputation, having not received a single complaint in its fifteen years of service, and proud to have a long waiting list, Buttons Court became the first of a string of shenanigan’s that would shock the people of Kesgrave and its neighbouring towns, rendering its reputation of a peaceful and safe neighbourhood. However, Kesgrave has and will always be a town that people will love and cherish, despite these little hiccups.
Buttons Court on the other hand will always be the place where it all began, the mother of a curse that spread through the town and stuck to all those who live there, taking it with them wherever they go.
The elderly resident at this care home that will always be remembered is: Agatha Warden.