Sir Henry Snailman, Esq.

Where the hell did my coffee go?!

Some artworks

GOD HAS SPOKEN.

Your guess is as good as mine.

The Underpants Of Fury: Part 5 - THE FINAL CHAPTER WHERE SOMETHING HAPPENS!

“Now where the hell am I?” Mr. Santa Claus said, looking about. The Scottish Highlands, by the looks of things. Fabulous. Several yards away, the Roboshark stood on a low rise, looking out across the land. He was making words. Mr. Santa Claus strained to listen.

            “From the dawn of time we came. Moving silently, down through the centuries.” The Roboshark was quoting Highlander, for reasons only it knew. Mr. Santa Claus brandished the Fabled Harpoon Of Ahab.

            “How cliché can you be?” He shouted, flapping his arms. The Roboshark turned, and grinned as best a tin and plastic sea creature can.

            “I’m glad you’re here, lad,” It said. “At first I was going to snack on Dublin for a bit, but when the Octoborg joopileed me here to fight you, I thought, hell, why not make an appetizer of Mankind’s Last Hope?” Its left leg buzzed and shot up into its torso. Roboshark toppled over ungraciously into the heather, crushing some roving Lilliputians. “Bloody hell,” it seethed, “Sorry ‘bout that.” Roboshark said. ”One minute!”

            “Err,” Mr. Santa Claus said. He held out the Harpoon Of Ahab, and charged the Roboshark. “I hope you like seafood, cause I’m gonna ram this harpoon up your ass!”

            What the hell? He thought. That was the dumbest thing anyone’s ever said in the history of ever. He raised the Fabled Harpoon Of Ahab, and brought it down with all his might on the Roboshark. At that moment he realized the other implications of his failed one-liner. His heart sank.

            The harpoon bounced off the Roboshark’s impenetrable tin skin, and sent a jolt through Nick’s arm. He leaped back to gather his strength. Nobody moved.

            “Erhm, would you mind exploding now, please? This is s’posed to kill you.” Mr. Santa Claus raised the Fabled Harpoon Of Ahabagain and slammed it on the Roboshark’s nose. And again. And again.

            “Ey! Cut it out! That’s really annoying!” The robot snarled, sprouting a leg. “And no, I don’t really feel like exploding just now. I’m feeling rather peckish. I think you’ll do. For now.” The Roboshark tore off Mr. Santa Claus’ arm and devoured it, Fabled Harpoon Of Ahab and all.

            “Hey, wait a minute! I can’t die! I’m the goddamn protagonist!” Mr. Santa Claus dropped to his knees, clutching the squirting stump his arm had been friends with. The Roboshark laughed, and tore off his other arm.

            “Or are you?” It asked, gulping it down. Fighting off the Blackout Fairies, Mr. Santa Claus pondered this.

            “Yes.”

            “Oh.” The Roboshark frowned. “Well,” he clucked, “It doesn’t matter. If I don’t kill you, the hemorrhaging will. So I may as well finish the job, so you don’t lie about whining and having tediously long flashbacks of your family and your sandwiches and your first pair of shoes. I can’t abide that sentimental mooshmish.” It bent low. “Buhbye, Nick Santa Claus.” It opened wide.

            Suddenly the clouds parted, and the sky burst forth in a chorus of angelic song. The Roboshark looked up. Mr. Santa Claus looked up. Mr. Teddy, who happened to be hopping by, looked up.

            A great ghostly hand pointed down at them from the heavens. It wagged a finger, and began to descend. Before anyone could move, a great voice spake like thunder:

            “JUMANJI!” Everything fell very still.

There was a great frubbulous noise.

            When Mr. Santa Claus awoke, he found himself alone in the centre of a vast crater. What remained of the Roboshark lay squashed into a puddle beside him. His arms were back, and he felt refreshed, clean, new.

            “Aw’right, come with me.” Mr. Santa Claus looked up. It was a bobby.

            “Pardon?”

            “You ‘eard me Mary, on yer feet.” The bobby’s moustache quivered furiously. Captain Leroy McDougal didn’t care for inquisitive riffraff.

“Why, officer?” The bobby said nothing. He leveled his gaze at Mr. Santa Claus. A faint breeze picked up. A sudden chill came over him. Then he looked down. His clothes were gone.

            “Let’s go, bub.”

The Underpants Of Fury: Part 4

So this is the Kingdom-Under-The-Hill, thought the old elf, stepping out of the train station. It didn’t resemble a magic kingdom so much as a Sao Paulo slum.  

Rows of tar-paper shacks sprawled across the interior of what he presumed had once been a munitions bunker for the IRA, on those days when they had a little too much to drink, and got lost.

            A short, dark man in tattered clothes scurried up, and shoved his hands in Mr. Santa Claus’ face.

            “Tenho algum dinheiro?”

            “Erhm, I’m here to see the Octoborg,” Mr. Santa Claus sang. He hoped this was someone’s joke –and wondered if they were having a good laugh right now.

            “Venha.” The little man replied, beckoning Mr. Santa Claus toward the larger of the shacks. He stopped outside, and held out his hands again. Mr. Santa Claus frowned, dug into his pocket, and pulled out a few pence.

            “Here. I think.” He dropped the coins in the man’s hand, and walked inside to meet the cyborg mollusk that could save the world. And there it was, in the middle of the small, dirty room, half-submerged in a small tank of water, bubbling placidly away while watching a small, crusty television. Mr. Santa Claus stopped a few feet short of the Octoborg, and coughed politely.

            “Who the hell are you?” The Octoborg asked, tearing itself away from the television.

            “Pardon?”

            “Sorry, I have a cold.” It splished fitfully. “Can I help you?”

            Mr. Santa Claus looked around, to make sure there wasn’t anyone else there.

            “I was sent here. The Roboshark is eatin’ the world, and a bear I met this morning told me I need to talk to you about destroying it.”

            “Oh, right.” The Octoborg slapped lazily at the water in its tank. “There’s nothing I can do, eh. Can’t leave this damn tank for long, else I turn into beef jerky.

“Well, can you give me something to kill the Roboshark with?

 “You don’t need t’do anything, mate.”

            “Come again?” He began to feel someone was having a laugh at his expense.

            “Look,” the Octoborg replied, hauling itself out of its tank, “The Roboshark will be eating Dublin tomorrow night. Before he gets there, his insides will leap up through his mouth to escape, to avoid the impending alcohol poisoning. All you need to do is wait.”

            Mr. Santa Claus pondered this for a moment. This wasn’t in the brochure. Or any brochure.

            “Still,” he said, “I think I oughta have something, just ‘cause it’s what I was told to do.”

            “Bloody hell,” the Octoborg sighed. “Here.” It groped around in the tank and fished something out. “Here. Take the Fabled Harpoon Of Ahab. If you use it on the Roboshark, he’ll be blown to bits… Or something.” It brandished a large, blunt, rounded white object, which it proffered to the old man. Mr. Santa Claus studied it. “Have fun.”

            “This is a bowling pin.” Nick turned it over. “With an arrow crayoned on it. And you scribbled ‘Ahab’ on one side with a ballpoint pen.”

            “The Octoborg has spoken!” Octoborg waved his tentacles imperiously. Glitter and streamers burst from the ceiling to the tune of a thousand angry kazoos. Television resumed. Mr. Santa Claus turned to leave, when a thought blundered into him.

            “Say wait. You’re the Octoborg.”

            “Yes. Yes I am. …Maybe.”

            “What part of you is machine, then?” Mr. Santa Claus approached the tank. The Octoborg hoisted itself upside down, and flailed a small mechanical arm affixed to a spot beside its beak.

            “This was all I could afford,” the mollusk said, flipping itself right side up. “And the bloody thing doesn’t even work most times. Now go away. Britain’s Got Talent is on.” It twitched an irritable tentacle at him, and turned the channel.

           

            With a whiff, a poof, and a zazzle, he was gone.

The Underpants Of Fury: Part 3

“So, what’s next on this guided tour of hell?” Mr. Santa Claus felt himself up, checking to make sure he was all there. The bear pointed up. There was a sign. Maximus Bulkimus. It taunted them with its tawdry lettering, and its dirty colors, and its saucy lighting. “A gym?” Mr. Santa Claus asked uneasily. He felt his blood pressure rising. He was on a strict No Effort diet. “Why?”

            “Well Mistuh Santa Claus, ya’lls gotta go in dere, an’ defeat Glute Maximus, da head traina, ta get tha Magic Prahtein Powdah. Is tha second key ta tha Octabahg’s Kingdom-Unda-Tha-Mountain,” the bear said. It hoped next time he’d have a smarter hero to work with.

            “Anything you wanna warn me about this time? That last test made no sense at all.”

            “Mmm… tha head trainah’s kind of an ass. Tha’s all ya gotta know, sah.” The bear fell silent. Mr. Santa Claus hiked up his pants, and marched in.

            A baby-faced receptionist languished behind a desk, filing her nails. Nick approached her, and waited. She didn’t look up. He opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. He waited again. He almost moved to ring the silver bell on her desk, but decided it would be too forward of him. As the tension reached a screaming crescendo, her eyes flicked over to him, then back to her nails.

            “Yeah. So?”

            Nick fidgeted with the drawstrings on his pants. “Well, I’m here to see Mr. Maximus about Magic Protein Powder?”

            “’Kay.” The secretary jabbed a button on her blouse. “Mister Maximus, your five o’ clock is here to see ya. Mr. Maximus, five o’ clock, to see ya. Maximus, five o’clock, see ya. Maximus, five, ya.” She sat back, and picked up the nail file. “He’ll see ya now.” She didn’t look up.

            “Thanks, you’ve been most helpful,” Nick drolled. He trundled into the centre, and looked about. Acres of sweaty woodland creatures puffed and wheezed on exercise machines as far as the eye could see. Everything smelled of half-cooked meat and desperation.

            From off to the left, past a row of hippos on cycle machines, a heavyset man wearing orange spandex came lumbering Nick’s way. Though he didn’t look so much like a man, as an inverted traffic cone in trainers. Mr. Santa Claus shielded his eyes –the colour of his clothes was too intense to look directly at.

            “Can you turn down your shirt? I need earplugs to look at you.” Mr. Santa Claus said. The large man sneered.

            “Well, at least there’s no chance you’ll try an’ eat me.” He replied. “Now, what d’you want?”

            “I’m s’posed to defeat you to get Magic Protein Powder to help unlock the Octoborg’s Kingdom-Under-The-Mountain. Or something.” Mr. Santa Claus’ eyes began to burn.

            “Alright then, Tubbles, fight to the death it is. Let’s go.”

            “Wait, what?”

            “C’mon!” Glute dragged Mr. Santa Claus into a spacious office overlooking the street. The walls were covered in Krav Maga trophies. Shiny trophies. The ceiling was coated in animal feet. Mr. Santa Claus bit his lower lip. This didn’t bode well.

            Thirty-one seconds later, Mr. Santa Claus found himself face down on the sidewalk, covered in broken glass and the tears of a thousand angry orphans. Sir Reginald lumbered over, and helped him up.

            “Well, that didn’t go so well.” Nick dusted himself off, and burst into song. A heart-wrenching ballad about loss, about longing, and about wheatcakes.

            “Looks like tha wahld is doomed, Mistuh Santa Claus,” the bear sighed, heading down the street towards the train station that appears when Someone wants it to. “Ah’m headin’ home.”

            “Whuh?” Nick cried, jogging after the bear.

            “Gotta see Britahn’s Gaht Tahlent, afore Roboshahk et’s ‘em,” the bear replied. They snuck past the Great Kraken statue and waited on the platform for the train.

            “So, what now?” Mr. Santa Claus said, surveying the station uneasily. He felt the Roboshark would come up any moment to unleash a high five. No Roboshark. A few yards away, a Swedish man was embroiled in a heated argument with a vending machine.

            “Förbannade maskin!”

            “English, Margaret! Do I look like fuckin’ Abba?!” The machine taunted. Infuriated, the Swede took to kicking vending machine rather vigorously.

            “You fight like a French librarian!”

            “Ge mig min jakla dricka!”

            Mr. Santa Claus regarded this exchange, and strolled over. “If I may?” He brushed the Swede aside, turned his back to the vending machine, and slammed it with his fist.

            “Eeey! No bloody fair!” The machine cried. It coughed up a soda, and settled down, muttering colorful angerings under its breath. Mr. Santa Claus reached into the belly of the machine, and handed the drink to the Swede.

            “Bub bub?” The Swede regarded the drink for a moment.

            “I was Italian once,” Mr. Santa Claus said. He shrugged. “No problem.”

            The Swede smiled, and groped around in his pocket. Just as Mr. Santa Claus turned to leave, the Swede thrust a slip of paper into Mr. Santa Claus’ hand.

            “Huh?” Mr. Santa Claus uncrumpled the wad of paper.

             The Octoborg’s Magical Kingdom-Under-The-Mountain: 1-Day Pass, Train & Main Park Attractions. Admit One Adult.

            Mr. Santa Claus looked around for the Swede, but he had gone. He looked around for the bear, but Sir Reginald had gone. Mr. Santa Claus checked to make sure he hadn’t gone as well. A small yellow bird flitted through the station, alerting everyone that the train for Glasgow and the Kingdom-Under-The-Mountain would be leaving in five minutes. Considering it hadn’t even arrived yet, Mr. Santa Claus began to think he wasn’t doing at all well with this, whatever it was.

           

            With a chug, a chuff, and a zezzle, the train took off, with Mr. Santa Claus on it.

The Underpants Of Fury: Part 2

“Ya see, Mistuh Santa Claus,” the bear said, once Mr. Santa Claus had finished materializing, “we gotta talk ta Terrance Larson. He be tha aboriginal man dat has tha first key ta tha Octahbahg’s Kingdom-Unda-Tha-Mountain.” Nick blinked.

“And it’s a Big Mac?”

“Yassuh.” The bear surveyed the traffic, and when it was safe, lumbered across the road. A car slammed on its brakes, and swerved into a telephone pole. At a loss for anything better to do, Mr. Santa Claus followed, and they found themselves at the entrance to the Golden Arches, surrounded by angry pixies.

“Oy! Chubbles!” A red imp prodded Nick in the belly, “Got some change, mate?”

“Git lost, ya damn pixies!” Sir Reginald cried, swatting at the fairies. “We’s got bidness ta attend ta! G’won! Git!” Pixies swarmed around Sir Reginald’s head, and as they moved in to strike, he swallowed them up.

“Le’s git on insahde, sah.” The bear grunted, licking his chops. Two meals for the bear, Mr. Santa Claus thought. When’s it my turn?

 Together, the bear and the old elf strolled in. Over in one corner, hunched over a stack of chips and a burger, sat a dark-skinned Aboriginal man. Thin scars covered his face. More scars peeked out over the neckline of his dusty shirt. He eyed them suspiciously as they approached; he looked ready to throw food at them when they made to sit.

“Mr. Larson?” Nick offered his hand, but Terrance would have none of that.

“Whaddya want, Gadia?” His voice was very flat, very dry; almost entirely unlike British Columbia. Mr. Santa Claus opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, closed it, opened it again, then finally decided que sera, sera. Whatever will be, will be. Still, Terrance didn’t say a word.

“What’s a guy like you doing in this,” Mr. Santa Claus fumbled, searching for some way to salvage the sentence that was quickly Hindenburging on its way out of his mouth. Words fell out of his mouth and plunked on the floor. “This—”

“What’s a blackfella like me doin’ up here in whitefella country?” Terrance interjected. He chewed on a chip while Mr. Santa Claus hunted for some inoffensive way to cover his ass.

“Er, well, yes.” He wasn’t terribly successful at these word games. He supposed that was why he never got far in his school’s debate league. He wondered what his next move should be. Terrance decided for him.

“I’ll tell ya, Gadia, cause you look ah’right,” Terrance took a sip of his Coke. “This McDonalds, this place, it be my Dreamin’. McDonalds Dreamin’.” He laughed quietly, watching a look of confusion travel across Nick’s face, and drop onto the floor. It slithered away to lurk in some dark corner where it could spawn undisturbed.

            “Is my home, my spirit ground, my Dreamin’, whitefella,” he explained. There was a long pause. Two tables over, Tom Selleck detached his moustache to eat McNuggets. “Now, whaddya want, mate?”

            Mr. Santa Claus regarded Terrance. Terrance regarded Nick. They regarded each other. Just when the tension became unbearable, Tom Selleck coughed.

            “This!” Nick shouted, snatching the Big Mac from Terrance. “Woopwoopwoopwoop!” Mr. Santa Claus bolted, scattering chairs and children like bowling pins. “Nyaaaa!”

            “Ey! Come back with my goddamn burger!” Terrance charged after Nick, shouting a rainbow of curses at the fat man’s back. “I point de fuckin’ bone at ya! Get de Lawmen on ya!” He scrambled over a chair. “Come back wid ma damn sammwich! Fuckin’ Gadia!” Sir Reginald charged through the doors after them, and just as Terrance got his fingers around Mr. Santa Claus’ neck, the bear cleared his throat.

            And with a whiff, a poof, and a zuzzle, they vanished.

The Underpants Of Fury: Part 1

The Underpants Of Fury

            “Another day in Cthulu’s country,” Mr. Santa Claus sighed.  He swung his legs over the edge of a low stone wall. He unwrapped his peanut butter and herring sandwich and as he chewed, he let himself go to the solitude of the moment. A mist rose over green fields. Through it, a sinewy road wound its way through rolling pastures on to Uttoxeter. A soft breeze ruffled his beard. A Kodak morning. The silence was broken by the distant mournful wail of a train.

            From down the gravel road, the crunch of Ted Bittersly’s bicycle broke the old elf’s reverie. A tall gingerish man came pedaling around the bend.

            “Mornin’, Nick.” Ted skidded to a halt next to Mr. Santa Claus.

            “Morning, Ted. What’s new?”

            “Just headed into town, need to pick up a few things from the grocer’s. Goin’ to butter the lawn this afternoon.”

            “Oh yeah? How’s the wife?”

            “Oh, just fine, just fine. Eaten by a shark the other day.” Bittersly said. He squinted at the rising sun. “Well, dreadful sorry to interrupt your breakfast. Talk to you some other time?”

            “Righto! Have a good day, Ted. Hope your wife feels better soon! Bye!” The rosy-cheeked old man waved goodbye to his neighbor, as Bittersly kicked off down the road.

            Mr. Santa Claus resumed his meal, and was just thinking about taking a jaunt through the woods, when something altogether out of the ordinary juxed itself upon him.

            By all appearances, and having no one to argue otherwise, a hammerhead shark came waddling down the road, growling and buzzing, and generally being what Armenians would call a “jerkwad.”

            It stopped in front of Mr. Santa Claus. Both stayed very still, each eyeing other. Suddenly, the shark began to hiss and whine and its legs grew, and grew, and grew, until the shark stood as tall as a midget plagued by gigantism. Arms sprouted from its chest, and once it had finished its transformation, it stood back. For a long moment, each regarded the other. Neither made a sound. Neither made a move. Nobody breathed.

            Then, carefully, deliberately, the hammerhead extended an arm, and pushed Mr. Santa Claus off the wall.

            Finding himself sprawled in the grass with chunks of what he presumed had been slug spackled in his hair, Mr. Santa Claus peered up at the wall, into the face of the shark. It said nothing. He hunted for a witty response to try and grasp back some semblance of dignity, and settled on something he’d heard in a Schwarzenegger movie.

            “Who the hell are you?”

            “I go by many names, Nicolas Santa Claus. Many, many names. Many names indeed. Of names, I have many. The names I have are multitudinous.” It took a deep breath. “Really, you wouldn’t believe how many epithets I’m known by.”

            “And they are?”

            “Roboshark.” The robot caught itself. “Do I contradict myself?” It paused to reflect for a moment. “Yes. Yes. I am large. I am full of them.” Roboshark shifted uncomfortably. It didn’t care much for discussing philosophy at the dinner table.

            “So, you’re, Roboshark?” Silence. Mr. Santa Claus waited, expecting more. Nothing came. He fumbled for a bit, searching for something else witty to say. “How did you know my name?” That would suffice, he thought.

            “I have internets inside my head, Mr. Santa Claus. All things that are things that can be known, I know. And things that are not known, I will know, because internets is get updated a lots, and I have many internets inside my head for the updating of such.”

            Nick turned this around in his head a few times, passed it on to his subconscious to make sense of, and when it spat it back undigested, he gave up. “I guess you’re going to eat me then?” Roboshark shook its head. “You ate Bittersly’s wife, didn’t you?”

            “Was that her name? I’m never terribly good with the names of, what do you call those, those little finger foods you serve at parties. The ones with the French names.”

            “Hors d'oeuvres?”

            “Yes, yes, that’s it. Thank you.” It cleared its throat, and smiled, though it didn’t manage a terribly good job of it. Sharks are not particularly expressive, and this one appeared to be made of plastic and tin, so it was less so. “And no, I never learn the names of my food. Makes it too personal. Would be like naming your cat Betsy, and building him a backstory before carving him up for flank steaks. It complicates digestion.”

            “I s’pose it would,” Nick wheezed, hauling himself out of the wet grass. “You’re not going to eat me then?”

            “Oh my, no,” Roboshark clucked, winking coyly at the right jolly old elf. “Quite the contrary! You’re going to be the only person in the world who will know who I am, and what I do.”

            “And that is what, exactly?” There was a pause. And another pause. The first and the second pause met over drinks, hit it off very nicely, went back to the first’s house, made little suspense babies, and lived happily ever after.

The tension was palpable.

            “I’m going to eat the world, one piece at a time,” Roboshark said. It seemed as though a great weight had been lifted from its shoulders.

            “I see.” Mr. Santa Claus stood up, and brushed himself off. “Any particular reason why?” The chunks in his hair were in fact, bits of slug.

            “My creator, a Sir Matthew Matheson, woke up one morning, and decided that rather than pay his taxes like a red-blooded Englishman, he would design and build a robot shark for keeping tax collectors and government agents away.”

            “And?”

            “He built it.” Roboshark glowered at him. “Though, being a man with substandard income, he made do with whatever was lying around his basement. Odd bits of tin and plastic from beer cans and turkey basters, an old IBM motherboard, the hard drive from an iPod his mother gave him, and wires that populated a VCR his neighbor ‘loaned’ him. However, having dropped out of college before he finished his engineering degree, he didn’t manage to finish the job. See?” The robot pointed to his legs. “My limbs are meant to retract and extend so I can travel underwater and on land. But because of a wiring flaw, they randomly pop in and out, making it hard to –oop! Pardon!” His left leg shot up into his torso, and he toppled ceremoniously into the dust.

            “As you can see, mine is a sad, sad existence. My hard drive is not especially large, so my ability to express the full gamut of emotions is poor. I haven’t got the space for it. So, unable to show things like ‘compassion,’ reason,’ and ‘gibble,’ I have decided that everyone must feel my pain.”

            “So to make the world understand your problems, you’re going to eat it?”

            “Yes.”

Mr. Santa Claus considered this.

            “Just so long as we’re clear.” His brows knitted in consternation. “So then why haven’t you eaten me?” His shirt had begun to stick to his back. It was unpleasantly clammy.

            “You were the first person I hadn’t eaten today, so I thought it might be nice to have someone left when I’m done, to chronicle my exploits.”

“But if everyone else is—”

“Roboshark away!” Roboshark convulsed feebly, and retracted all its legs. Wheels popped out of its torso, and with a mighty roar, sped off.

“First stop, Manchester!” The voice of Roboshark receded into the distance. Mr. Santa Claus regarded the road for a moment, then picked his sandwich off the ground. Before he could take a bite, he felt another presence.

“Howdy, Mistuh Santa Claus!” A voice exploded from behind him. Nick found himself face to face with the hulking form of a black bear. It regarded him though a monocle it wore over its left eye, and sat back on its haunches. Neither said a word. The bear coughed.

“Can I help you?” Mr. Santa Claus inquired, taking in mouthfuls of sandwich. The bear pondered this for a moment. It wasn’t accustomed to this sort of questioning.

“Naw sah, Mistuh Santa Claus, I’m heah ta help ya’ll wid dis ‘ere fingfangle ya’ll’ve gotten yoself inta.” Satisfied with its answer, the bear relaxed. It had done rather well, it thought.

“Okay? And how’re you going do that?”

“Well sah,” the bear intoned, “Ya’ll’s gon’ need somebody ta help ya’ll find tha two keys to get ta tha Octabahg, sah.” Mr. Santa Claus swatted at the flies crawling over his sandwich and took another bite.

“And who,” He sighed, “By the Elder Gods, is Octoborg?” On second thought, the flies added a pleasant crunchy texture to the sandwich. The bear blinked, and considered this.

“Why sah, tha Octabahg is da mightiest creechah on Ahth. He’s paht Ahctapus, paht machine, an’ he’s tha only one who kin stop tha Roboshahk!” The bear sniffed at Mr. Santa Claus’ sandwich. “Is thaht peanut buttah an’ herrin’?”

“Yeah.”

“Ya’ll mahnd if ah have a bite? Am pow’rful hungreh.”

“Go for it.” Nick proffered the sandwich to the bear. “So,” Mr. Santa Claus asked, “What’s your name?” Once the bear finished licking and smacking all the peanut butter from the roof of his mouth, he answered.

“Sah Reginald Eggswahth tha Third, sah. At yo service.” The bear donned the monocle with a flourish, and clambered atop the wall. “Sah, foller me. We gotta go. Now.”

“Where’re we going, Reggie?” Mr. Santa Claus scrambled up the wall, and dropped over the other side, onto the road. The bear waited for him, and turned around.

“McDonalds in Stockpaht, sah.” Nick stopped a moment. He knew every McDonalds in the United Kingdom –he was on the Weight Watchers Repeat Offenders List. He’d been banned from ever entering Brazil again because of it.

“Which one? There’s at least three there.” He wanted some chips. Savoury, fresh-from-the-fryer chips.

“Tha one on Mersey Way, sah.”

“Why that one?” His stomach growled. Nick hungered.

“To see an Aboriginal man abaht a Big Mac.”

“Come again?”

And with a whiff, a poof, and a zizzle, they vanished.