Forever After

3



Michael and Chip met with an expectant and haggard Naff in the Dying Seamstress. Chip’s face was still ablaze with joy. He walked with a skip in his step -- which resembled the stammering motorising of a recluse hunchback -- and a high pitched, ear popping whistle on his lips.

When he and Michael finally made it to the Seamstress, Michael was preparing the final postscripts to his murder/suicide plot.

“Well?” Naff said, looking agitated. His right foot was propped up on the toes, the heel jangled with an uncontrollable twitch. “What is it? What did you want to tell me?”

Naff looked at Michael and feared the worst. He looked like he had bad news, his face was gaunt, pained. He looked like he had recently suffered. Feeling his heart sink, Naff then turned to Chip, seeing bright, uninhibited glee on his little face.

“Oh God,” Naff said with a sudden an immovable lump in his throat. “It’s bad isn’t it? Did someone die?”

Michael furrowed his brow and breathed out a deep and relieved sigh, happy that the journey was over. “Chip, you fill him in,” he said with a nod.

Chip sat down happily, engaging Naff in an immediate and long winded conversation. Michael ordered himself a double whiskey from the bar, drank it down with one quick gulp and then ordered three cokes.

“Long day?” Scrub said as Michael slammed the empty tumbler onto the bar.

Michael shook his head. “You ever heard of a tablet computer?” he asked the bartender.

Scrub twisted up his face, he looked like a hairy, confused baby.

“Well,” Michael said distantly, “until this morning, neither had I.”

When Michael made it back to the table Chip was still in full flow. He put the glasses on the grimy top and slid in beside his pungent friend.

“...HD and 3D videos, anything from hard-core to anal,” Chip was saying excitedly.

“It only has porn?” Naff replied, baffled.

Chip looked at him like he was made of cheese and smoking a pipe. “I mean, it has other stuff too, I guess,” he said absently, “if you’re into that sort of thing.”

Naff shook his head as if to clear the cobwebs his friend’s absurdity had woven. “Is that it?” he said to Michael. “Is this what you brought me here to tell me?”

Michael looked at Chip and shook his head in disappointment. “I meant fill him in on the Santa Claus thing,” he instructed.

“I have all the porn in the world at my fingertips and you’re more interested in a fat man in a suit?”

“You saw him?” Naff said with a start, dismissing Chip’s comment.

“He gave Chip the computer.”

Naff glared at Chip. “You saw him.”

Chip put down the computer with a thud; Naff ventured a look at the screen and wished he hadn’t. “What do you mean me?” he replied with the same emphasis, not sure what he was preparing to argue about but happy to push for one regardless.

“How did you see him?” Naff said, softening his tone, not wanting to get into a shouting match with someone who could shout with the stamina and pointlessness of a stubborn politician.

Chip picked up the computer, the sounds of exertion and screaming could be heard above the rumblings in the pub. “I wrote him a letter,” he said with a degree of finality.

Naff looked frustrated. “And?”

“And what?”

He simultaneously groaned and sighed at his miniature friend. “Well, did you address it to the fat man at the f*cking north pole or what?”

“Hey, don’t get snappy with me!”

“How did you get in touch with him?”

Chip fell silent for a moment, staring at his friend. “Maybe I don’t want to tell you. Maybe you need to ask me nicely.”

“You’ve gotta be f*cking kidding me,”

Chip turned his head away and folded his arms across his chest -- a pout on his grubby lips.

“For f*cks sake,” Naff mumbled under his breath. “OK, I’m sorry, but this is very important to me. Tell me, how did you get in touch?”

“Buy me a pint and I’ll tell you.”

“Chip!” Michael and Naff chorused with a great deal of annoyance.

“OK, OK,” Chip said, holding up his hands. “I just wrote him a letter. Nothing special. ‘To Santa’, that was it. No address, nothing.”

“Really?” Naff said with a scrunched, disbelieving expression. “How the hell did he get that?”

Chip offered a nonchalant shrug in reply.

“He could be a postman,” Michael offered.

“You think Santa would moonlight as a postman?”

“He’s not really Santa remember.”

“Yes, great, well done.” Naff said unenthusiastically. “Thanks for reminding me.”

Michael sipped the foam from the top of his beer; a bitter acrid wash of soapy bubbles coated his mouth. Scrub had been washing out the barrels again. “Ideal job for a man masquerading as Santa Claus when you think about it,” he said, sticking his tongue out at intervals. “Not much difference really. He gets to carry a sack, deliver parcels.”

“Drive a giant sleigh pulled by a dozen reindeer?”

“Admittedly, that’s where the similarities end.”

He took another sip of the bitter beer, refreshing the acrid taste in his mouth, before pushing the pint along the table to Chip, who didn’t ask questions and barely acknowledged the gesture. In a matter of moments the glass was half empty and Chip was grinning satisfactorily.

Naff looked tortured. His face twisted into a complex assortment of pain and thought as he tried to work out a solution to a problem that his previously lax inattentiveness had created. He rested his elbows on the table, sunk his head in his hands.

He groaned and murmured disconsolately to himself. After a while he lifted his head, stared at his friend with defeated and red eyes. “OK,” he said reluctantly, “I guess it’s a possibility, and as we have nothing else to go on--”

Chip interjected without looking up from the computer screen, where a tangle of tanned flesh romped to his delight. “We could send him another letter,” he said simply.

Both Naff and Michael turned to him. “What?” Naff said, more shocked than anything.

Chip gave them a casual shrug, still not averting his eyes from the onscreen orgy, “It worked once, why not again?”

For the first time that day a smile crept on Naff’s face, he turned towards Michael who was staring at the tooth fairy, contemplating killing the sinister little demon who had taken over the body of his flatmate.

“What do you think?” Naff asked him.

Michael turned to him, a strained look of bemusement on his face. He lowered his voice, “I think something’s wrong with Chip,” he said with an assured nod.