A Christmas Carrion

Strange. 12 years ago and it didn't seem odd. The route change to work at Editor's Communiqué seemed to be something which should be known. Something done before. Even the final route when pointed out to me seemed familiar. The new guy seemed familiar. I took such a long convoluted route which seemed a bit familiar too. And I was terribly late & tense ’cos there seemed to be something missing in the familiar route – a bridge of some sort. But in the end, it all seemed to me like my fault for placing the bridge there when it was not supposed to be, besides already committing an earlier blunder I can't remember now. A convoy of total oddities churning my mind, puke-worthy in its inane profanity ... 'Jingle balls jingle balls, jing bang all the way! O what fun it is to ride on one w***e's open leg! Play! Jingle balls jingle balls jing bang all the way!' Damien's bizarre reverie was broken by the (again) adolescent voice - which made the grotesquely obscene spoof even more macabre. He had by now grown used to these extra cranial voices which arose separately from his philosophical wonderings. He turned his attention to the (almost) fatally wounded, horrific form of the latest suspect - and his whimsical mind went into its usual unconnected reverie again. It's a delicate balance. Too little tranquiliser, and he gets up and eats the surgical team. Too much, and he overdoses - and dies. We are far from a liberated people. Our hearts, minds and souls are, at this very point, in servitude to that most heinous of spirits, mammon. We worship it now. You will not have a miracle without the attempt. You were given room - ample room for a head start - but you chose in that deep slumber to ignore it. Grave error. Shut yourself out of the cacophony - while you still can ...