Paul Andrew Sneddon

The General: Kings Visit

The General leaned back in his chair and ran his hand through his hair. A loud voice was playing from his old CD player.

‘You are a great leader.’

‘You are cool under pressure.’

‘You are decisive.’

‘I am Alexander the Great,’ he muttered.

He sighed.

He looked round the cramped office. Alexander the Great never had to deal with this.

He was wondering what to do. It was a big responsibility for him, and he had to get this just right. He’d been mulling it over for an hour now. In fact, it had taken up most of the morning, and he wasn’t too sure if he’d got it right. He looked out the window at a parade ground sitting empty.

Should he order turkey or steak pie for the officers’ Christmas lunch?

Suddenly, there was an awful commotion. The door flew open. Percy entered belly-first, and then, moments later, the rest of him followed. His face was bright red, and he was sweating heavily.

‘Just a moment, just a moment,’ gasped Percy, trying to catch his breath. ‘Sorry. Sorry, but you’ve got to see this. I can’t believe it,’ Percy exclaimed.

He stopped the CD player.

‘What is it, Percy? What is it?’ bellowed the General, his eyes wild.

‘He’s coming. He’s coming here today. Today, sir!’ stammered a breathless Percy.

‘Who’s coming? Spit it out, man!’

Percy looked the General straight in the eyes.

‘The King.’

The General’s moustache bounced with excited energy.

He walked to the CD player and switched out the CD. A techno version of the national anthem started to play. Percy looked confused.

‘It was free with the newspaper,’ muttered the General.

He was looking up at his framed picture of the King. His eyes had a far-off look, and suddenly he looked like he was going to cry.

‘It’s finally happening. He’s coming to visit,’ the General’s voice boomed. ‘You know, Percy, for generations my family served this country. My great-uncle Albert used to sell pies to the King’s half-sister. Now, finally, all those years of service are going to be rewarded. I tell you, by God, headquarters must have forgiven me.’

The moustache dropped.

He had been in the bad books with HQ since the Sunday school party. He thought it would be good to get one of his pals from the Air Force to fly over in one of their new jets, but he had flown too low and the sonic boom had caused mayhem, putting twelve of the kids and two adults in the hospital overnight.

He had been in the bad books ever since.

‘We’ve got to get ready!’ he exclaimed.

He grabbed his coat and said to Percy, ‘Come on, let’s go.’

They went out of the office and onto the parade ground. A couple of crisp wrappers blew across the ground.

‘We’ve got to get this place polished up. It’s got to be just right. If only Papa was here to see me now.’

He looked far away for a moment. ‘Oh Papa, you said I wouldn’t amount to anything but a second-rate flim-flammer, but look at me now.’

‘He’d be very proud, Sir,’ beamed Percy.

They turned the corner and bumped into Private Jackson. They saluted.

‘Jackson, you’re from Scotland, aren’t you? Listen, the King is coming today. Do you think you could do a Highland dance for him?’ encouraged the General.

‘A Highland dance, sir? Listen, I’m fae Edinburgh,’ glared Jackson.

‘Alright, Private, carry on… what’s his problem?’ muttered the General as they headed over to the firing range.

Percy huffed and puffed, trying to keep up. His face was turning red.

At the shooting range, Sergeant Smith was holding court.

‘And that’s how I won the medal.’

‘Sergeant Smith, this isn’t the time for this. The King is coming to see me. Back to work!’ demanded the General.

Smith looked confused.

‘Go on and clear up, all of you!’ commanded the General.

‘Sir, yes Sir!’ said the little group of soldiers as they fell out for their tasks, walking back across the parade ground. One of them chased after the crisp wrappers.

The General looked left and right, glancing to make sure that the area was clear.

He looked straight at Percy. ‘Listen, Percy, this barracks is a dangerous place. Lots of guns at the barracks… and a few people with some loose screws. I think you should have a gun. Extra protection for our royal visitors. What do you want? M16? Bazooka?’

Percy looked confused. He stumbled over; his phone was ringing. He answered it next to the General.

‘Oh really? Oh, okay. Thanks for letting me know,’ he muttered.

He looked at the General. ‘You might want to sit down for this, Sir.’

‘What’s going on, Percy?’ he said quietly, almost as a whisper.

Percy said, seriously and with as much dignity as he could muster, ‘He’s not coming, Sir. They’re going to an alpaca farm over the other side of town.’

The General slowly sat down at the picnic table and gave a sad, lonely toot on his party popper.

‘Bugger.’

The Five Sightings of Santa

A short piece of dark Christmas humour.

IMAGE ID 391516414© Muhamad Faris Dreamstime.com

First Sighting

Christmas Santa uses the chimney.
This one comes through your open window.

Drinks your booze.
Steals your presents and strolls out the front door like he owns the place.

Police are looking for a fat man in a red suit.
Last seen heading up the high street with a sack of your stuff.

Second Sighting

Just seen Santa in the park,
shouting at all the people,
calling them a bunch of bastards.

A woman came over, told him to fuck off.

His dog Rudolf jumped up
and bit her in the bum.

Third

Burnt out Santa didn’t bother this year.
He’s been doomscrolling,
disappearing down a black hole.

He posted:
”Maybe next year
#santaisfuckedoff”

Fourth time lucky

I used to go out with this lassie,
had a thing for Santa.
The suit, the beard, the whole damn lot.
Was the only way she would get off.

Which is why I ended up
with my picture in the paper.

Up on the roof,
in the full Santa costume.
On a hot July day.

Five in a dive (bar)

It was a bit surreal
at the open mic tonight,
being heckled by Santa.

Sat at the bar
with a whisky
and a bad attitude.

“Christmas is finished for you, you cunt.”

Early Morning Song

I’m going to wake early in the morning. Before the sun. Before the people.
Drag myself from my bed.

I’m going to drive down to the beach, near where the river meets the sea.

I’m going to walk.
Feel the cold air.
The December rain.
The wind in my face.

Watch the water breaking on the shore. Listen to the roar of waves

Breathe in deep. Look out across the water and say.

I am still here.
Still alive.
I’m not giving up

Not ever.

***********************************************

The beach is one of my favourite places. A good place to take a moment and just breathe in Autumn.

Blue Train #46

The train cuts through the countryside, over the high bridge over the river. Got that funny feeling in my stomach as I look over the edge.

Down, down, down.

All the way down to the river below.

Check the time on my phone.
Man out of time.
Or just in time.
Just about.

The sun setting down behind the town, the sky all oranges and blues. I look over at her, blonde hair tumbling down, headphones on, eyes closed, a little smile across her face.

Music.
Life.
A little hint of mystery.

I can hear the drums, electric guitar, the voice.

I look back out the window.

The light is fading and I find that I am looking back at my reflection in the window. My hair has grown out a bit. I don’t think I am ever going to be bald. At the hotel last night she laughed at me when I said I was worried I’d go bald if I got it cut.

But fuck it, if I went bald I would embrace it. Total bald head, Michael Jordan style. I’m sure he used to shave his head courtside. I told the missus I’d polish my head up so it shone in the lights. Just, why the fuck not.

But as it stands, I’m more like Robert Smith with a bird’s nest on my head. I don’t think I’m going to grow old like a Dapper Don. I don’t think I’m going to go out quiet. She told me I spend too much time in my own head.

A couple stumble by, smelling of booze. She’s calling him an arsehole. He’s trying to placate her.

“Donna, babe, Donna, I’m sorry, alright? I didn’t mean anything.”

“You told her she had the best arse you’ve seen all day, Doug. I mean, fuck sake. I mean, first fucking question: How many arses have you been looking at all day?”

He stumbles on his words as they move up the carriage and out of earshot.

The old couple across from us are having a chuckle. The old fella looks over and nods his head and says:

“He’s sleeping on the couch the night..”

His wife perks up:

“If he’s lucky”

They both crack up laughing.

The ticket man wanders through. He looks distracted and just walks right past us.

I sit back. Pull on my headphones. Close my eyes and the band bring it home.

Inspired in part by this Johnny Cash song.

The Getaway Claus

A Christmas crime caper. Santa’s had a rough shift.

This story contains violence and strong language.

“Hey Mum, what the hell is Santa doing in Kirkentoun?” shouted Jimmy to his mum.

She was standing across the floor at the counter for the fish and chip shop. “Oh, what have I told you about that swearing, wee man? Keep the noise down, for fuck’s sake. I’m talking to Davey here.”

She looked back to him and smiled, just a little. “Sorry about him, he just gets a bit enthusiastic.”

“Nae problem, doll,” he said as she wrote down her number.

Jimmy sighed and looked back out the window. It looked like Santa, but as if he had been at one of those parties with Uncle Ian where he disappears for a few days. The suit didn’t look crisp and clean like he saw on the TV, or when Santa had come to visit at the school. It looked dirty and muddy, just like his beard. He didn’t look right, like he was struggling to breathe. His face was a deep red and he was bent over with his hands on his hips, desperately trying to breathe.

Come on, Santa, thought Jimmy.

Suddenly, Santa jumped up and looked back over his shoulder. Jimmy wondered where the reindeer were and why Santa had a dirty-looking sports bag that he pulled back over his shoulder. As he did so, a few notes of paper seemed to waft out onto the street.

Santa legged it as two burly looking men in suits ran down the street. Were they after Santa?

“Jimmy, come away from that window!” called his mum.

He looked round and she was looking at him with raised eyebrows. “Just sit at peace, eh son?”

She looked back to Davey and wrote something down on a bit of paper. She slid it across to him and he smiled. She then said in a loud voice, “That’s a bag of chips, and chicken nuggets and chips for the wee guy.”

“Thanks, Doll.”

She paid and shouted over to Jimmy. “I’m going to the ladies. You behave, wee fella, alright?”

Davey took a knife and fork over to Jimmy and rubbed his hair as he gave him a lollipop. “There you are, wee man. I’ll cook you up a right feast, alright?”

He looked out the window. “Christ, Santa’s had a rough shift, eh? Don’t worry wee man, he’ll be alright by Christmas.”

He laughed as he walked away.

Jimmy looked back out the window. He could just about see down the alley, just in time to see Santa taking a right hand to the jaw from one of the big guys. Down he went and they were stomping him.

Jimmy gasped, “Oh, Santa.”

A short man appeared down the alley, wearing an elf suit with the little hat. He climbed on top of one of the bins and smacked one of the men over the back of the head with something shiny. The man slumped to the ground.

Then he jumped off the top of the bin and landed on top of the other man. They both went down. Jimmy stood and watched as the Elf man pulled Santa back to his feet. Santa grabbed the shiny object. It looked like a bat, and he slammed it down.

Jimmy couldn’t see what he was hitting, but the bat seemed red when he brought it back up. It looked like Santa was shouting at the elf. The elf disappeared and came back with the sports bag.

A car pulled up and as they went to get in, Santa looked across the street at Jimmy. Right at Jimmy. Through the window to the chip shop and right into his eyes. He threw a dirty hand up, blood-red, and gave a big thumbs up.

Jimmy broke into a smile and gave the thumbs up back.

And Santa was gone.