Ebenezer Jenkins' Christmas in Chicago

By Charles Harvey

Ebenezer Jenkins' Christmas in Chicago

 

Dive into the soul-stirring and humorously sharp retelling of the timeless classic, 'A Christmas Carol,' through a unique and satirical lens. Narrated by the vibrant, jive-talking duo, Madd and Dog2020, this version is bound to captivate even those indifferent to the Christmas spirit. Meet Ebenezer Jenkins, a miserly entrepreneur who uniquely runs Glad Wrappings Funeral Home cum Barbecue Joint. Here, the irony is as rich as the barbecue, where you might find yourself savoring your uncle's famous ribs in a posthumous feast.

Ebenezer Jenkins, a staunch Christmas despiser and averse to any form of charity, finds himself in cahoots with an unlikely partner: a crafty midget known as the "Serial Nutcracker." This pint-sized accomplice is notorious for his attempts to physically assail men, aiming to separate them from their wallets. However, limited by his stature, he can only wreak havoc to a certain extent, inadvertently earning a notorious reputation while inflicting amusing discomfort on his targets. This twisted tale of quirky characters and dark humor presents a fresh, uproarious take on a beloved holiday story, ensuring laughter and reflections on the true essence of the festive season.

 

Excerpt:

Christmas Eve snow, lacy like Victoria's Secret panties caressed Ebenezer's window. Folks carrying Christmas hams and bags of yams tripped and stumbled along the broken sidewalks. Some carried toys from China bought lovingly from Wall of the Mart. A few got full from cheap vodka and fruit punch and commenced to singing Christmas carols. They mixed up the Christmas songs with bits of old-time Gospel melodies.

Swing low silent jingle bells

As Mary weeps all ye faithful come

A rumpa dump rump. A rumpa dump come.

Oh Come ye to precious lord

Taking my hand to Jerusalem

A rumpa dump rump. A rumpa dump come!

"Dead cats," Ebenezer yelled at the carolers outside. They went away. But there was a thump and loud yowl at his window. When he peeked out, he stared straight into the dead eyes of a dead Persian stuck to the ice on his window.

 

 

Original Title: Christmas in Linken Park Chicago

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wes Writers and Publishers
• Release date: Sep 8, 2015
• ISBN: 9781513085951

Charles Harvey

Charles Harvey taught and practised astrology for over 30 years. His books include ‘Working with Astrology’, ‘Mundane Astrology’ and ‘Sun Sign, Moon Sign’. He was co-ordinator with Liz Greene of The Centre of Psychological Astrology and died in 2000.

Book preview

Ebenezer Jenkins’ Christmas in Chicago

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Madd & Dog2020

O w! Lawd, ham mercy !

Two men perched on some abandoned tracks of an elevated train looked out over the wilderness of a Chicago slum. The moon shimmers over broken green wine bottles and they shine like jeweled encrusted crabs.

Man, you better guard your gonads. Sounds like that Serial Nutcracker done got her another one.

Sound like the hollering came from over by Ebenezer’s place. You reckon she after him?

Ebenezer Jenkins too cheap to have any gonads. Ebenezer’s so tight with the dollar, the judge accused him of strangling George Washington to death.

That fool so stingy, he eat leftovers from nineteen seventy-seven.

His mama said he was too tight to poop when he was a baby—swolled up as big as a turkey.

The Brothers Madd and Dog2020 aka Maddog2020, sharing a six-pack and playing the dozens on the corner of State Street and Obama Avenue, starts the tale of Ebenezer Jenkins, our local fine businessman who owned a combination funeral parlor and barbecue joint under the roof of a greenish ramshackle edifice called Glad Wrappings Funeral Home and Rib Joint. The building looked as if it had been thrown together by a fierce Chicago wind playing a crooked game of dice. It was as lopsided as an old barn and had a mysterious bump in one of the walls. Because Ebenezer Jenkins was humpbacked, folks swore the wall with the bump had to be where Ebenezer rested his hump at night. The building wasn’t fit to be a horse barn. But believe this, it was the finest piece of real estate in Linken Park. As I might have said and as I might say again, Linken Park is the ghetto of the ghetto in South Southside Chicago. It stopped east at the walled and barbed wired boundary of Hyde Park—rich white people’s backyards where azaleas sunned.  At the west a black cemetery kept it in check. Its southern border was 67th Street and the rich ghetto where poor folks not too poor lived in cottages with plots of cabbages and okra growing out back. The west side boundary of Linken Park was Obama Avenue where the white folk’s cemetery is located. Late at night when the moon is high as if it’s been smoking some good stuff, you can hear the white folks in Oakwood Cemetery turning over in their graves. Obama Avenue didn’t used to be Obama Avenue. It used to be George Washington Avenue. But the Colored Cultured Committee used gentle persuasion by day and Molotov cocktails at night and got it named after America’s most soulful President since Bill Clinton. The air murmurs with mumbling as white folks scrape the insides of their twenty-gauge steel caskets turning like chickens in a rotisserie.

They don’t know about us up here, do they, Dog2020?

Nah they don’t, Madd.

Our folks come up here right after Lincoln freed the slaves.

Been out of work ever since. Hand me that bottle.

Lord you sure are right, Dog2020. We south of Southside Chicago.

So far south, I can see your granny’s draws flapping on a Mississippi clothesline.

Hush for a minute!

What is it, Madd?

I hear yo mama grunting at the zoo. I think the gorilla done got a hold of her again.

Aw get out of here with that lame shit. But I tell you one thing, Madd...

What’s that, Dog2020?

They ought to put me in that Oakwood cemetery when I die.

They ought to put your ass in there now. Why wait until you die, Dog2020?

I want to make them white folks be still and respect our President.

Well, I imagine some of them confederate devil offsprings is armed with pitchforks. They’d poke so many holes in your ass, you’d look like a saltshaker.

Aw you ain’t never optimistic about nothing I say.

I’m optimistic them dead white folks would poke holes in your ass. Now pass me back that bottle.

Gentlemen, I believe I can finish telling the story.

Madd and Dog 2020 looked at the mysterious stranger that suddenly appeared before them. They were