You Are A Christmas Special. (Sign Here Please): You Are Dead., #7

By Andrew Stanek

It's Christmas time in Dead Donkey, but Nathan is startled to discover he's not allowed to open his presents! Bureaucratic machinations are to blame. Nathan sets out to deal Director Fulcher a yuletide defeat and get his Christmas presents back. What to give an economist, the origins of reality television, gifts for people you hate, and the true meaninglessness of Atheist Christmas, all in You Are A Christmas Special. (Sign Here Please), a new comedy from author Andrew Stanek, the writing of which definitely got him on the naughty list.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrew Stanek
• Release date: Mar 9, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215263563

Book preview

Prologue

Society isn’t all bad, at least not until the politicians get their way, and one of the nice things about society is that once in a while we get a day off. Time off is most welcome because we can use it to burn down our local communities, or teach our dogs to jaywalk, or make up for all the lost time we haven’t spent drinking. Most important of all, we can even catch up on our highly critical satirical e-books, without which life would be grim and meaningless.

A lot of these days off are weekends or sick days or spent in prison or the insane asylum or the particle collider or the graveyard, as one does, but even including the time we take off work to spend insane or diffusing or dead, as the case may be, a fair few of our precious windows of relaxation are holidays. Holidays generally but not always consist of celebration or remembrance of something that happened long ago and turns out to have been so incredible and marvelous that we have decided to honor the achievements of our forebears by achieving absolutely nothing whatsoever and instead spend the time bickering with family, as God intended, thereby mooching off our more successful and productive ancestors in perpetuity by trashing a few perfectly good days just to make sure we don’t in any way disrespect them by achieving more than they did on that day, or we would if we weren’t making this all up as an excuse to get a day off work, which we most assuredly are.

This is probably why holidays are such an odd bunch of occasions to begin with. Consider Memorial Day, when we struggle to remember which war we were supposed to be remembering, or Thanksgiving, when we become pretty sure that it’s not any of the wars against the Native Americans, or Halloween, when we dress the children up as ghosts and send them out to mug the neighbors under threat of violence and/or property damage.

Of all the holidays, though, none is so widely observed, and dare I say feared, as Christmas. Although the broad outlines of Christmas remain the same for everyone - we all set fire to a tree to appease Jesus (I may have misunderstood that) - and put out cookies and milk for a bearded man in a red suit to fulfill the biblical mandates to feed the homeless - otherwise, everybody celebrates Christmas in their own way. Each family, community, and nation has their own Christmas traditions. For example, the Russian Orthodox church does not celebrate Christmas until January. Finns believe Christmas gifts are delivered by a Christmas goat. Horace Pickelfern of 289 Timbercrest Road, Anchorage, believes that unless he changes his internet passwords, bears will break into his iPhone on Christmas Day and watch Planet Earth on Netflix, thereby using up all his bandwidth.

But the one thing absolutely nobody does on Christmas, not even the Finns, is deal with bureaucracy.

That was all about to change for Nathan Haynes and his home town of Dead Donkey, Nevada. It’s a shame in many ways; the only thing that can really spoil a good Christmas is paperwork.

Chapter 1

It was Christmas in Dead Donkey.

Nathan was sitting in his living room in the greenest of his several green chairs, whistling his most Christmasy cereal jingles as he wrapped gifts in foul-smelling, puce-colored wrapping paper. As he finished wrapping them, he placed them one by one under his festively decorated Christmas cactus, pausing once in a while to glance at his TV, which was showing a TV show called America’s Next Top Arsonist. Nathan was just finishing up his gift wrapping and was thinking about whether it would be better to do his laundry by hand (since his washing machine was still broken) or regift it to people he didn’t like when he heard a sudden chiming noise. Was that the civil defense siren? No, even better! It was a visitor! Still whistling cheerily, Nathan rose. Maybe it was Santa.

When Nathan opened the door, Nathan found, standing behind it, a festively dressed man with singed eyebrows and a whiff of accelerant about him; he carried a lit blow torch in one hand and a cigarette lighter in the other.

Santa? Nathan guessed optimistically, looking at the visitor’s charred red cap and soot-covered suit.

No, not quite, the man said, his burnt face crinkling into a smile, as children scampered around behind him making a sand donkey and shot them discreet, furtive glances for any signs of weakness or psychological breakdown.

Nathan waved to the children, then turned back to his guest, who was busily pouring gasoline over Nathan’s doorstep.

Mr. Haynes, the singed man said as he did this. I represent Arsonists for the Less Fortunate, the largest Arsonist Organization in Dead Donkey. Mr. Haynes, it’s that time of year again - the time of year we think about the less fortunate and try to figure out the many ways in which we can set fire to them - er, I meant, help them - and I was wondering if you would care to make a donation.

Nathan blinked.

What kind of donation? he asked. What for?

Dead Donkey has an amazingly large homeless population, the singed man continued. The streets are littered with homeless, begging for change and tax payments to them directly instead of the government - but it isn’t enough! Think of how many more homeless people we could have! Sir, even in our community of plenty, Mr. Haynes, it may shock you to learn that thousands of people remained tragically homed. With just a simple donation of propane, or matches, or thermite, or even just a little flammable grease or oil, we could burn down a needy family’s home and render them homeless, thereby freeing them from the costly burden of home ownership in Dead Donkey.

Nathan mulled this over with a puzzled expression on his face - which is to say, he mostly thought about cartoon elves in hats trying to sell him puffed wheat while occasionally remembering that he was talking to someone.

I don’t know, Nathan said at last.

Mr. Haynes, maybe you don’t know that we in Dead Donkey have fallen behind! the singed man said. It’s true that we have a very large homeless community, but do you realize that the state of California has over 130,000 homeless people? We in Nevada just don’t have their kind of housing crisis. We can’t keep up unless the local residents pitch in to support Arsonists for the Less Fortunate and burn down more houses, like yours.

I’ll keep you in mind, Nathan said firmly as the man moved to put his match towards Nathan’s porch. But I’m homed and pretty strapped for cash myself and I just can’t spare anything. Besides, I think charity should be about giving people what they need to get by, not extravagant elevation of people to the upper rungs of society, like homelessness!

At least take my card, the singed man said, and handed Nathan an on-fire piece of cardboard with his name and number on it.

Nathan consented to extinguish it, and shook the man’s hand.

As soon as he did, though, something very strange happened.

From outside, a pair of forms, apparently acting on their own, swooped into the house like small birds and began to circle around Nathan’s head. Then, as Nathan shook the arsonist’s calloused, soot-black, burned hand, there was a jingling noise, and then a popping noise, and suddenly, a wrapped present appeared at Nathan’s feet. It was wrapped in green paper and tied with a red bow.

Blinking, Nathan picked it up. For the singed man, the label said.

Confused (or at least, he would have been confused, except he was still thinking about a tiger in a scarf hocking sugared wheat), Nathan handed it to the singed man, who opened it.

Inside was a roll of paraffin and box of matches.

Thank you very much, sir, the singed man said. This will be very useful! All of us at Arsonists for the Less Fortunate thank you for your contribution.

Nathan, now feeling very confused and also quite hungry for cereal, said nothing.

Then, Nathan watched as the singed man sauntered away, with the children in the background peering out vigilantly from behind their sand donkey at Nathan. Nathan left the door open just long enough to watch the singed man be struck by a barrage of bullets in a clatter of bang-bang-bang from Mr. Fletcher’s balcony. Then, Nathan, whistling, sauntered back into his living room. However, he had only gone a few steps when there was another knock at Nathan’s door, followed by the chiming noise that could have so easily either been the doorbell or the signal for the start of the Bakuninite anarchist insurrection that his laundry had long been waiting for.

Nathan wrenched it open. Behind it stood a man in a wrinkled suit.

You know, he said. It’s really the time of year to think about giving gifts, and wouldn’t you love to give your close family members and relatives a dog riding an elephant-

No! Nathan shouted at him in annoyance, then slammed the door in the salesman’s face. If there was one thing Nathan couldn’t stand, it was salesmen. He was very much in Mr. Fletcher’s camp on this matter. They’d soon be overrun with dogs riding elephants if this kept up.

But as soon as the door slammed shut, there was another jingling noise. Another gift, much like the last, appeared at Nathan’s feet.

Nathan blinked at it. It was addressed to, The Dog-Riding-Elephant Salesman.

Feeling even more confused than before, Nathan set it aside, then turned to go back to the greenest of his several green chairs.

However, Nathan hadn’t even made it back to his TV, his Christmas cactus, and his gift-wrapping when there was yet another merry chime at the door.

Thinking that Mr. Fletcher had missed and the salesman had come back, Nathan turned. Staggering back to the door between cereal jingles, Nathan wrenched it open - but it was neither the singed man nor the dog-riding-elephant salesman. Instead, behind it stood a very familiar man in the stiff off-brown suit and tie of a low-level bureaucrat, with a satchel filled with hefty forms at his waist and a megalomania-inducing tie clip on his shirt. His hair was immaculate and his eyes were wild with a combination of panic and administratively statutory levels of hatred and desires for revenge against Nathan.

Brian, Nathan said cheerily, even as the other man scowled at him. What a pleasant surprise! Did you come to spend the holidays with me?

Brian muscled his way past Nathan and into Nathan’s home, then looked around wildly.

What’s going on? Brian said. What’s happening? Have you received any unusual paperwork recently?

He looked up and spotted the two forms flitting around Nathan’s head and reached up to try to catch them, but both were just out of reach.

It’s just what I was afraid of, Brian said.

Good to see you too, Nathan said, ambling back to his kitchen to get coffee and snack cakes. Merry Atheist Christmas!

Director Fulcher has used his administrative-, Brian started, then stopped and looked sharply at Nathan. Wait, what the hell did you just say?

Merry Atheist Christmas! Nathan repeated cheerily.

Chapter 2

Atheist Christmas is a fine old tradition in Dead Donkey going back to the days of Efrain Smith, who had recently founded the city and declared himself the Supreme Generalissimo and His Royal Donkeyness, the Dictator of Dead Donkey, and decided that no one could be allowed to believe in any power greater than himself. However, the Cult of Efrain Smith has long since died out, since it was mainly focused on donkey ranching and getting lost on your way to the Pacific Coast and was therefore not very useful for people who actually wanted to stay in the city. Modern Atheist Christmas has essentially nothing to do with the old Smithian cult of personality, as exciting new cults have now taken over the holiday.

Every community celebrates Christmas in its own way. Since the majority of Dead Donkey’s people are atheists, and the minority are members of wacky cults, like the Cult of Cthulu, or Dave, or People Who Worship Pacman, or the Anti-Cult Cult, or the Cult of Indifference, Dead Donkey has long had a tradition of entirely Atheist Christmas. Although the holiday has dwindled in popularity of late because of the well-publicized radical War on Atheist Christmas, which has tried to undermine atheist traditions with encroaching secularism and consumerism, Atheist Christmas remains widely observed across Dead Donkey.

Dead Donkey’s Atheist Christmas traditions are only slightly different from the rest of the nation. Aside from spending the day in the Church of Particularly Cynical Atheism, the residents of Dead Donkey take a lot of pride in how they celebrate Atheist Christmas in their own homes. Notably, instead of burning a yule log in the fireplace and having the family gather around for warmth, observers of Atheist Christmas burn the mayor in effigy. Much but not all of the time, cactuses are used instead of pine and fir trees, and are decorated with bright lights and candles, but the ornaments