Tevun-Krus #36 - A Very Merry SteamPunk Christmas

Smith & Jones

A Smith and Jones Christmas Story

Smith, Jones and Kris were sitting rather gloomily around the kitchen table, drinking cups of tea. Their last bottle of whisky sat dry and empty on the table, because nobody had the energy to go out to the shop and buy a new one. There was no fire in the grate and everyone had wrapped their hands around their cups to keep them warm.

A small group of carol singers struck up Good King Wenceslas outside in the street. Smith got up and walked to the window. "Go away!" he shouted.

He'd just sat down again when there was a knock at the door. "Your turn," he told Jones.

Reluctantly, Jones went to the door and peered through the spy hole. There were two charity collectors standing there, holding a tin and a tray of badges. "Fuck off!" he yelled through the closed door. "We gave at the office."

"The nerve of some people," muttered Kris.

"Let's just have a quiet Christmas at home this year," said Smith.

"I don't think we'll bother getting a Christmas tree," agreed Jones.

"And no stupid Christmas lights either," insisted Kris.

They sighed simultaneously, then turned to watch as a small figure slid recklessly down the banister, a jaunty red cap on his head and a beaming smile on his metal face. The others could feel the excitement radiating off him.

"Well I'll be off then," announced H'ver. "My ride will be here any minute! Merry Christmas everyone," he added as he motored out the door. There was a loud grinding sound and an odd looking blue box appeared out of thin air. The door opened and H'ver trundled inside. The door shut and the box disappeared.

"Where is H'ver going again?" asked Jones.

"Decopunktus Nine," answered Kris, morosely. "He won a week's holiday in a competition. Have you ever been to Decopunktus Nine? I wouldn't be at all surprised if his were the only entries."

"Where's Boogaloo? I thought he'd be back by now," grumbled Smith.

"Not likely," said Kris. "He's determined to crash the party on Orgasmamoon 69. I don't think we'll see him for days."

All three of them sighed, noisily, and sipped their tea. Nothing exciting had happened for several weeks now, ever since Halloween in fact, when they had attacked the enormous stack of speakers and brought them down on top of themselves.

True, they'd ended up here safely enough, but they hadn't seen the bright white light since. Could this really be the end of all their adventures?

"I can't take much more of this!" Kris suddenly burst out. "I wish something would happen! Anything! Even that fucking white light—"

Before Smith had time to say "Be careful what you wish for" they all disappeared—and reappeared in the middle of a large factory, with belching steam and shiny brass pistons working furiously.

"Where are we?" screamed Jones, over the din.

"Am I wearing a top hat?" asked Kris, looking down at her brass and leather corset, complete with a polished raygun on her right hip. "Gotta be steampunk," she announced as Smith nodded.

"Where are our costumes?" complained Smith. "We look just the same as usual."

"Probably because you come from this era—more or less," said Kris. "Shh!"

All around the factory they could see men, women and even children hard at work. Their clothes were ragged and patched and all of them looked as if they could do with a good meal.

An elderly man with grey mutton chop whiskers and wearing a black cloak with a large cog-watch on one lapel, was watching from the floor above, his cold eyes constantly scanning the workers below. In contrast to the workers, he looked stout and prosperous.

Even as the three watched, the scene faded from view to be replaced by the inside of a very small house. A tiny boy with a crippled leg was lying on a pallet before an empty grate, where a fire should have been burning merrily.

A woman wearing a patched shawl over her shoulders entered and sat down at the table. She began peeling a small pile of potatoes.

"I can help with that, Ma," offered the little boy, with a smile.

"You're a good lad, Tim," said his mother, passing over the potatoes. She stood up to fill a pot with water and added a bone, which looked as if it had already been well chewed.

"Yer Pa will be home soon. I wonder if Mr Skruge has given him a bonus? Even a small one would help. And after all, it is Christmas." She spoke as if she was trying to convince herself.

"It would be nice to have some bread to go with the soup," murmured Tim, wistfully. One of the men the three travellers had seen earlier, working in the factory, entered the room.

"Anything, Bob?" the woman asked eagerly.

Bob shook his head sadly. "Sorry, luv. He said the business can't afford it."

All three looked downcast for a moment before pasting a brave smile on their faces. "Never mind," said Bob. "I'm sure we'll manage."

"The mean old bastard," said Smith as the scene faded again, this time to be replaced by a bedroom. A fire crackled warmly in the grate and the large bed was heaped with blankets. The elderly man with the mutton-chop whiskers was lying in the bed, wearing a night gown.

"Who are you?" he asked with a quavering voice. Smith, Jones and Kris all jumped in surprise. This was the first time anyone had appeared to see them.

"You need to mend your ways," Smith spoke sternly.

"It wouldn't hurt you to be a bit more generous, would it? That poor little boy is starving!" scolded Kris.

"And just think, when you die, everyone will spit on your grave, no-one will remember you kindly," added Jones.

The man in the bed shrank back. "No!" he cried. "I'll change, I promise!"

The next second the bright white light picked the three of them up and dumped them back in their kitchen. They stared at each other rather self-consciously.

"I guess we have been a bunch of miserable old so-and-sos, lately," confessed Smith.

"And possibly a bit stingy," admitted Jones.

"I give in." Kris sighed. "Where are those bloody Christmas lights?"

(Author's Note – with apologies to Charles Dickens)