It was a clear winter's night in December. The harsh cold kept the streets of the city empty; not even the A-team dared to brave the arctic northern winds to have that last Christmas get-together over a crate of Lapin Kulta. We had not seen the sun for days, such was the extremity of our town's northern location, and deep down, we all feared that the insanity that is Seasonal Affective Disorder was lurking just behind the corner. It was in order to reinforce our defences against this malevolent plague that I was sent on my way to the video rental store, with strict orders to rent naught but merry rompings and slapstick farce, preferably British, but the complete series of Pistvakt would do, too.
I trudged along the snow-covered roads and past the town square, usually so alive with kebab vans, night club visitors and drug dealers, but now it was silent and empty. I had only just passed the phallic fountain, when a sudden, menacing chill in the air made me aware that I was not alone. Whoever else was out there was evil and wished to harm me. I quickly hid behind the concrete pillars outside the shopping mall, and waited.
He came stalking across the square. Black was the manner of his dress, and his freshly applied corpse paint shone in the darkness like the beacon of a lighthouse warning ships of shallow waters. He emitted a clinking sound as he walked and as he drew closer, I concluded that it emanated from the vast array of spikes arranged along his arms and legs. Intrigued while simultaneously fearing for my life, I decided to follow him. It soon became clear that he was heading towards the local church. It also became clear that his awe-inspiring, fuck-me pirate boots were not made for our northern shores, for he kept slipping and proceeded to flail his arms and screech before regaining his balance. Twice he fell over, once on his side, once on his arse. He got up again while forcefully invoking the names of Satan and all his dwellings and continued. Soon both of us had reached the church. He had not yet discovered my presence, and I hid behind a tombstone and watched what he did next.
From the dark and sinister depths of his pockets, he produced a box of matches, a can of Lapin Kulta and a crayon. He used the crayon first. The church door was tall and wide and made of wood, as church doors are wont to be. In the lower right corner of it, the black-clad one attempted to draw something, but he had only drawn a half-circle when an audible snap sent splinters of crayon flying all over the church steps. Cursing, the sinister one now opened the can of Lapin Kulta and poured the contents all over the door. He then lit a match and held it against the door, but alas, the beer-soaked wood would not ignite. Match after match he lit, but to no avail. Finally, he threw the match box away with a scream and began pounding on the door while again invoking Satan and all his dwellings, as well as both the male and female reproductive organs. As a final gesture of defiance, he aimed a powerful kick at the wooden enemy, but slipped and fell down the church steps. Still swearing, he brushed the snow from between his spikes, got up and stalked off, muttering to himself and shaking his fists in the air. The menace in the air subsided.
I was alone.
