http://thecultofme.blogspot.co.uk/2013/12/january-short-fiction-contest.html
...but you probably want to see it anyway. Here goes...
No
one knew where he came from or where he went at night. Everyone in the
neighborhood just knew him as the smelliest bum who hit the local pub crawl.
Rumor was he had served with the British Army, and he had a certain dignity to
him with his upright posture and focused gaze. Only his long white hair and
beard earned him the nickname of Santa Claus.
Things
were still rough here in Belfast even in the 21st century, a decade
and a half since the Good Friday Agreement had been signed. There were still the
hardcore Proddies who would have one too many and run their mouths. There were
an equal number of Caddies around who would force them to put up or shut up.
Here at O’Beirne’s Pub on Lower Ormeau Road, I was the sheriff. I didn’t give a
damn what was on anyone’s birth certificate. If you caused a scene, it’s my way
or the highway.
It
was thundering outside, not something a guy like myself who’s served in Iraq
looks forward to. Making it worse was being here in Belfast. You don’t know
whether it was a car bomb reminding you of a car bomb. I was getting ready to
close down when Santa came in, always at the last minute. He had his left hand
stuffed in his raggedy coat, probably from losing another fight. I could smell
stale urine as soon as he closed the door behind him.
“Hey,
I’m getting ready to close it down.”
“One
beer and I’m outta here. Lemme dry off for a minute.”
I
pulled him a Harp and set it down. He pulled his sticky change out of his pocket
with his good hand and spilled it across the bar. I made a show of shaking my
head as I sorted out the cost of the beer.
“I’m
not foolin’,” I growled. “Finish this and we’re gone.”
“The
peelers are all over the place down the block,” he advised me. “You better watch
when you drive home.”
“Yeah,
what do you think they’re up to now?”
“Same
old crap. Some guy yapping away at another, running him down, calling him names.
Happens every time.”
“I’ll
tell, you, Santa, that’s no good reason to---“
“There
you go. You know my name's Deroy,” he got belligerent. I wasn’t in the mood but
I knew he didn’t like the nickname.
“All
right, Dee-roy,” I stressed the last
syllable. “Where’s the holiday spirit? People should be more forgiving, don’t
you think?”
“They
should be more giving,” he corrected
me. “It’s not about receiving, it’s about giving. You should give people the
respect they’re due.”
“Aww,
gee,” I snorted. “Okay, let me offer my apology. Now what are you gonna give me
this Christmas Eve?”
“Merry
Christmas,” he pulled his hand out of his coat. It was black with blood, and he
held a human heart that had a ghastly sheen in the dim light. “Ho, ho,
ho.”
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