Private: C. Mortgomery Byrnes
Ivan, Ivan, Ivan….
Can you believe I have to buy a Christmas gift for the “Gamble Adoration Syndicate”? What kinda bullshit is that? Like they fuckin’ deserve anything from me other than a swift kick to the balls.
Speakin’ of kickin’ someone in the balls……
Did you honestly think that I would let you get away with throwin’ me through a fuckin’ wall?
How’d it feel, huh?
How’d it feel when I scrambled your brain with that steel chair at “Revival”?
Did you experience any short term memory loss?
What about slurred speech or double vision?
I sure as shit suffered that and was medically deemed “Unable to Compete”. You don’t think that every day I was lyin’ awake I wasn’t thinkin’ of ways that I retribute what you did to me? Every messed up thing I’ve done in the past, that ain’t nothin’ compared to what’s in store for you. I’ve broken arms, kneecaps, busted faces open. I ran a guy over for duckin’ my cousin over a gamblin’ debt. Shit, I even lopped off a degenerate fuck’s pinky finger with a pair of pliers. I didn’t like it, I didn’t enjoy it and, yeah, these people, they didn’t do nothin’ to me.
But I will take great pleasure out of kickin’ your Communized ass all over New York City.
I intend to have a Merry Fuckin’ Christmas and it starts after I kick the literal shit out of you. Once I am declared the winner, I will do everything in my power to avoid Tony Gamble and his two babbos, head to my hotel, pull out my iPad and have a double feature of “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer” and “A Charlie Brown Christmas”. After a good night’s sleep, I’ll call my Uncle Frank to set up a pre-Holiday visit. Yeah, sure, we have a relationship that one might convalesce as tempestuous but my Aunt Aida makes a mean sausage and peppers and it’s been years since I had some.
Hopefully my fuckwit cousin, Mikey, or that fat fuck scum suckin’ shitbag toady of his, Dom, is nowhere to be seen. They’re a couple of backstabbin’, malignant pricks.
Then, I take a flight back to North Dakota, crack open a bottle of scotch, turn on the TV, watch some Hallmark Christmas movies starrin’ Lacey Chabert and/or Danica Whatever her name is….you know….she played Winnie Cooper….or do they not get “The Wonder Years” in Russia? Maybe that’s why you’re pissed off and a Communist. Maybe you got stuck watchin’ reruns of “Small Wonder” and “She’s the Sheriff” as the Berlin Wall came down during the Y2K craze of the early nineties. Doesn’t matter why you’re a commie shitbag but you’re gonna end up bein’ a commie shitbag that’ll be the poster boy for Depens!
It’s a diaper for old people.
“Colossus” is comin’, motherfucker….and rest a-fuckin’-sured I will chew you the fuck up and shit you out like my Aunt Zelda’s meatballs!
“Ho! Ho! Ho!”
The deep bellowing voice of a faux Santa Claus, the faint jingling of bells, and a Muzak version of “All I Want for Christmas” is piping through the mall speakers. Yes, the holiday season is here.
Mortimer Knightingale takes a seat on the bench next to the entrance to “Santa’s Workshop”. A couple of “elves” (or late teens to early twenties who probably need money to score some marijuana or some other recreational drug) lead the line of three children to Santa and then usher them out as if each child was infected with a flesh eating virus, each one more deadly and painful than the last.
Mortimer places his bag of presents down in front of him and leans back. A wave of nostalgia washes over him. The Macy’s he used to work at is still standing after all these years. When he was working in this mall, there were two Auntie Anne’s Pretzel locations but now there are four. The kiosk where he would get gelato (lemon-lime) on his breaks has been replaced by a stand selling bedazzled phone covers. The Warner Brothers store is now something called a “Yogibo Bean Bags”, the “Mrs. Fields Cookies” is an Apple Store, and the Foot Locker is an Aldo. Hell, even the Sbarro closed. THE SBARRO!!!!
At least the Guess is still there. And from the looks of the foot traffic, he “guesses” it is only a matter of time before it is laid to rest between Sam Goody and Buster Brown.
As Mortimer waxes nostalgic, a little girl of about six sits next to him. She is dolled up with a ribbon in her blonde hair and a plaid dress. Clearly, it was for photos. The little girl looks around before sniffling and wiping her nose with the back of her hand. Mortimer is horrified as she had snotted out maggots, vomit, and poop from her nose. The PRIME wrestler inches away from the girl until he runs out of bench. The little girl looks at Mortimer and begins to speak.
LITTLE GIRL: Are you a superhero?
MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE: Am I a “superhero”? Yeah kid, sure. Fuck off.
The Little Girl gasps and has her moment of looking horrified as if Mortimer picked up some dog poop and rubbed it on his face. She then leans towards Mortimer and whispers with the tiniest whisper.
LITTLE GIRL: That’s a “no-no” word.
MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE: Kid, where’s your parents?
LITTLE GIRL: Mommy told me to get in line for Santa and to wait here when I was done.
MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE: And she left you alone…
LITTLE GIRL: She said she would just be a minute.
MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE: Great.
Mortimer lets out a sigh as he stares at his bag from Bath and Body Works. The Little Girl once again interrupts his thought.
LITTLE GIRL: What’s your superpower?
MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE: Kickin’ seven foot tall Russian ass….I mean “tushy”….from here to infinity and beyond.
LITTLE GIRL (almost disappointed): Oh….
MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE: Although, I do have my doubts upon the validity of his geological claims that he is, in fact, Russian. I have a strong hyperbolic feelin’ that he is, in fact, Greenlandian.
LITTLE GIRL: Who?
MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE: Forget it.
LITTLE GIRL: Can I ask you a question?
MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE: Didn’t your mother tell you not to talk to strangers?
LITTLE GIRL: My name is Ophelia. What’s your name?
MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE: Shit…I mean, “doo-doo”…kid, your parents didn’t do you no favors callin’ you that.
The little blonde haired girl with the red ribbon in her hair hesitates as Mortimer becomes increasingly irritated as if there was incessant high pitched buzzing sound like that of a mosquito flying around his ear.
OPHELIA: Do you think Santa Claus can really get you anything you want for Christmas even if you’ve been super-super good all year?
MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE: Santy Claus? Let me tell you somethin’ about Santy Claus. That guy is more crooked than any corrupt and infidel politician be it in state or federal governments.
OPHELIA: What does “infidel” mean?
MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE: It’s a married person who cheats on their spouse. When I was about your age, I happened upon a bag of presents in my parents’ attic. My older brother ratted me out, the fuckin’ stoolie, and you know what my father said to me? He said Santy Claus called him up and told him that I was such a “bad egg” that I wouldn’t get any presents for Christmas, that I wasn’t even worth a lump of coal. Can you believe that sh….shinola? Completely fucked up my self-esteem.
OPHELIA: You were that bad?
MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE: Personally, I thought I was quite gregorian and charitable, apparently not. Granted, we all have our moments. After that day, some of those less than stellar moments became somewhat more frequent. Who does that fat fuck think he is decidin’ who’s good and who’s bad? Fuck him and fuck that list of his.
OPHELIA: You say the “no-no” word a lot, don’t you?
Mortimer Knightingale can only shrug and nod at the little girl.
OPHELIA: Maybe if you used that word less, Santa Claus would visit you.
MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE: Maybe you should mind your business.
Ophelia puts her down and begins looking at her shoes, she lets out another sniffle. Mortimer cannot help but mutter an obscenity under his breath as he feels something in his stomach. Pity perhaps?
MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE: Look, lemme tell you about Santy Claus, okay? In my day, he was no better than a wiseguy.
Ophelia looks up at the masked man sitting next to her, hey eyes wide, a smile creeping on her face.
OPHELIA: Like one of the three wise men?
MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE: Eh…not quite. See, in my day, Santy Claus would send out his elves to hijack trucks filled with toys, smuggle them to the North Pole and then distribute them to the “nice” kids. Nowadays, he does all of his gift givin’ via online shoppin’ retailers. He’s makin’ bank on trademarks and licensin’ agreements. So, maybe, you’ll get whatever it is you wanted from him for Christmas. But me? I make my own Christmas and this year? I plan usin’ my pals Woodward…..
Mortimer Knightingale brings up his left hand in a fist.
MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE: ….Berenstain…
The G.A.S. Member lifts up his right hand, also balled up into a fist.
MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE: And pound that commie turd son of a bit…gun…to such an extreme degree that, for Ivan Stanislav, it will forever be referenced as his own personal “Watergate”.
OPHELIA: I wet my bed when I have bad dreams. Mommy doesn’t like it when I do it.
Mortimer looks at the little girl with the ribbon in her hair and is speechless. Her words caught him off guard. He looks around, searching for anyone that might have even the slightest familial resemblance to the girl. He does not.
MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE: That is a perfectly normal response to one as developmentally young as yourself. There is no shame in that. But I wouldn’t go around tellin’ people.
OPHELIA: You wanna know what I want for Christmas?
MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE: When’s your mother comin’ to get you?
OPHELIA: I want my daddy to come home for Christmas. He’s with his other family.
Mortimer Knightingale glances over towards Ophelia who looks as if she were an orphan paraded in front of potential adoptive parents who are financially well off only to be told that she looks like Carrot Top without the steroids (which would both be devastating and unusual since Ophelia is blonde and Carrot Top is ginger haired). That feeling in the pit of Mortimer’s stomach grows and he is, once again, left speechless. He looks around once again. The mall is nearly a ghost town with the lack of foot traffic. Mortimer decides he should try to cheer the little girl up.
MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE: So, uh, what’s his name, your father? I still got a connection or two in the area. Maybe we can find this mook, rough him up a bit, wrap him up with some nice wrapping paper and big red bow, and toss him onto your front lawn. From a movin’ Cadillac, most likely, if that matters. No charge. He sounds like a fuckin’ deadbeat.
Ophelia looks up at Mortimer Knightingale, their eyes lock, he notices the tears welling up in her eyes. Maybe there is some correlation between her circumstance and his own past with Vinnie Spandex shunning him and turning him away while making disgusting, offensive comments about his mother. Sudde
OPHELIA: Why won’t he come back?
MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE: You gimme a name, I will make sure that motherfu…Hubbard shows up for Christmas.
OPHELIA: It’s okay….what’s in the bag?
Ophelia points towards the bag at Mortimer’s feet.
MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE: Just some Christmas shoppin’.
OPHELIA: What did you buy?
MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE: Bath balls. I dunno. Seemed like a safe and easy choice. Like I’m gonna spend time perfectin’ a gift givin’ idea to a selfish prick like Tony Gamble and his two dumbfuck associates, Dipshit One and Dipshit Two. They’re whaddya call it, scented. The balls, not the Dipshits.
OPHELIA: Can I smell?
MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE: Yeah, I guess.
As Mortimer Knightingale leans forward to show the vanilla scented bath balls the sales associate at the The Body Shop picked out that he plans to give the Grin, a shrill, nasally, feminine voice with a thick “Lawng Island” accent booms throughout the mall…..
WOMAN’S VOICE: OPHELIA MARIA ALLEGRA SANZSPERANZA! Get ovah heah! Get away from that strange-ah!
OPHELIA: But mommy, he’s about to show me his balls!
OPHELIA’S MOTHER: HE’S WHAT?!
Ophelia’s Mother, a woman in her thirties with short dirty blonde hair with platinum highlights is the sort of Long Island woman who has spent maybe an hour or two too long in the tanning bed. She whips out her iPhone faster than a cowboy in a quickdraw competition as Ophelia hops off the bench and heads towards her mother. Mortimer throws up a hand as the few shoppers begin looking his way.
MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE: WHOA! She’s the one that wanted to smell’em!
OPHELIA’S MOTHER: TAKE OFF THE MASK! SHOW ME YOUR FACE YOU FUCKIN’ SICKO!
OPHELIA: You said a “no-no” word.
MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE: OH! Hold up there! You got it all wrong! They’re scented!!!
OPHELIA’S MOTHER: PERVERT!
Ophelia’s Mother, who looks repulsed as if someone had just eaten five pounds of burritos made with expired beef and proceeded to shart in her face, holds her daughter back, defensively with her free arm. Mortimer happens to notice that the little girl’s mother does not have a bag of purchased items with her begging the question, where did she go? But, this is not a moment to bring that up as accusations are being made a small crowd of people are staring. Ophelia’s Mother backs her daughter away from the wrestler as Mortimer surveys the crowd and talks to no one in particular but anyone looking on.
MORTIMER KNIGHTINGALE: They’re bath balls. They make….bubbles….
Mortimer Knightingale curses Tony Gamble because it is his bullcrap gift that has this whole situation escalating out of control. Mortimer knows that whatever anger and embarrassment he is feeling right now, it will most definitely be taken out on Ivan Stanislav come “Colossus”.
Mortimer picks up his bag and heads towards the doors. He should have known better than to do Holiday Shopping when he should be preparing to take down a commie giant. He will not be making this mistake again. He pushes open the door and gets hit in the face with some brisk cold air leaving the muzak sounds of Christmas music and the laughter of a mall Santa as the scene ends.