The Ice Man Cometh

December 9, 2009


‘So how was it?’, asked my Dad, as The Mushroom returned from her evening with The Evangelist, postponed to last Sunday due to a double booking.

The Mushroom began to unpeel herself. On Sunday, it was -33. She had eighteen layers on.

“Hang on.”, she muffled from under her ski mask.

“You look nice.”

She didn’t. She had so many coats on she was almost as wide as she is tall. She had borrowed one of The Baby’s hats, was wearing a ‘Go Canada!’ ski mask and the only indication that she was actually a human was the vague shape of legs at the bottom end of her weird square shape.

“Thuck off.”

“So”, he  asked again as the last of her coats came off, “tell all. How was it?”

“Surreal.”

“Surreal? How so?”

Apparently, it started off fairly normally. A preacher. A congregation. The preacher talking about God and Christmas. Some songs. A bit of a tambourine. Some hand waving. Much talk about salvation. All above board. And then the puppet show began.

“A what?”

A puppet show, claimed The Mushroom. Purple puppets with plastic guitars miming to a Christ-ified version of Kenny Loggins’s ‘Danger Zone’ from that classic 80’s film,  ‘Top Gun’.

“‘Danger Zone’? That’s a weird choice.Doesn’t really work for church.”

“It did work, because it had been changed.It was called ‘Manger Zone'”

My Dad fell off the sofa.

“‘There were Angels at the Manger Zone. Wise Men at the Manger Zone’. But nobody else was laughing so I had to make out I was having some sort of seizure. ”

“And then what happened?”

“Well, then the Evangelist started talking a lot about looking out for the enemies of God. But I kind of stopped listening then cos I was mesmerized by his beard.”

“Enemies of God? Like, who?”

“I think we’re supposed to be on the look out for the anti-Christ.”

They both turned to look at the innocent looking ball of white fur curled up on the sofa, one gimletty eye open.

Fluffy Usurper.

Evidence that Fluffy Usurper is the anti-Christ:

1. He is violent. I mean, really violent. He chases me around the flat. I am about five times his size. He either doesn’t know this, or he doesn’t care. Even when I whack him one, he chases after me again and then jumps onto my neck. Not. Keen.

2. He’s a sneaky little bastard. He chases me. He leaps onto my neck. I slap him. He rolls onto his back and cranes his neck back, and pulls his, ‘Oooh, look at me, I’m a fluffy white kitten, don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me!’ face and, just as I think, oh, bollocks to this, he’s just a fluffy white kitten, the shit jumps on my neck again.

3. He attacks inanimate objects.

4. His miaow does not sound like a cat. He sounds like a frigging wolf. The Mushroom has to lock him in the bathroom sometimes when he’s ‘getting a bit feral’, and he howls like something out of ‘Dracula’.

5. He thinks The Mushroom’s hair is his mother. I don’t think Nostradamus mentioned this specifically as a trait of the anti-christ, but it’s not normal, is it? This is where he chooses to sleep. On/in The Mushroom’s hair. If she’s sitting on the sofa the freak climbs up to nest there. I have to say, I just don’t like it. There’s something disconcerting about looking across the room at a woman with a big mane of black hair and a kitten asleep on top of it. It’s all a bit too McQueen for my liking.

6. He just is. The End.

“He’s ever so cute when he’s sleepy, though!”, attempts The Mushroom in Fluffy Usurper’s defence, as my Dad, once again,  gingerly removes him from the side of his face.

“I’m sure Pol Pot was a love when he was tired too, but I wouldn’t want him for a pet.” He puts Fluffy Usurper in the bathroom. “He’ll be better when he gets his bits clipped.” The howling begins. “I hope.”

Aha! Ahahahaha! Oh, Fluffy, I know what’s a-coming. Or, rather, I know what’s a-going. Your gonads, my friend.

Fluffy Usurper, at this point, starts to make some headway in his bid to scratch his way through the door. Perhaps he heard.

“We could always let him outside.”, my Dad joked. Half joked, anyway.

Aah, the outside. We don’t really go there anymore. My Dad has to, but he dresses up as a bear to do it. The Mushroom was driven the 15 metres or so it is to the church for her evening of anti-Christ-spotting puppetry, and it took her nearly ten minutes to get out of all the layers she had to put on just to get to the car. All we do is watch the wonderful Canadian TV phenomenon that is the Weather Network and put jumpers on. On the map of Canada today on the Weather Network, it just had a big blue bit with the word ‘COLD’ written across it for Saskatchewan. It is, currently,  -35. That is not ‘COLD’. That is ARCTIC. When my Dad got back from work today, he had an icicle hanging from one of his nostrils.

The Mushroom is transfixed by the Weather Network. She doesn’t get out much. She doesn’t really get out at all, it’s -35.

“Look! Look! It’s going to be -38 tomorrow!”, she exclaimed, excitedly.

“Sweetheart, if you’re going to tell me every time the numbers on the Weather Network change, it’s going to be a long, long winter.”, he replied.

“My beloved, we live in a frigging basement, we have five hours of daylight  that we don’t see because we only have one window, it’s colder, officially, then the North Pole and it doesn’t start to warm up until March. So yes, yes, regardless of my weather updates, it is going to be a long winter.”

My Dad picks up The Baby and strokes her head. She grins and tries to pull off his nose. He glances in the direction of The Mushroom, who is staring yearningly at the small square of glass by the ceiling that is our window.

“Oh dear.”, he mumbles.

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One Response to “The Ice Man Cometh”

  1. Mrs Emo said

    I got as far as “Manger Zone” and then choked on my drink.

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