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If this bears any resemblance to its original version by Hans Christian Anderson, it's going to be a fairly short story this year. Then again, Anderson never felt a burning desire to cram in as many references to crudely deviant sexual practices as I do. Enjoy...
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The Little Stein Seller
It was a bitterly cold Christmas Eve in Apolytonia, but there was a warm and golden light in the air. Three years ago Comrade Chegitz had successfully unionised the chimney-sweeps- they were now beginning their third year on strike and the many blazing roof-fires about the city put a rosy glow on the beggars faces as they lay around festively dying of hypothermia.
Through the deep and powdery snow trudged the little Greek stein-seller, with his tray of monstrous tat bearing the motif "My words are backed with 5 divisions of Hussars!". Little Markos bent into the driving blizzard and wondered how he had ever fallen so low. Only last year he was making an easy living as a match-seller for Runcible Asher, and had made easy pennies selling boxes of matches to passing smokers, arsonists and revolutionaries. Sadly, Master Asher had been caught up in a lengthy feud with Urbediah Ranger who maintained that tinder-boxes were inherently superior and more reliable than matches (which were crippled by a clumsy interface and a tendency to snappage). The argument was to be settled in the traditional manner between gentlemen- attempting to hack each other's lungs out in a duel early one morning- but all such plans were dropped when Urbediah became a magistrate and promptly had Asher deported to the colonies. Now he had to creep around town with his tray of steins.
Little Markos paused for a while in the shelter provided by a large Tailor's shop. It was the premises of Messrs Meier and Reynolds, those famously eccentric purveyors of fine clothing to the discerning whose garments had one peculiar feature- despite being brand-new they still required patches in order to maintain a semblance of decency. The wind whipped in from the dockside and all passers-by were swaddled in furs and scarves, with the exception of the muscular young matelots outside of the "Godunov & Fun Mission for Seamen" who were striking a succession of dramatic poses whilst oiling each other's pectorals. The only other person not properly dressed was the poor little stein-seller, who was so poor that his shoes were mere banana-skins and his ragged clothing was only held together by saliva and bogies. Ah, yes- only the secretions from his poor little head kept his unmentionables out of the unflinching gaze of the cruel wind, and the rude little boys who would point at his willie.
A ragged man lay on the steps leading up to the shop's entrance. At first, Markos thought it might have been his old friend Vincent Van Solver- the kindly old artist best-known for his series of portaits depicting Apolytonia's most prominent faces in a, to be blunt, slightly sycophantic blaze of glory. However, he quickly remembered that it was well over a year since Vincent's last portrait which meant that the workshy old layabout had either spent the last year energetically boffing his models, or had starved to death. On the balance of past form he suspected the latter.
He sidled closer to the semi-conscious heap on the stairs. Clearly the unfortunate man had fallen foul of Bacchus, for he appeared to have a large bunch of Dahlias emanating from his buttocks and bore the distinct and sharp odour of wee. Markos timidly prodded the comatose man.
The musty-smelling heap twitched. " 'k off!" it mumbled. " 'king Ben Affleck!".
Recognition flashed through Markos's mind like a Siberian streaker. "Good Good!" he ejaculated. "Is that really you, Archbishop Zylka?"
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To be continued/concluded.
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The Little Stein Seller
It was a bitterly cold Christmas Eve in Apolytonia, but there was a warm and golden light in the air. Three years ago Comrade Chegitz had successfully unionised the chimney-sweeps- they were now beginning their third year on strike and the many blazing roof-fires about the city put a rosy glow on the beggars faces as they lay around festively dying of hypothermia.
Through the deep and powdery snow trudged the little Greek stein-seller, with his tray of monstrous tat bearing the motif "My words are backed with 5 divisions of Hussars!". Little Markos bent into the driving blizzard and wondered how he had ever fallen so low. Only last year he was making an easy living as a match-seller for Runcible Asher, and had made easy pennies selling boxes of matches to passing smokers, arsonists and revolutionaries. Sadly, Master Asher had been caught up in a lengthy feud with Urbediah Ranger who maintained that tinder-boxes were inherently superior and more reliable than matches (which were crippled by a clumsy interface and a tendency to snappage). The argument was to be settled in the traditional manner between gentlemen- attempting to hack each other's lungs out in a duel early one morning- but all such plans were dropped when Urbediah became a magistrate and promptly had Asher deported to the colonies. Now he had to creep around town with his tray of steins.
Little Markos paused for a while in the shelter provided by a large Tailor's shop. It was the premises of Messrs Meier and Reynolds, those famously eccentric purveyors of fine clothing to the discerning whose garments had one peculiar feature- despite being brand-new they still required patches in order to maintain a semblance of decency. The wind whipped in from the dockside and all passers-by were swaddled in furs and scarves, with the exception of the muscular young matelots outside of the "Godunov & Fun Mission for Seamen" who were striking a succession of dramatic poses whilst oiling each other's pectorals. The only other person not properly dressed was the poor little stein-seller, who was so poor that his shoes were mere banana-skins and his ragged clothing was only held together by saliva and bogies. Ah, yes- only the secretions from his poor little head kept his unmentionables out of the unflinching gaze of the cruel wind, and the rude little boys who would point at his willie.
A ragged man lay on the steps leading up to the shop's entrance. At first, Markos thought it might have been his old friend Vincent Van Solver- the kindly old artist best-known for his series of portaits depicting Apolytonia's most prominent faces in a, to be blunt, slightly sycophantic blaze of glory. However, he quickly remembered that it was well over a year since Vincent's last portrait which meant that the workshy old layabout had either spent the last year energetically boffing his models, or had starved to death. On the balance of past form he suspected the latter.
He sidled closer to the semi-conscious heap on the stairs. Clearly the unfortunate man had fallen foul of Bacchus, for he appeared to have a large bunch of Dahlias emanating from his buttocks and bore the distinct and sharp odour of wee. Markos timidly prodded the comatose man.
The musty-smelling heap twitched. " 'k off!" it mumbled. " 'king Ben Affleck!".
Recognition flashed through Markos's mind like a Siberian streaker. "Good Good!" he ejaculated. "Is that really you, Archbishop Zylka?"
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To be continued/concluded.
)
I can't wait to see the next adventures of Archibshop Zylka 
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