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In case anyone missed it from its original outing a couple of years ago-
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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?"
************************************************
Archbishop Miroslav Madrigalas Zylka was a legend. For thirty years the people of Apolytonia had swarmed to his services- even while congregations had dwindled everywhere else, and religion was talked of as if it was a museum relic, the good Burghers of the city had been known to trample small children and kittens underfoot in their haste to cram themselves into his church.
Naturally the Church Synod were delighted and only too welcome to treat this as an act of God. Indeed, they were on the brink of having him beatified and set on the path to being hailed as a living saint when a shocking discovery was made. It turned out that it wasn't his rivetting sermons that put bums so enthusiastically onto seats, but the fact that he'd substituted the Communion wine for pure laudanum. Now his parishioners were all helpless junkies who would have sold their own kids to Vivisectionists if it meant securing themselves a position at Communion the next Sunday.
There was a scandal, of course. Zylka was locked out of his own church and left to wander the streets ranting at the stars. He was not defrocked however- in fact, his methods started being quietly adopted all over the country so the Synod kept him as an Archbishop as a mark of respect. Unfortunately Zylka was a bitter man now, and had fallen into a long and loving relationship with the bottle.
As he twitched and grumbled, a dark green bottle rolled out of his grasp and bumped sloshingly into Markos' foot. It was near-full pint of "Old Ottok's Very Finest Absinthe", bearing the traditional warnings about madness, hallucinations, murderously psychotic killing sprees, etc.
The lttle stein seller sat down in the snow, and tried to warm his poor, frozen feet. He looked at the bottle. It was so cold out in the streets. Perhaps if he took a little drink to warm himself up? He pulled one of his cheap and shoddy steins out of the tray and poured a small hot into it. Closing his eyes, he drank it down.....
*************************************
The thick psychoactive liquor coursed down his throat. Within seconds the harsh alcohol had burned through his body bringing a warming glow in its wake, while the first hallucinogenic traces were absorbed through his mucous membranes. Leaning back against the doorway he stared at the wall. For a brief, wonderful second it seemed that he could see straight through it and into wonders beyond.
He saw a website with over 100,000 active members, aglow with activity. Everyone of those members happily viewing a succession of pop-up adverts and not belly-aching about crashes or Gator. All the on-topic forums throbbing with activity in the thousands of active threads dedicated to the minutiae of gaming. The Off-Topic was almost deserted because everyone was having so much fun speculating over whether the latest MOO3 patch would improve the product so greatly that it could actually start to be considered a computer game. Only his loyal moderators- Ming, Rah and MtG still frequented the OT so they could happily ban and unban each other before tottering off for another sherry.
The vision faded, and once again little Markos was just a poor little stein-seller who was sat in snow so cold that his testicles had frozen to his breeches. He stared mournfully into his stein, and gasped in horror! The absinthe was a particularly toxic Finnish blend (due to their new national policy of disposing of chemical and low-level nuclear waste in beverages designed for export, the swine) and it had eaten through the glazing, leaving the inside of the stein permanently stained green.
He stared the shiver in terror. He could never sell it now, which meant that Master Quick would be angry and would beat him. Stifling a sob, he raised the bottle again and looked at the stars. As he watched, a star fell from the skies. He remembered what his kindly old Grandfather used to say- "Every time a star falls, a new and rather disappointing strategy game is released". Raising the bottle in a toast to his ancestors, he downed the lot.
And he was warm again! And every day was the day a new expansion pack would be released! And Civ 4 would be released in a few days, would work perfectly without a single patch, would have graphics that would leave Cecil B DeMille and George Lucas realising that they were just rank amateurs all along, and wouldn't have the multiplayer function released as a ****ing expansion pack! Best of all, the heavens parted as a choir of programmers sang and a kindly, cherubic old slap-head descended from above! It was Sid! He was being taken up to Sid!
*********************************************
Dawn broke. A small crowd was gathering around a little body at the foot of some steps, half-covered in the snow. "Ah! He froze, poor thing!" they cried. "Look! He tried to stay warm by drinking absinthe".
They all agreed it was very sad. However they could never have known the wonders and beauty he saw, and he could not tell them. So the Christmas bells chimed, and the soft snow fell on the rosy-cheeked townsfolk as they wept over the body of the little stein-seller.
(This melodramatic frestive tableau was later shattered when the little stein-seller unexpectedly regained consciousness, put the mayor in a headlock and said he loved him, then vomited down the Parson's neck.)
THE END
*************************
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?"
************************************************
Archbishop Miroslav Madrigalas Zylka was a legend. For thirty years the people of Apolytonia had swarmed to his services- even while congregations had dwindled everywhere else, and religion was talked of as if it was a museum relic, the good Burghers of the city had been known to trample small children and kittens underfoot in their haste to cram themselves into his church.
Naturally the Church Synod were delighted and only too welcome to treat this as an act of God. Indeed, they were on the brink of having him beatified and set on the path to being hailed as a living saint when a shocking discovery was made. It turned out that it wasn't his rivetting sermons that put bums so enthusiastically onto seats, but the fact that he'd substituted the Communion wine for pure laudanum. Now his parishioners were all helpless junkies who would have sold their own kids to Vivisectionists if it meant securing themselves a position at Communion the next Sunday.
There was a scandal, of course. Zylka was locked out of his own church and left to wander the streets ranting at the stars. He was not defrocked however- in fact, his methods started being quietly adopted all over the country so the Synod kept him as an Archbishop as a mark of respect. Unfortunately Zylka was a bitter man now, and had fallen into a long and loving relationship with the bottle.
As he twitched and grumbled, a dark green bottle rolled out of his grasp and bumped sloshingly into Markos' foot. It was near-full pint of "Old Ottok's Very Finest Absinthe", bearing the traditional warnings about madness, hallucinations, murderously psychotic killing sprees, etc.
The lttle stein seller sat down in the snow, and tried to warm his poor, frozen feet. He looked at the bottle. It was so cold out in the streets. Perhaps if he took a little drink to warm himself up? He pulled one of his cheap and shoddy steins out of the tray and poured a small hot into it. Closing his eyes, he drank it down.....
*************************************
The thick psychoactive liquor coursed down his throat. Within seconds the harsh alcohol had burned through his body bringing a warming glow in its wake, while the first hallucinogenic traces were absorbed through his mucous membranes. Leaning back against the doorway he stared at the wall. For a brief, wonderful second it seemed that he could see straight through it and into wonders beyond.
He saw a website with over 100,000 active members, aglow with activity. Everyone of those members happily viewing a succession of pop-up adverts and not belly-aching about crashes or Gator. All the on-topic forums throbbing with activity in the thousands of active threads dedicated to the minutiae of gaming. The Off-Topic was almost deserted because everyone was having so much fun speculating over whether the latest MOO3 patch would improve the product so greatly that it could actually start to be considered a computer game. Only his loyal moderators- Ming, Rah and MtG still frequented the OT so they could happily ban and unban each other before tottering off for another sherry.
The vision faded, and once again little Markos was just a poor little stein-seller who was sat in snow so cold that his testicles had frozen to his breeches. He stared mournfully into his stein, and gasped in horror! The absinthe was a particularly toxic Finnish blend (due to their new national policy of disposing of chemical and low-level nuclear waste in beverages designed for export, the swine) and it had eaten through the glazing, leaving the inside of the stein permanently stained green.
He stared the shiver in terror. He could never sell it now, which meant that Master Quick would be angry and would beat him. Stifling a sob, he raised the bottle again and looked at the stars. As he watched, a star fell from the skies. He remembered what his kindly old Grandfather used to say- "Every time a star falls, a new and rather disappointing strategy game is released". Raising the bottle in a toast to his ancestors, he downed the lot.
And he was warm again! And every day was the day a new expansion pack would be released! And Civ 4 would be released in a few days, would work perfectly without a single patch, would have graphics that would leave Cecil B DeMille and George Lucas realising that they were just rank amateurs all along, and wouldn't have the multiplayer function released as a ****ing expansion pack! Best of all, the heavens parted as a choir of programmers sang and a kindly, cherubic old slap-head descended from above! It was Sid! He was being taken up to Sid!
*********************************************
Dawn broke. A small crowd was gathering around a little body at the foot of some steps, half-covered in the snow. "Ah! He froze, poor thing!" they cried. "Look! He tried to stay warm by drinking absinthe".
They all agreed it was very sad. However they could never have known the wonders and beauty he saw, and he could not tell them. So the Christmas bells chimed, and the soft snow fell on the rosy-cheeked townsfolk as they wept over the body of the little stein-seller.
(This melodramatic frestive tableau was later shattered when the little stein-seller unexpectedly regained consciousness, put the mayor in a headlock and said he loved him, then vomited down the Parson's neck.)
THE END
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