Foreward: I'll make this a quick forward. Essentially, I'd like to say that the people, places, and events portrayed in this satire have been greatly fictionalized. You'll know what I mean when you read it. I changed a lot of real facts for the sake of entertainment value. Oh, and if you haven't figured it out yet, this is a semi-satire of (or was at least inspired by) Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol and the various movies and plays made from it.
It was the best of
times, it was the worst of… oh hell, wrong Dickens. Well, either way, it
wasn't the best of times exactly. I mean, Christmas time, 1999… all around
the globe, people bracing themselves for what they think is a global Armageddon
because some computer programmer in the 1950's forgot to implement a 4-digit
date system into an operating system, while even more religious loonies prepared
for a second coming, regardless of the fact that not only did the new millennium
not begin until 2001, but that when the church asked those monks to calculate
the birth of Christ many, many years ago, they missed the mark by four or five
years, placing the real new millennium back in 1995 or so. Either way, it was
an excuse to party, and nothing else.
And in the grand tradition of parties, Virgin records held their yearly Christmas
party on Christmas Eve, December 24, inviting all of their major label artists
to the offices to celebrate, while sending fruit baskets to those artists whose
albums sold fewer than five million copies.
And it is here that our story begins, with Posh Spice sitting in an office at
Virgin Records HQ, poring over documents containing figures, charts, graphs,
and other fancy things that meant money was being made. Or in this case, lost.
A knock came at the
door, interrupting Posh's bitterness that she may not be able to afford that
life-sized Transformer figure for Brooklyn after all. "Victoria?"
a screechy voice asked. "You in there?"
"What is it
now?" she called back, as she lifted her head from her desk.
The door opened with
a creak, allowing Sporty Spice to walk into the room. "Wow, nice office,"
she marveled. "Why do you have an office while the rest of us get to sit
at home and do nothing?"
"Because I'm
the head of promotions. I'm supposed to sit in here and curse at a stack of
papers all day while the rest of you go around and record FUCKING SOLO ALBUMS!"
She threw a stapler at the door for emphasis.
"Oh," replied
Sporty. "Sounds like fun. Listen, the reason I came in was that I was about
to hold another press conference to tell everyone that I'm not a fruit, and
I wondered if you wanted to come."
Posh sighed. "Again?"
"Yeah, bloody
tabloids can't leave it alone. I mean, hell, just because I dress, look, and
act like a bloke doesn't mean… well…"
"That you're
gay?"
"Right. That.
I should probably write all this down so I don't forget."
"Well, you can
leave me the hell out of your sordid little denial. I'd rather bugger an iguana
with a strap-on."
"You know, it's
the holidays! You could show a bit more enthusiasm. There's a big party outside
with lots and lots of famous singers, and you're cooped up in this room like
a…"
Posh yelled and pointed
out the door, "Oh my God, is that Stephanie Seymour?!"
"What? Where?"
Sporty bolted out the door. "Stephanie!" her voice echoed as she ran
down the hallway.
Breathing a sigh of relief that her annoyance was gone, Posh resumed her planning. Soon, another knock came at the door.
"What?"
Posh yelled.
"It's just me,
Ms. Adams," came a mousy voice. In walked Michelle Stephenson, who was
almost a big-time Spice Girl.
"Ah, good. Did
you finish filing those papers?"
"Yes ma'am."
"Is my limo
ready?"
"Yes ma'am."
"Did you change
my son's diapers?"
"Yes ma'am."
"Fluff my husband?"
"Yes ma'am.
That part was quite easy."
"Good then.
Now, where's my coffee?"
"That's the
problem, ma'am. Johnny Rotten got into an argument at the party and smashed
the coffee pot." A tape dispenser flew through the air and hit Michelle
in the forehead. "Ouch!"
"You bloody
idiot! Now how am I supposed to figure out how I'm going to put out a solo album
if I don't have my fucking COFFEE?!"
"I'm sorry ma'am."
"Who did Johnny
Rotten get into an argument with, anyway?"
"Everyone, ma'am.
Although it started when he told Mr. Bowie and Mr. Jagger that they made a lovely
couple. Then Mr. Kravitz tried to calm the situation, and Mr. Rotten took the
pot and broke it over his head."
"Then you drain
every ounce of caffeine out of his dreadlocks and get me my drink!" She
grabbed another office supply and threw it at Michelle for emphasis.
"Right away
ma'am!" she yelled as she dodged out the door as quickly as possible.
Within moments, Scary
Spice barged in the room. "Merry Christmas, Victoria!" She wore a
huge smile upon her face.
"Fuck you,"
Posh grumbled back.
"What's wrong
with you?" She walked forward to the desk. "It's the holidays! It's
not time to be reading over books or being stingy! It's time to give to the
less fortunate, to shag strange men rotten, to get loaded on angel dust and
wake up in someone else's bodily fluids! It's time to have fun!"
"Bah. Humbug."
She winced. "What in the hell is that on your breath?"
She winked at Posh.
"It's a concoction some of the guys at the party made. Let's just say they're
not called the 'Chemical Brothers' for nothing, eh?"
"Well, you can
go and have fun without me. I have too much work to do. I have to figure out
how I can squeeze out my own solo album before our sales drop so rapidly that
no one cares about us anymore."
"Well, at least
give poor Michelle the day off. Let her party with everyone else!"
"Michelle made
her choice when she left and they replaced her with that chubby blonde everyone
seems to love! She's working for me now, and I dictate when she may leave."
"You know, I thought you had changed." Scary shook her head. "But inside, you're still just a stingy old mannequin lookalike."
She picked up her
drink and walked out of the room. "Happy holidays, you bitch!" she
yelled in a half-drunken stupor as she left the office.
Michelle soon walked
back in. "Here's your coffee, Ms. Adams." She handed Posh a mug filled
with dark liquid and long black hairs floating in it.
"Lovely,"
Posh said sarcastically. "That'll do."
"Um, Ms. Adams?"
"What is it
now?" she snapped.
"I was wondering
if I might have the rest of the day off. It is Christmas after all."
"Christmas.
Bah. Humbug." She looked up at the almost has-been. "Oh, fine, go
on. But don't expect to be paid for this afternoon."
"Thank you,
ma'am! Very good, ma'am." She quickly turned and skipped out of the office,
slightly more merry than she was before.
Hours passed by,
and Posh's greed consumed a good part of the afternoon and evening as she toiled
over statistics and market research tallies. Eventually, she grabbed her coat
and purse, and headed out the door.
What greeted her
outside her temporary little office was the vast orgy of destruction that remained
when people like the Rolling Stones and Sex Pistols were in the same room as
loose women, alcohol, and… well… more alcohol.
Off to her right,
a dazed Keith Richards was busily demonstrating to a drunken Billy Corgan that
Baby Spice's central nervous system was not fully developed. "Look at this,
then," he coughed, as he put out a lit cigarette on Baby's arm. "She
don't even flinch!" Baby giggled, convinced she was getting some sort of
tattoo.
Off to Posh's left,
Jimmy Gulzar was helping his significant other to her rather sloshed feet. "Hey,
Victoria! Give me a hand here. I'm having trouble here with Mel," he called
across the room.
Posh groaned. Reluctantly,
she walked over, put Scary's arm over her neck, and lifted. Jimmy lifted as
well, and as soon as Scary was in a somewhat upright position, he reached into
her back pocket, pulled out her wallet, and yelled "Yoink!" He bolted
out the door, laughing maniacally to himself at his own cleverness.
"Ah, shit."
Posh dumped Scary back on the ground, where she landed with a moan, thump, and
gurgle (yes, in that order).
Out of an adjoining
office, Sporty Spice stumbled out wrapped in a blanket of ecstasy. Her face
was covered in lipstick, and her eyes danced when she spoke to herself: "Ohhh…
that felt soooo good. I've been wanting to have that done for such a loooong
ti…" She stopped, noticing that one person, namely Posh, hadn't passed
out yet, and was in fact hearing Sporty's soliloquy.
"Melanie…"
"I… I was
referring to the shit I just took in the bathroom! I've been constipated, see,
and it felt soooo good to finally… um… you know…"
Posh merely raised
an eyebrow.
"Oh, and…
uh… the lipstick… was… uh… see, there were no mirrors, and
it was really dark in there, so I couldn't see exactly where I was applying
my lipstick on my face, and somehow I completely missed my lips.
Posh walked closer.
"For the sake of our public relations with narrow-minded, homophobic teenyboppers
everywhere, I sincerely hope that's David Bowie's lipstick all over you."
She turned on her heel and walked out the front door.
"Happy Christmas
to you too!" Sporty yelled after her. Posh returned the sentiment by lifting
her middle finger in the air and pointing it behind her.
*
* *
Back home at her
fenced-off mansion, Posh sat down to a meal of split pea soup with her husband
David Beckham.
"So, how was
your day, dear?" she asked as she gingerly lifted a spoon to her lips and
sipped.
Beckham's response
came as a loud slurping noise, as he lifted the soup bowl to his mouth and gulped.
"Well, I can
tell you mine was horrible," she continued. "I can't think of those
other girls anymore. It's all about me now. I'm famous. I have to stay famous.
And those others…" She frowned. "It's 'Word Up' this, or 'Northern
Star' that, or 'Pokémon soundtrack' this. Well, I'm getting sick of waiting.
My own solo recordings will be made soon so that I may cash in on whatever popularity
the tabloids have left to me."
Finishing his soup
in about four rather messy and loud gulps, Beckham slammed the bowl down on
the table and let out a roar of a belch.
"And those bitches
have the nerve to tell me to lighten up because it's the holidays. Humbug!"
Beckham broke wind
twice in succession, yawned, and scratched his head.
"And then…
" She chuckled. "Get this… Mel actually suggests that I let Michelle
have the day off! I mean, what nerve! She had her chance to be a Spice Girl.
Now that we're famous and she's not, and she decided to come crawling back to
the record company, I own her! The nerve!"
Beckham pushed his
chair away from the table.
"David, where
are you going? I wasn't finished!"
"TV on. Shag
later," he mumbled as he walked out of the room, leaving his wife and her
soup alone.
Later that night,
Posh was awakened by a startling sound: chains. The sound of chains being dragged
along her polished oak floor, scratching at the lush finish of the wood. Oh,
someone was going to pay dearly for that.
She got out of bed,
and started for the door to her bedroom chamber, when she stopped in her tracks.
She gasped and turned to her left quickly.
That was odd. She
could have sworn she'd seen something move. <thump> There it was again!
She turned. Nothing.
She ran back to the
bed. "David!" she whispered loudly. "David! Wake up! I think
someone's broken into the house!"
"Uhh… sleep…"
Beckham muttered, and turned onto his other side, not bothering to wipe the
string of warm drool from his lower lip as he did so.
"Ugh!"
she stomped in desperation.
"Victooooooriaaaaaaaa…"
A loud moan arose from all around her.
"Who's there?"
she asked defiantly.
"Victooooooooooriaaaaaaaaa…"
it came again, only louder.
Posh turned around
to face her chamber doors again, just in time to see a transparent, bluish figure
step through them as if they were not there.
"Who are you?"
she yelled again.
The spirit, covered
from head to toe in shackles, lifted its head. "Tell me, Victoria, do you
not recognize your old friend… Geri Halliwell!"
Posh's fear suddenly
flew away, and she burst into laughter.
"What?"
demanded the spirit. "What's so damned funny?"
Posh couldn't resist
laughing. "Hahahahahaha!" she yelled. "Oh my, that's a good one!
You'd think when I hallucinate from tainted food, I'd see someone I actually
gave a damn about!"
"Tainted food?"
the spirit asked.
"Of course!
You're obviously a piece of bad caviar, or an undercooked slice of filet mignon
I had today. A figment of my imagination."
"I'll show you
a figment of your imagination, you bloody bitch!" The spirit lunged at
Posh, leaping through the air with feral ferocity.
It passed right through
Posh and landed behind her with a dull thud. "Ouch, my head," the
spirit said. "Bloody intangibility. I'll never get used to it."
"My God…
no one would ever dare to lunge at me that way except…" She paused.
"Ginger! It really is you!"
"No shit, you
imbecile!" Geri picked herself up from the ground and dusted her ghostly
body off.
"I wasn't aware
you were dead."
"Yes, well,
it was a shock to me too, believe me." She stood upright and stared menacingly
at Posh. "Now, I've come to give you a warning Victoria Adams!"
"Is this where
you go on about the chains I forge in life?"
Geri's spirit stopped
in mid-sentence. "The what?"
"The chains.
You know, like the ones you're wearing."
She looked down at
the ghostly chains adorning her body. "What, these?" Posh nodded.
"Oh, no, I died about forty minutes ago in a bizarre S&M accident.
I just haven't had time to get these damned things off yet." She resumed
her menacing glare. "But you must be wary, Victoria! For I attempted to
go on my own as you are intending to do. And my record sales dropped faster
than my dress on prom night! Do not go off on your own. Fade out of the spotlight
gradually, and with what little dignity you have left!"
Posh chuckled. "Oh
please. Who wouldn't want to buy my album? What could possibly happen to me
if I walked this path of which you speak?"
"Then…
you will end up like them," Geri replied, and pointed towards Posh's bedroom
window.
Hesitantly, Posh
walked towards the drawn curtains, fearful for what ghastly apparitions would
appear to her once she looked outside. The truth was far worse than she could
have imagined. She pulled the curtains aside, looked outside, and screamed!
Outside, an older
couple was walking home after celebrating Christmas at a friend's house down
the road. They looked up and saw Posh staring out the window at them. "Merry
Christmas!" they yelled, and waved at their neighbor.
Posh screamed again.
"You mean… I could become… MIDDLE CLASS?"
"I fear so,"
said Geri solemnly. "Tonight you will be visited by three spirits. You
must listen to these spirits, Victoria, for your very soul is at stake."
"Bah,"
she said, regaining her smugness. "This is all a strange dream, and I'll
not listen to a figment of my imagination."
Geri bowed her head
in sadness…
…and head-butted
Posh in the nose.
"Ouch!"
Posh grabbed her nose. "I thought you were intangible!"
"Not if I do
it at the right angle!" She leaned in closer to Posh's face. "Now
listen here, you idiot. You have to listen to these spirits, or else me and
the big guy up above aren't squared away for those nasty little photos I took
years ago. Now, you listen to the bloody spirits, you listen to what the bloody
have to say, and you shut your fucking mouth, because my eternal soul rests
on you getting over yourself!"
And with that, Geri's
spirit popped out of site like a balloon upon meeting a needle.
Posh sighed and went
back to bed. This was going to be a long night.
*
* *
In the
middle of the night, a gently caressing hand woke Posh from her sleep.
That's
odd, she thought. David wasn't usually this horny until about six o'clock in
the morning.
Realizing
this vital fact, her eyes shot open and she sat up, in time to see a glowing
figure standing before her. The figure had shortly-cropped blonde hair, and
bore a muscle shirt that read "White Trash" upon it.
"Jesus
Christ… Melanie? What the hell are you doing here?"
"Er…
waking you up," the spirit said.
"Wait
a minute… are you Melanie, or are you a spirit?"
"Well,
I WAS Melanie… until about eleven thirty tonight anyway. Now I'm the ghost
of Christmas past."
"You're
dead?"
"'Fraid
so. Motorcycle accident."
"What
were you doing on a motorcyc… never mind, I don't want to know." Posh
rubbed her eyes and stepped out of bed.
"Take
my hand, Victoria."
Posh
grabbed hold of the spirit's hand and stood patiently. "So, now what? Do
we go flying around outside or something?"
"Hmm?
What? Oh, no, nothing quite so fancy."
"Then
why are you holding my hand…?" With a quick jerk, she pulled her hand
away from the spirit. "You bitch! Even when you're dead you can't control
yourself, can you?"
"Sorry.
The afterlife's not what I expected. Lots of work, not a lot of fun, if you
get my drift. I have to take what I can get nowadays."
"Let's
just get this over with, shall we?" Posh sighed.
"Right."
She snapped her fingers, and instantly, she and Posh were transported back in
time… to 1997.
"Why…
I was just here! This is the Virgin Records building!" Sure enough, the
familiar headquarters of the Spice Girls' distributors was surrounding Posh
and Sporty. "But… it looks somewhat newer. There aren't as many vomit
stains on the carpet in the lobby. What year is this?"
"Don't
you remember, Victoria? This was the year of our first Christmas as a genuine
hit. Come, walk with me." The spirit walked forward through the lobby and
into the main area, where a bar had been set up, complete with a punch bowl,
glasses, a bartender, and celebrity guests galore. Off in one corner of the
room, Scary and Keith Richards were exchanging tales of the scars and tracks
in their arms. Baby was holding what looked to be a scintillating conversation
with a plastic fern. Sporty was off in another corner making a move on Mick
Jagger.
Posh did a double-take at this last image. She glanced at the spirit of Sporty, then back at Sporty's flirtation with the rock icon.
"My,
how things do change," she remarked, before turning to survey the rest
of the party. In actuality, had she listened to Mick and Sporty's conversation,
she would have heard the name Jerry Hall pop up quite frequently, but that is
neither here nor there.
Suddenly,
from across the room, a loud curse echoed.
Then:
"You filthy bitch! It's your fault I didn't get to sing all that much in
'Say You'll Be There'!"
Followed
by: "Oh really? Well it's your fucking fault I didn't get to sing at ALL
during 'Wannabe'!"
"Bitch!"
"Slut!"
"Whore!"
"Cow!"
A brief
struggle was heard, then out of a closed office door tumbled Posh and Ginger
Spice, each with her hands locked around the other's neck, both squeezing, both
digging her nails into the other's flesh, and both cursing a blue streak. The
shocked crowd in the room cleared a path for the battling women, and they eventually
rolled over to the bar area. Posh broke free of Ginger's grip, and proceeded
to pick her up by her hair. "Let's see you viva forever with a broken face,
you bitch!" Posh yelled, and began to beat Ginger's face into the punch
bowl. Purple punch splashed everywhere, causing anyone near the punch bowl to
take several steps back so as not to get wet.
As the
dull clanging of Ginger's skull into the metal bowl continued, Victoria turned
to the spirit. "Oh spirit! My very first fight with that utter bitch! I
was so happy then."
"There's
more, Victoria," the spirit informed her. There was a long pause.
Finally,
after a minute of silence, Posh yelled, "Well, aren't we going to go then?
Show me whatever else you have to show me!"
Sporty's
spirit snapped out of what appeared to be a daze. "Whoops, sorry. Those
catfights you guys had were so entertaining…"
"Shut
up and let's go!"
"Oh,
fine." She snapped her fingers again.
Posh
and the spirit appeared on the set of what appeared to be a movie. Cameras were
set up everywhere, with many people walking around busily as if they were ready
to begin a shoot.
"I…
don't remember this at all," remarked Posh.
The
spirit kept silent.
Just
then, Jennifer Tilly walked past Posh. "Oh my, a real actress!" She
looked around. "Spirit, where the hell are we? This isn't my past!"
A voice
hollered into a director's megaphone: "'Bound' lesbian scene, take one!"
The
spirit grinned. Posh slapped her. "What?" Sporty's spirit protested.
"This
is not MY past! Get us out of here!"
"But…
but… I've only got this power for one night!"
"I
don't care! Go abuse it all you want AFTER you've shown me what you're supposed
to show me!" She folded her arms across her chest.
"Ugh!"
Sporty griped. "Fine." She snapped her fingers, and they appeared
in Posh's house again, only around a Christmas tree. As they watched, Posh and
David walked down the stairway to the tree full of presents underneath.
"Oh
spirit!" said Posh. "It's last year's Christmas!"
"That's
right," the spirit replied. "Do you remember what you got?"
Posh
watched as the younger version of herself ravenously tore open a small package.
She tossed packing tissue aside until she reached the contents of the box. Her
face lit up with sheer glee as she reached into the box and pulled out her gift:
a credit card!
"Oh
David!" she exclaimed. "It's perfect!" She frowned. "But
I'm afraid I didn't get you anything nearly as nice."
With
a small grunt, Beckham stood up, walked in front of Posh, who was still kneeling
on the ground, and unzipped his fly. "Hur hur hur…" he chuckled
primitively.
"Ah…
right," said Posh, and began going to work.
The
spirit of Sporty snapped her fingers again, and the two of them were transported
back to Posh's bedroom.
"Well,
what about the rest of them?" Posh demanded.
"The
rest of what?"
"The
rest of my joyous memories of Christmas! You are the ghost of Christmas past,
right?"
"Well,
yes," the spirit said. "But those were the only two enjoyable Christmas
memories you have. You've been one mean bitch, you know that?"
"Why
you…!"
"Now
then, perhaps I'll just stick around until you fall back asleep, eh?" The
spirit smiled lecherously.
Posh
stuttered. "Uh… uh…" She turned to the window and pointed.
"Oh my gosh, isn't that the ghost of Judy Garland?!"
The
spirit turned around quickly. "What? Where?" She leapt out the window
after the nonexistent spirit. "Dorothy!" she yelled as she fell.
All
Posh heard after that was a loud crash into a pile of trashcans, and the startled,
angry meow of a cat. "Good," Posh said to herself before returning
to the comfort of her own bed. "Stupid dream," she commented before
dozing off.
*
* *
A loud
crash from what Posh could only assume was her kitchen and an accompanying,
"Fuck!" woke her up from a restful dream involving a swimming pool
full of money.
"Now
what?" she asked no one as she rubbed her eyes and sat up in bed. David
was snoring soundly beside her, dreaming of shagging a large group of women.
Up the
stairs pounded a stampede of footsteps, and through her door barged the second
spirit. Scary Spice looked quite good for someone dead.
"Victoria!"
Scary's spirit yelled as she pulled a cast-iron bowl off of her foot.
"Oh
joy," Posh commented. "I suppose this means you're dead as well."
"Yep,
I bit the big one tonight as well," she replied. She dusted herself off.
"Can
we all assume it was drug-related?"
"No,
not at all!" she retorted. "Actually, it was quite a bizarre sequence
of events. Ya see, I left the party after I had become slightly sober. I hopped
in a cab and told the driver to take me to my house. Well, it turns out that
the driver was actually a contract killer for the Russian Mafia who was on the
run from American Special Forces agents, but was in disguise. So as soon as
I get in the cab, Johnny Rotten stumbles out of the lobby and makes a comment
that the vodka he drank tasted like a mule had ejaculated into it at the exact
same time the cab driver (who's really a disguised contract killer) rolls down
his window to toss his cigarette out of the cab. So, rather than driving off,
he pushes open the door of the cab and runs at Johnny screaming something about
insulting his country and that his taste buds were probably destroyed by eating
out Chrissy Hynde during a concert back in the late seventies. So Johnny smashes
the Vodka bottle over this bloke's head as he charges towards him with a gun,
and I get really scared and jump into the driver's seat and take off, since
I've got to piss really bad and I need to get home and there weren't any other
bloody cabs around. So those two duke it out while I drive away, and next thing
I know a black helicopter is bearing down on me from behind. Turns out the agents
think I'm the Russian Mafia hitman since I'm in his cab. I try to signal them
that I'm not the guy they're looking for, and they start unloading Uzi machine
guns at me from behind. I duck so the bullets don't hit and I swerve off the
road trying to lose the chopper. Unfortunately, I didn't know which way I was
swerving, and I drove right off a cliff and landed in a heap at the bottom.
Thankfully the airbags kicked in and I walked out a bit bruised and scraped,
but not too hurt. But I was also stuck in a dark forest in the middle of the
night. And the forest was populated by wild dogs with a taste for human flesh.
Soon, they were all after me like track dogs after a decoy, so I ran up the
nearest tree I could find, which happened to be the target of a late-night construction
company's urban expansion plan. I jumped from the tree just as the chainsaw
chopped it in half, and I rolled on the ground and looked up in time to see
a bulldozer bearing down on me. I scrambled to the side, narrowly missing the
oncoming vehicle. Then, I hit my head on a low-hanging branch, got an aneurysm
and died."
Posh's
mouth was gaping. "Oh my GOD!" she exclaimed. "That's incredible!
I had always thought you'd kick early from an overdose of some sort!" Scary
started laughing out loud. "What? What's so funny?"
Scary
paused between guffaws quick enough to say: "Ah, I'm just jerking your
chain. I smoke some rat poison after I left the party and drank a bottle of
Windex."
"Charming,"
Posh commented.
"Isn't
it though? Oh, by the way, sorry about your kitchen. I stumbled in from the
afterlife, and it was dark, so I banged into quite a bit of shit."
"No
bother. Not like I've ever used it anyway."
"Right."
Scary's face grew from one of friendliness to one of seriousness. "Now
Victoria, your very soul is in grave danger. In my death, I have become the
ghost of Christmas present, and it is now my duty to show you other people who
are having a ball on Christmas while you're stuck at home riding your husband
like a rapidly deflating blow-up doll."
Posh
sighed. "If you must."
Scary
reached inside a pouch on her side and pulled out some dust. "One good
thing about the afterlife… they give you this really cool fairy dust to
use on people." She promptly began inhaling the pile in her hand. She shook
her head violently, then reached inside and scooped up another pile. "Here
now, you try some."
Posh
looked aghast. "Erm… can't you simply sprinkle some on me?"
Scary
looked confused, then surprised. "Oh yeah… I suppose that would work
too, wouldn't it?"
She
poured the pile of dust over Posh's head, and they were instantly swept away
to Michelle Stephenson's house.
"Spirit,
where are we?" Posh asked, looking at the bleak, drab, badly decorated
apartment.
"Oh,
you'll see," Scary's spirit said.
Soon,
Michelle stepped out of the kitchen carrying a small Christmas turkey. She placed
it gingerly on the table and sighed.
Just
then, the door swung open, and Michelle's husband walked in carrying a young
boy.
"Honey,
we're home!" he yelled.
She
rushed in to greet them. "Honey!" She kissed her husband. "Little
Jim!" She kissed the boy on the forehead. "How are my boys today?"
"Just
great, mum," Jim said, then proceeded to cough.
Everyone sat down at the table, and proceeded to eat. "Honey, you've outdone yourself this time," her husband commented.
"Why,
I can barely taste the asphalt in the meat!"
She
smiled. "Thank you dear." She turned to Little Jim. "And how
is your meat, dear?"
"Oh,
I'm afraid I'm not very hungry, mum," the little boy replied.
"Spirit!"
Posh demanded. "Is that child sick?"
"Yes,
Victoria, I'm afraid so," came the spirit's somber reply.
"A
toast, my dear," said Michelle. "To Ms. Adams."
"Ms.
Adams?" her husband asked. "Your BOSS?"
"Why…
yes dear. Who else?"
"I'm
afraid I'll have to hold my tongue when it comes to what I think of your boss,
but I'll drink to her for your sake, not hers." He lifted his mug of ale
and drank heartily.
Within
minutes, her husband was plastered. "And another thing," he snarled,
after having finished a long rant about why Ms. Adams could go to Hell. "If
I ever see her in person, I'm going to kick her husband square in the balls.
That pretty boy cost us that goal that one time, and I want to show him what
a good kick actually feels like!"
"Oh
spirit!" Posh exclaimed. "Why does he hate me so?"
"Oh
husband!" Michelle exclaimed. "Why do you hate her so?"
"Because
she pays you next to nothing!" he replied. "And because of that, we
don't have enough money for Little Jim!" As if on cue, Jim coughed.
"Spirit,
take me away, please," Posh said.
"Very
well," the spirit said. "I guess you've seen all there is to see,
unless you like watching drunken marital sex."
She
emptied the pouch of dust over Posh's head and they were instantly transported
back to her bedroom.
"What
the hell?" Posh yelled. "That was it? One lousy house?"
"Well,
that's about all we really need. Everyone else you know is either dead or pretty
well-to-do this time of year," Scary's spirit answered.
"What
a crock," Posh replied. "I suppose the last spirit will be coming
in a few hours?"
There
was a loud thump outside the door. "No," Scary said. "I think
the third spirit is here right now."
*
* *
Scary's
spirit vanished into thin air as Posh opened her bedroom door and stared into
total darkness. Then she looked up.
Towering
in front of her was a tall, darkly-robed figure with bright, glowing eyes.
"Well,
aren't you quite the theatrical one?" she said haughtily. "Let's see,
we've already covered past and present. That must mean you're the ghost of Christmas
future, eh?"
The
robed figure stood silent.
"Right.
Thought so." She sighed. "Well, take me wherever we have to go."
Then she added, "And be quick about it. I'm fucking tired."
The
robed figure swept its mighty cloak around Posh, and the moment it retracted,
Posh was looking at a slightly older version of Michelle and her husband.
"Oh,"
Michelle sobbed. "I can't believe Little Jim is gone."
"He
was too young," her husband agreed. They sobbed in each other's arms for
quite some time.
"Bloody
hell!" Posh said. "Little Jim has moved onto another life?" she
asked the spirit.
It nodded
its response.
"Oh
my," she said. "Take me away from here. I can't take it. If I start
crying, I might smear my makeup."
The
cloak swept past her again, and she was standing in a television studio's production
room. The room was dimly lit, and utterly empty. A lone chair sat bleakly by
a control panel, and a locked door to the side showed no hope of leaving this
room.
"Spirit?"
she asked. "Where are we? What station is this?"
Suddenly,
the television monitor behind her turned itself on. A tape began playing.
"What
the…?" Posh asked hesitantly. She watched as the tape played:
"On
this edition of VH1's 'Where Are They Now?' we'll be looking at the huge teenybopper
invasion of the 1990's," a voiceover stated. "In this edition, you'll
see Ricky Martin after the famous gerbil incident, a clip from Britney Spears's
latest adult film, 'Britney Gets Speared,' and a shocking look at the last several
days of the Hanson family trial. But first, can you name this long-gone pop
star?"
As the
voiceover spoke, images of the events and stars of which it was speaking flashed
on screen. However, when it reached the final sentence, the tape paused, and
the screen became a static-filled, garbled mess, as if the video's tracking
was off on the VCR.
"Spirit!"
Posh yelled, staring at the unclear image on the screen. "Whose face is
this?" She turned to the dark figure. "WHOSE FACE IS THIS?"
The
figure reached a dark hand to press the Play button. "Why it's yours, Victoria
Adams," the figure said. As it spoke, the video unpaused, revealing the
face on the screen: Posh Spice!
The
dark figure pulled back its hood, revealing itself to be none other than Baby
Spice. "Tee hee hee hee!" her spirit laughed maniacally.
"NO!"
Posh screamed, as she ran for the door.
"Tee
hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee!" the relentless cackle
followed close behind her.
She
forced the door open, and ran out of the room. Unfortunately, what greeted her
beyond the door was not a hallway, or a bathroom, or a lobby. It was complete
and utter nothingness. Posh fell as soon as she stepped over the threshold.
She plunged down a bottomless well of nothing.
And
all the while, the maniacal laugh of Baby Spice followed her down…
*
* *
"Shit!"
Posh yelled, as she awoke in bed with a start. She looked around her bedroom,
then at her hands. She was alive! She smiled.
Reaching
for her robe, she ran to her window and pushed it open. "Hey you!"
she yelled at a random passerby. "What day is today?"
"Fuck
you!" he replied.
She
shook off the rudeness and chose another target. "You there! What day is
today?"
"Buy
a fucking calendar!" the second passerby yelled in reply.
"God
damn it, won't someone tell me what day today is?" Posh screamed in a fit
of rage.
"It's
Christmas!" came the voice of her neighbor across the street, who had pushed
open her window as well. "Now go the fuck away! People are trying to sleep!"
She slammed her window shut.
Posh
closed the window and dashed back to her bed.
"David!"
she yelled.
Beckham,
lying next to her, grunted and turned onto his stomach so he could dry hump
the mattress.
"David,
wake the fuck up!" she yelled, as she punched him in the kidney.
"Oof!"
he managed to say as he turned over and looked at her.
"Too
early for shag," he said. "Sleep."
"No,
not that! Today is Christmas!"
"Hrm…"
Beckham replied, and scratched his head. "Okay, shag early. Present."
"No,
you imbecile!" she yelled back. "I'm in the holiday spirit! I want
to buy presents for everyone!" She reached for her wallet on the table
by her bed. "And I can't bloody well give presents unless you get out of
bed, drive to the store, and buy what I tell you to buy!"
Eventually,
Beckham was lured out of bed, and was given his wife's credit card.
That
afternoon, Posh showed up at Michelle's doorstep with a bag full of presents
and a freshly prepared roast pheasant. Michelle answered the door, and was shocked.
"Ms.
Adams!" she stammered. "Uh… Happy Christmas!"
"These
are for you," Posh responded, handing over the roast. Michelle stared in
awe at the delicious bird. "Hey, Earth to Michelle! Put that down and take
these bags away! My arms are fucking hurting!"
"Oh,
right! Sorry!" Michelle stuttered, as she ran to put the pheasant on the
table. She returned and took the bags. "Uh… would you like to have
Christmas dinner with us?"
"Why,
I'd be delighted!" Posh said. Michelle turned and walked back to the kitchen.
Posh shook a fist towards the sky as if to say, "I'm doing this for my
immortal soul, you old bastard!"
Little
Jim walked out of his room and skipped up to Posh. Michelle came out of the
kitchen with a bowl of potatoes. "Little Jim! Don't bother Ms. Adams!"
"No,
that's quite all right," Posh said. "In fact, I wanted to speak to
you about something that concerns Little Jim. I'm going to give you a huge raise!"
Michelle
gasped. "A raise! That is so generous!" she said, teary-eyed.
"Well,
I thought it had to be done, what with Little Jim being so sick and all…"
"Sick?"
She looked puzzled. "Oh, that! I gave him some cough medicine last night
and now he's fine. Just a touch of a cold, I think."
"A
WHAT?" Posh yelled.
"Oh,
I want to thank you again for the raise! Now instead of sending Jim to law school,
we can afford to let him stay at home and work on his Hollywood screenplay."
"You…
you…" Posh stuttered.
"You
know," Michelle continued, "It's so strange. My husband and I have
been swearing up and down that the day we send Jim to law school, we'll be crying
our eyes out and saying things like, 'He was so young,' and 'I can't believe
he's gone.' Why, if someone didn't know better, they'd think he'd have died
if we acted in such a manner!"
"I…
I…" Posh was speechless. "Give me that!" she yelled, and
grabbed the bag of presents from Jim's hands. "You want them, you sick
little bastard? Go fetch!" She tossed the bag out the nearest windows,
shattering it. It landed with a dull thud in the street below.
Posh
stormed for the door. "Merry fucking Christmas, you pricks!" she screamed
at them, not even turning around to face them.
She
tore open the apartment door and bolted down the stairs. Walking into the street
near the crushed bag of presents, she threw her hands in the air, looked skyward,
and began yelling. "You sick assholes! Thought you could get your jollies
by making me give presents to a perfectly healthy child and his family, huh?
Well, it's not going to happen again! I'm going to fire that miserable bitch
and make sure she can't get another job in the entire fucking city! Then, I'm
going to buy their apartment building and charge them double the rent they're
paying now! How do you fuckers like THAT? Divine retribution my ass!"
As Posh
was screaming too loud, she failed to notice the oncoming truck heading towards
her down the road. She finished ranting and turned around just in time to see
it bearing down on her.
Meanwhile,
up in the apartment above, Michelle was walking towards the broken window with
the Christmas pheasant. "She thinks I want her charity," she mumbled
to herself. "Well, her damned pheasant can go the way of her lousy gifts!"
She tossed the pheasant, still wrapped in plastic wrap, still attached to its
heavy silver tray, out the window.
Posh
saw the truck going after her and heard the desperate horn of the driver signaling
her to get out of the way. Quickly, she dove for the sidewalk, narrowly avoiding
the oncoming vehicle.
Unfortunately,
she was enjoying her escape from her close call with death a bit too much to
notice the heavy silver tray and 20 lb. bird plummeting from the apartment above.
It struck her in the skull, fracturing it, and sending tiny splinters of bone
into her cold, dark brain. She collapsed to the sidewalk with a dull thud.
As death
began taking over her body, she managed to open her eyes and stare at the sidewalk
one last time. In front of her, she saw the four spirits: Geri Halliwell, Sporty,
Scary, and Baby. All were shaking their heads and tsk-ing Posh.
Before the cold hand of death finally embraced her, Posh uttered her final words to the four spirits: "God damn you, every one."
The End.
Trademark and copyright 1999, CloudVader Productions. Do not reproduce without giving the author, Cloud Volpe, due credit.
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