If I had a favourite place in the world to deliver presents to on Christmas Night, it would have to be Clint City. Despite all the attempts to hijack my sleigh and the many times the clans have tried to coax me into fighting alongside them (ho ho, the year of 92 had so many Clintizens on the Naughty List), it's full of so many interesting people. And whilst many would believe me to avoid the Berzerk after their savage hijacking, I'm a man who can forgive and forget; finding myself peering around the Red One Motel, I notice two faces that I haven't seen before. You're all probably gasping a little now at the fact that Santa Claus forgot names, but I've been doing this job for an awfully long time now. Why do you think I keep a list in the first place?
The smaller figure seems to be some kind of rat hybrid donning cheese-print pyjamas who's fidgeting quite giddily in his sitting position near the tree; one sudden movement later and his tail's nearly knocking over said tree, causing the second figure, a somewhat trampish-looking dark-haired in a old, khaki dressing grown, to shake his head in a mixture of irritation and good humour. After a minute or so, an irritated voice calls out from one of the bedrooms, telling 'Ernst' and 'Bernie' to shut the feck up and keep the hell down (and that's putting it rather nicely).
"Besides," Bernie says (I presume the dark-haired is Bernie), turning his attention back to Ernst. "I only came down for a bottle of wine. What's your excuse?"
"I'm staying up for when die Weihnachtsmann comes!" He exclaims, a rather cute, rat-like grin on his face as he straightens one of the crooked, red lights on the tree.
"Weihnach what now?" Bernie replies, a somewhat confused look upon his face. "Don't use new German words around me, Rat Boy, you know they just confuse me."
"Weihnachtsmann stands for Christmas Man, it's what we call Santy Klaus."
"You mean Father Christmas," Bernie then says, raising an eyebrow at his friend's ignorance. There will never be a year when they don't argue about what my true and proper name is, but just for the record I've always preferred Santa Claus. Father Christmas sounds so formal and conservative, and I wouldn't be surprised if Bernie had Brithannian parents when he was growing up.
"But then I don't know why I'm arguing names with you, Ernst, I stopped believing in him a very long time ago."
Ouch...just...ouch. It never gets any easier the more times you hear one of them deny your existence. But it always tends to be the adults rather than the children, having had time to grow up and gather their own thoughts and beliefs. And then you get the adults who still do genuinely believe, yet it worries me that they somewhat tend to be man-children. Just half an hour or so ago, I was peering round the windows of Borgia's Palace and came across a very familiar sight of the blonde one and his somewhat chained-up friend, having fallen asleep infront of the tree yet again. How I keep managing to sneak around them, I will never know.
As for this Ernst...he's more of a ratman-child, though still as easily excitable as any ordinary, brilliant human; his excitableness still seeming to be a problem as he almost knocks the tree over once more.
"Careful!" Bernie hisses, just about managing to keep the tree from falling. "I was lucky to have Norman allow me back into the motel for Christmas, and allow you in at all. I doubt the last thing to help our cause is for the place to get wrecked, and it's gonna get wrecked enough when your precious, little Santy Klaus gets his fat ass over here."
"I thought you stopped believing in him," Ernst says, earnestly blinking as he's unsure whether to slap the tramp for being so insulting or hug him for acknowledging me. Of course, Bernie's response is that he's pretending for Ernst's sake, causing the ratman to hug him rather tightly and even lick him on the nose. Wow...I hope I don't wake him up because I'm getting far too old for that kind of affection and a broken back is going to help no-one.
At that moment, Bernie tenses up as if he can sense something unusual outside. He's soon looking in my direction but I don't know whether he can see me or not, though I can feel my heart slightly race when he approaches the window and opens it, not caring for the chill air that rushes through at first opportunity.
"Hello?" He calls out, sticking his head out and only receiving the reply of the scuttle of the rats who still remain there. "Hellooooooooooo?!"
"Caesar, get your bloody arse to bed!" A voice calls out, sounding rather grumpy and frustrated (and I presume Caesar is Bernie's surname). "I can't wait to be rid of you but not at 1 in the bloody morning!"
"Asshole," Bernie then mutters, purposefully slamming the window shut as he has a rather irritated look about him; though one glance down at a now-sleeping Ernst upon his leaving and he can't help but let a small smile form on his face. Taking off his dressing gown, he carefully covers the ratman as if applying a blanket and gently ruffles his hair before making his way out of the room. At least I don't have to wait any longer in terms of leaving the presents in this public part of the motel; believe me, it's a lot easier than creeping up and down the corridors and trying to remember just who's in what number.
And I think I may leave Ernst's present alongside their lot aswell. I wouldn't want the little ratman to wait any longer for his Christmas goodies than he needs to.