Colvenhoof: Satan's Shorts (Clovenhoof Anthology) Page 4

  “Your own name?”

  “Aye.”

  The archangel consulted the notes on the table before him.

  “You can perhaps see where this is going. Down on earth, the bishop of Rome, his holiness Pope Paul VI has been doing some tidying up of the feast days. He’s taken a good long look at your history and he’s decided…”

  “Yes?”

  “He has decided that, um, you didn’t exist.”

  “What?”

  “In his motu proprio Mysterii Paschali, his holiness has concluded there is no historical basis to believe you ever existed.”

  St Christopher was dumbfounded for a good while.

  “Bastard!” he finally declared.

  “Now, Christopher, please.”

  “Of course, I exist. Look at me.”

  “Oh, you exist here and now. Previous popes have declared your existence and, ‘as it is on earth so shall it be in heaven,’ you are here.”

  “But now you’re getting rid of me?”

  “No, dear fellow, we wouldn’t be that cruel. We’re happy to keep you on. It’s just that, officially, technically, you don’t exist anymore.”

  The saint was fuming.

  “That little shit never liked me. And he declared it motu proprio? That means he just decided it all by himself. He didn’t ask anyone else. No committee meetings. No focus groups. One man. Who the fuck does he think he is?”

  The archangel clasped his hands together and leaned forward.

  “He’s the pope, Christopher. He’s God’s representative on earth.”

  “He’s a tit. That’s what he is.”

  “You really mustn’t take this personally,” said the archangel. “Many saints have been deleted.”

  “Deleted!” squeaked St Christopher.

  “He’s removed Telephorus, Hyginus –“

  “Well, they’re clearly made up saints.”

  “- Felix, Marcellus, Canute, Emerentina, Valentine –“

  “St Valentine?”

  “Yes. Gone.”

  “I can’t believe it.”

  “I think many of us were thinking the whole Valentine’s day thing was getting too tacky anyway.”

  “But Valentine. He’s a mate of mine.”

  “And will remain so.”

  “We used to go do them Caribbean love cruises. He’d stoke up the fires of romance. I’d stop the boat sinking.”

  “And we appreciate what you did but it stops now,” said the archangel.

  “All of it?”

  “Your status as saint has been… revoked. You cannot intercede on God’s behalf.”

  “But when people pray to me…”

  “They can’t.”

  “Oh, I see,” said the indignant saint. “So who’s going to help people with their transport issues now?”

  “Apparently, there’s something called SatNav that the boys in the lab are working on right now.”

  “But who, do tell, will be fighting the good fight against my opposite number?”

  “Opposite number?”

  “Stinkybus. Patron demon of traffic jams, lost luggage and public transport.”

  “I am sure we will be able to put something in place,” the archangel assured him.

  St Christopher shook his head miserably.

  “He never forgave me.”

  “Who?”

  “Pope Paul VI.”

  “This isn’t personal.”

  “Isn’t it? Isn’t it? Northern Italy, 1919. His bloody holiness, before he was even ordained, was on a cycling holiday. He was wearing his St Christopher medallion and I fulfilled my duties to him. I had watched over him the entire holiday. I made sure his trains were on time. I diverted the black clouds that threatened to ruin his day. I did everything. You hear me?”

  “I do. I do,” said the archangel.

  “I am the patron saint of travel, aren’t I? Am I the patron saint of bloody shoddy necklaces? Am I?”

  “No?” said the archangel.

  “No,” said St Christopher. “It weren’t my fault. While he was cycling along the shore, the chain on his medallion broke. Down it went, medallion and chain, right into his gears. Locked the wheels and threw them into Lake Garda.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “Oh dear, indeed. His girlfriend wasn’t impressed either.”

  “Did she see it happen?”

  “She was sat on the handlebars.”

  The archangel considered this at length.

  “Unfortunate.”

  “Unlucky,” said St Christopher. “And that git’s had it in for me ever since. I wouldn’t even put it past him to go for the papacy just so he could do this to me.”

  “I think that’s a bit far-fetched, Christopher.”

  “Is it? Shifty bugger, that one.” He sighed. “So, is that it, then?”

  The archangel closed the file in front of him.

  “Pretty much.”

  The saint shrugged.

  “And what do I do with my time now?”

  “We’d like you to take up a post at the Non-Specific Prayer Assessment Unit.”

  St Christopher pulled a face.

  “The ‘OhGodohGodhelpme’ helpline?”

  “It’s vital work, Christopher. Any plea to the Almighty must be heard.”

  “You’re going to put me in a call centre?”

  “It’s not that bad,” said the archangel smoothly. “It’s housed in a nice new building over by the Jehovah’s Witness ghetto. Will you be able to find your way there all right?”

  The former patron saint of travel shot him a filthy look and then, before the archangel had a chance to move, punched him in the gob with his mighty fist.

  The archangel fell to his knees, clutching his mouth.

  “’otally uncalled for,” he moaned. “You’ve knocked my ‘ucking ‘ooth out. Really ‘urts.”

  “Oh, you know what you can do about that then, don’t you?” said Christopher and gave him the finger and left.

  Clovenhoof and the Snowmen

  Clovenhoof looked out of his kitchen window and down at the snow-covered garden.

  “Oh,” he said in sudden understanding.

  Life on earth among the mortal human scum was a constant education. All the little rules of human behaviour.

  For instance, if someone says ‘Love me, love my dog,’ it’s not to be taken as an invitation.

  For instance, if you run out of toilet paper, it’s not socially acceptable to use the curtains.

  And, for instance, some things on television look like they’re made up but are actually real and some things look real but are made up.

  Clovenhoof ran through his little mental check-list.

  Eastenders was NOT a fly-on-the-wall documentary.

  24 hours in A&E WAS a fly-on-the-wall documentary and not a sitcom.

  David Cameron and Nick Clegg were NOT a ventriloquist act.

  And, thought Clovenhoof, mentally adding it to his list, Raymond Brigg’s The Snowman was NOT a whimsical cartoon but a public safety information film about the dangers of building a zombie snowman in your own back garden.

  For there was the evidence shambling right before Clovenhoof’s eyes, opening the garden gate with its snowy paws and stumbling out into the lane. The snowman that he’d built with Ben had come to life!

  “What have I done?” he gasped.

  He had wondered why there wasn’t more of an outcry from the parents in The Snowman when the snowman came alive, abducted their son and flew off with him. But there was definitely going to be an outcry over this.

  There were zombie snowmen stalking the streets of Boldmere. Did other people know about this? Would they blame him? He’d only just finished serving the community service order following that unfortunate business at the church nativity. It would be prison this time!

  And, he reminded himself, Busty Prison Babes 9 was NOT a documentary.

  If the zombie snowmen were real, could they be stopped? And wasn’t he too mu
ch of a coward to be a zombie-defeating hero?

  “No,” he growled, slapping his fist into his hand. “They must be stopped.”

  Of course he would save the day. He’d held his own in celestial battles hadn’t he? He might be a bit rusty, but how agile could an undead snowman really be?

  He did a few practice lunges in his lounge to be sure. It felt good to be preparing for action.

  He’d need weapons. He went to the cupboard of useful things and grabbed a selection.

  By the time he’d clanked to the bottom of the stairs with his armoury, he realized that he needed a steed to carry him into battle. He didn’t think he’d find a horse in Boldmere, but Mrs Galloon’s mobility scooter was parked outside her house two doors down. He was certain that she’d approve of her scooter being used for such a selfless and necessary endeavor, so stowed his weaponry in the basket and set off down the road.

  He quickly realized the problem was worse than he’d anticipated. A thick blanket of snow had proven irresistible to the local children and they’d been out in force, building snowmen.

  “Fools!” he hissed dramatically. “When will man ever learn?”

  There was no sign of the shambler that had escaped from his own garden but several stood in their unawoken state in front gardens. He was able to dispatch several as he drove by, decapitating them with wild swings of a golf club. However, this approach came to an abrupt end when the golf club got wedged in the chest of a large snow-zombie and the damnable creature pulled Clovenhoof from his seat.

  The scooter swerved into a garden wall and stalled. Clovenhoof went into a combat roll and came to his feet with a dustbuster in his hand.

  “Ha!” he declared, thrusting his weapon at the gargantuan enemy. He pressed the button and it whined into life. He’d been impressed to discover that it would suck up solids or liquids, so he was certain that it would work on snow.

  He drove it into the snowman’s face grunting and shouting with battle-rage as he gouged its features.

  The dustbuster quickly filled with snow and Clovenhoof realized that he hadn’t reduced the snowman by more than a tiny fraction. He started using it as a club instead, battering the snowman and scattering the decomposing contents of the dustbuster as it splintered into pieces. He tossed the remains over his shoulder as he moved away, satisfied that he’d disabled this particularly fearsome snowman.

  He then spotted, across the way, a large garden in which a pair of youngsters were surrounded by not one but four of the monsters. The kids, stumbling around in their bulky coats and mittens, were either unaware of the danger they were in or had been driven senseless by fear. Yes, that must be it.

  Clovenhoof leapt aboard the scooter and zipped across the road with a cry of “Fear not, little ones!”

  He delved into the scooter basket and pulled out the flamethrower. Clovenhoof kept a flamethrower for cooking, putting the finishing touches to crème brulees and such. He’d stolen it from a council road crew and it could be a little overpowered for culinary use, but he was confident it was just the thing for zombie snowmen.

  He ignited the flame and it roared into life. He hurdled the wall, took up a manly pose and doused the nearest snowman in flame. It melted soundlessly, with just the occasional pop from a twig that was rolled up in the snow.

  By this time, the children had thankfully realised the seriousness of their position and had begun screaming.

  “Run!” Clovenhoof yelled. “Save yourselves.”

  He blasted the second snowman but then as he leaned in to reduce the third snowman to nothing the flame sputtered and died.

  He shook the flame thrower. It felt light.

  “Out of fuel!” he cursed and turned to find the fourth snowman right behind him. Trying to sneak up on him! It was a small one, but it sported a hat, similar to the one in the cartoon. Perhaps a symbol of rank.

  Fear and powerful devilish reflexes kicked in. Clovenhoof drove a fist into the snowman’s face and then gave it a kick in the snowballs. The beast crumbled in silent agony.

  He leapt over the wall again and, as he mounted his scooter, he saw a gathering group of people watching him from down the road. Clovenhoof smiled at the grateful on-lookers.

  Further on there were three more snowmen close together. Clovenhoof knew that he needed yet more extreme disposal methods for this combined threat.

  He smiled smugly, knowing that keeping the leftover fireworks from Bonfire Night had been the right thing to do, whatever Nerys and Ben had said to him. He made a pile in the centre of the snowmen, glancing up frequently, to be sure that they weren’t coming to life and slipping away while he was concentrating.

  He lit the fuse and then moved away on the scooter.

  The first firework was colourful but not destructive. It illuminated the scene with a fine spray of pink and purple sparks, but left the snowmen intact. Things got much more interesting when the rockets started going off. Clovenhoof was impressed to see a head blown completely off. The next one embedded itself in the side of a snowman and made a frustrated whizzing sound while going nowhere. The last of the big rockets shot between the snowmen and went over the heads of the crowd up the street.

  Clovenhoof frowned. The fireworks hadn’t been quite as useful as he’d pictured for destroying the snowmen. He needed to finish the job himself. He reached into the basket and brought out a cricket bat. He took a run up at the snowmen and started swinging. He shrieked and bellowed as he battered the snowmen, losing himself in the frenzy of the battle against these terrible creatures.

  When he’d flattened all three, he realized that the crowd was approaching, and that the people from inside the house were also coming out.

  “Yes, I’ve called the police. I told them he’s armed-”

  Clovenhoof beamed at them.

  “You don’t have to thank me. I’ve saved you all. You can go back inside now.”

  He turned around and saw that there was a crowd on the other side as well.

  “Well it’s lovely to see you all, but I’m going to slip away now, like superheroes do.”

  A couple of large men stepped forward in a manner that was not friendly.

  The smile fell from Clovenhoof’s lips as he understood in an instant that these people were hostile. He hefted the cricket bat in his hands and wondered if he could break through the line and make a run for it.

  At that moment a car drew up.

  “Get in!” yelled Nerys.

  Clovenhoof moved swiftly and was buckled in and speeding away seconds later.

  “What were you thinking?” yelled Nerys. “Mrs Galloon saw you take her scooter so I knew you were doing something ridiculous, but this?”

  “I was saving you all! How can I be the only one to see that there’s a supernatural menace stalking the streets of Boldmere!”

  “What are you babbling about?”

  “Zombie snowmen. Like they had on the telly. I thought that cartoon was a work of fiction.”

  “The Snowman? Of course it’s fiction, you idiot,” yelled Nerys.

  “Well I saw one come to life. Walking out of our garden this morning. How do you explain that?”

  Nerys drove on, lips clamped in a straight line.

  “There was a snowman in our garden?”

  “Yeah, Ben and I had been building one. We’d made a massive ball for the body, huge it was. The trouble was, we’d used all of the snow in the garden, and we needed some more to make the head. I went upstairs and opened the skylight and pushed the snow off the roof with a broom.”

  “Right,” said Nerys. “I bet it all fell down in one big go, didn’t it?”

  “Yeah!” said Clovenhoof. “It made a brilliant kind of a whump noise when it did.”

  Nerys pulled up outside the flats.

  “Was Ben out in the garden when you did this?”

  Clovenhoof paused in the act of getting out of the car, a stricken look on his face. “Oh no, so you think the zombie snowman got him!”

  “J
eremy,” said Nerys. “I think I know-”

  She stopped. Clovenhoof turned. The snowman raised his arms to grab Clovenhoof.

  “Wait!” said Nerys but Clovenhoof had the bat in his hand and had already clonked the menace on the side of the head. It went down with a thud.

  Clovenhoof raised the bat for the coup de grace.

  “It’s Ben!” yelled Nerys.

  Clovenhoof hesitated.

  “What? Oh.”

  Clovenhoof groaned in understanding as Ben groaned with pain.

  “I get it now,” he said. “He was just pinching my snow so he could make his own snowman. How terribly irresponsible.”

  Saint Nicholas and the Krampus

  “Have you seen Home Alone?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “What about Home Alone 2: Lost in New York?”

  “No,” said St Nicholas. “I have not seen it.”

  “Really?” said Joan of Arc, swishing her sword at the mist around their ankles. “It’s a classic.”

  “Is it?”

  “In this one, Kevin McAllister accidentally gets on the wrong plane and has to spend Christmas alone in a swish New York hotel while trying to foil the plans of the burglars he tangled with in the first film.”

  “I see,” said St Nicholas, squinting to peer through the hazy fog of Limbo. “And this is a Christmas movie?”

  “Yes.”

  “What makes it a Christmas movie?” he asked.

  “Well,” said the teenage saint. “It takes place at Christmas time.”

  “Yes?”

  “And nothing says Christmas like a twelve year old smacking grown men in the face with paint pots and bags full of hammers.”

  The bald and long-bearded saint made a noise in his throat.

  “I don’t really think it’s helping your case,” he said.

  “I’m just saying that Christmas is a lot of fun, Nick. I mean, I’m really grateful you chose to come along today but there’s so much more to Christmas.”

  “There are the praises offered to our Lord and the holy communion taken in his name,” said St Nicholas. “That is Christmas.”

  “Well, yes,” said Joan, “but there is the other stuff as well. The songs, the feasts, the nativity plays –“