BARBELITH underground
 

Subcultural engagement for the 21st Century...
Barbelith is a new kind of community (find out more)...
You can login or register.


Underground > Conversation >

A Barbelith Christmas Carol, Starring Von Mises

  
 
Regrettable Juvenilia
20:26 / 25.12.04
Chapter One: An Unwelcome Visitation



“Good King Wenceslas looked out
On the feast of Stephen
When the snow lay round about
Deep and crisp and even
Brightly shone the moon that night
Though the frost was cruel
When a poor man came in sight
Gath'ring winter phew-oo-el”



'Damn that monstrous SOCIALIST tyrant Wenceslas!', I muttered to myself as I passed a crowd of obnoxious carol singers on my way home from the library, where I had been spending a profitable Christmas Eve stealing wicked socialists texts (eg, A Vindication Of The Rights Of Women) to take home and burn on the fire. 'How dare he DESTABILISE the economy by flagrantly giving away FLESH and WINE, not to mention PINE LOGS, without thought of the consequences? Not only that, but he COMPELS most unjustly his serf to follow him out into a DARK, COLD, WINDY NIGHT, as socialist tyrants will always compel honest working men to participate in their ill-conceived redistributions of wealth.'

I reached my humble abode, and was most distressed to see my feeble-minded assistant, Pratchett, standing shivering on the doorstep.

“What are you doing here, Pratchett, you dribbling oaf?', I barked.



“Begging your pardon, Mr Von Mises sir,” simpered Pratchett, doffing his ridiculous hat. “Firstly, you asked me to come in this morning and dust your bookshelves, clean your bathroom, and so on. I had asked for Christmas Eve off so I could visit my young boy in hospital, but you stamped on my foot and threatened to fire me. You weren't in when I arrived at nine o'clock this morning and since you decided it wasn't worth the expense of getting another set of keys cut, I've been waiting here for eight hours. I've lost half my toes and a finger through frostbite already, sir, begging your pardon. And secondly, you told me I'd be paid today, and yet my bank account is still quite empty. You know I don't like to complain, sir, but -”

I ended Pratchett's whinging by kneeing him soundly in the bollocks. As he lay doubled up in the snow at my feet, I let some folding money drift down from my open wallet to rest upon him. I then produced from my trousers my most prodigious member and let forth a shower of golden rain.

“I trust that will be all, Pratchett.” said I as I buttoned my fly.

“M-m-merry Christmas, Mr Von Mises”, the poor fool spluttered. I shut the door on him without a further word.
 
 
Regrettable Juvenilia
20:28 / 25.12.04


I lit the fire in my study and settled down in my favourite chair with a good book. To burn. I have always found that a good book-burning settles and soothes the nerves. In this respect if not in any other, I have always been of the opinion that Hitler was right.

My home was quite empty since the departure of my recently estranged lady companion, Eva, who had deserted me earlier in the week for reasons I do not wish to relate at this point. As I sat there, tearing pages out of a China Mieville novel and hurling them into the fire, I became aware of an odd noise, which seemed to come from somewhere in one of the other rooms of my spacious abode. It was a rattling sound... I decided to investigate. Picking up one of the large cudgels that I keep in every room in case of burglars who want to redistribute my wealth, I softly crept into the kitchen. There, the rattling grew louder, and it became clear to my ears that it was the sound of jangling chains. It was coming from the larder.

With trembling hands and a foreboding heart I opened the larder door. What I saw therein made me drop my cudgel in shock and horror. For hovering just above a fine selection of cheeses was the ghastly, ghostly image of my long-dead friend, business partner, and fellow economic theorist (though known more widely for some terrible records he made in his youth), Jacob Marley.



Marley

I let out a gasp of horror. And then the awful apparation began to speak.

“Yes, Ludvig. It is I, Marley. I have come to you tonight to give you a terrible warning from beyong the grave, and I can assue you I will not be delivering it in a hilarious pseudo-racist Jamaican patois. You must repent, my old friend. Repent your evil capitalist ways, and discover the true meaning of Christmas!”

“But Bob! I remember, when you used to say 'Despite the impression people might gain from my music, I totally subscribe to your views on government and economics, Von Mises'.”

“That's right, Ludvig, I did. And look at me now!” With this, the fearful spectre jangled the chains that hung about him. “Condemned to an eternity of imprisonment in these hellish chains!”

“Ah. I thought you were just trying to keep up with the times. Well, your warning does not persuade me. I would rather be bound in those chains you now wear than be bound in the far more horrible chains of SOCIALISM!”

“I thought you might say that. That's why, tonight, Ludvig Von Mises, you will be visited by the spirits of three Lithers. Each one has valuable lessons to impart! Be sure to give them heed.”

And with that, the terrible image of my dead friend vanished.

End Of Chapter One
 
 
Ganesh
20:33 / 25.12.04
Oooh...

*settles down, wide-eyed, in front of the sheeple screen*
 
 
---
20:39 / 25.12.04
I ended Pratchett's whinging by kneeing him soundly in the bollocks. As he lay doubled up in the snow at my feet, I let some folding money drift down from my open wallet to rest upon him. I then produced from my trousers my most prodigious member and let forth a shower of golden rain.

Poor Pratchett! Von Mises I think you are a cruel old man, but the image of you pissing on Pratchett made me burst out laughing. I hope that you find it in yourself to redistribute some of your wealth one day and open your heart before it's too late. Also, it would be great if you could transfer a small amount of your fortune into Pratchett's account, seeing as he is so loyal to you.
 
 
illmatic
20:58 / 25.12.04
Flyboy: Who plays the role of Tiny Tim in this story? Perhaps "Petite" Peter Prachett, Prachett's underdeveloped, caliper-wearing offspring? I think every Xmas tale needs a disabled child to really give it some emotional punch.
 
 
Regrettable Juvenilia
21:01 / 25.12.04
Interlude: The Courage Of Tiny Finn

Dear Von Mises

I think you are a cruel old man. I hope that you find it in yourself to redistribute some of your wealth one day and open your heart before it's too late. Also, it would be great if you could transfer a small amount of your fortune into my father's account, seeing as he is so loyal to you.

Yours,

'Tiny' Finn Pratchet

Tiny Finn Pratchett finished composing the email which he was to send to his father's employer, and settled back in his hospital bed. The poor child was stunted through no fault of his own, and recently he had been struck down by another affliction: he was slowly becoming entirely fictional. Doctors, nurses and one brave psychiatrist were doing their best to keep him real, but it was no good. His grip on reality had become entirely tenuous.

But Tiny Finn was also a very resilient young lad, who never held a grudge against the people who mocked him, and whose optimism and enthusiasm was a source of inspiration to many. He never shed a tear on behalf of his own suffering. However, the cruelties inclicted upon his father ever since his career as a writer of unfunny fantasy novels came to a grinding halt, had made Tiny Finn very sad indeed:



Poor Tiny Finn
 
 
illmatic
21:07 / 25.12.04
Will Von Mises be visited by the spirit of a certain poster wearing a black leather trenchcoat? Showing him a vision of an apocalyptic Xmas future where free market economics has led to to an enslaved humanity plugged into machines to be harvested LIKE BATTERY HENS?
 
 
---
03:55 / 26.12.04
Von Mises, after seeing that I'm changing my mind about the Pratchett problem. I think that Poor Tiny Finn should take a reality check! Look at the sad look on the little wierdos face! I'm now beginning to understand why you where so quick to uleash the shower of golden rain. Obviously this boy and his father need reality more than ever!

I think you should cancel any money you where sending to Pratchett's account, and get them fuckers out on the street! Yes! A good dose of cold, unforgiving nights on the street scraping through trash for food looks like the perfect remedy for them, that will bring the young whiner down to reality! It's quite obvious that Golden boy Pratchett has done nothing but mollycoddle the little fiction obsessed fink, and no fiction for a while coupled with house trash in the backstreets three times a day will have them cured in no time.

Of course the medical staff would know this already if they weren't so busy cleansing themselves of those damn socialists.

I trust you will deal with the problem as proffesionally as you are known to do Von Mises, and I look forward to reading about yourself and your well earned fortune in no time.
 
 
Regrettable Juvenilia
22:33 / 24.12.05
Chapter Two: The First Spirit Appeareth!!!11!



I awoke with a start to find myself seated in my armchair by the now-guttering fire once more, the torn-up remains of a work of speculative SOCIALIST fiction in my lap.

"What rot!", I said aloud. "That apparition of my dear old dead business colleague Marley was nothing more than a bad dream brought on by indigestion. No doubt the root of the problem was some morsel of bread or tough bit of chicken. There was more of gravy than of grave about Marley! Do you see what I did there?"

For how long had I slept, I wondered. An hour? Several? It might as well have been a whole year! I chuckled to myself at such a ridiculous thought. Then I stood, tossed the rest of Perdido Street Station into the fire, and stumbled about in the dimly-lit room, in the general direction of the grandfather clock. On peering at the clockface, I saw that it was a few minutes to eleven. I had slept for a good five hours, and became aware that I felt a strong hunger. I decided to go to the kitchen, and make myself a sandwich of beetroot and cold meats.

Little did I suspect at this point that when I stepped into my kitchen, a most unsettling sight would greet me. The door to the larder was ajar, and lying on the kitchen floor were several lengths of filthy, rusting chains. I was speechless with shock for a moment, but only a moment.

"A POX upon all would-be comedians and SITUATIONISTS!", I cried aloud. "I have obviously been the VICTIM of an UNFUNNY and UNWARRANTED prank, designed to MESS with the proper good order of my MIND. Someone has broken into my PRIVATE PROPERTY during the night, and planted these chains here, and the noise they made while doing so gave rise to my unpleasant dream concerning my former colleague. No doubt this is the handiwork of some SOCIALIST students - the only kind of WORK they ever do! Well, if I ever catch up with them, I will be sure to express my RAGE!"

Suddenly there was a blinding flash of pink and green light, and before me appeared a most bizarre young woman. Her head was shaved, apart from a few multicoloured dreadlocks which sprouted from the top of her dome, and she had many facial piercings. She was wearing what appeared to be an orange boiler suit defaced with stenciled slogans such as 'CYB3R ASS-EATERS!', 'JOYCORE MATR1XX 23' and 'BIATCHES OF ER1S', and on her back were a pair of fairy wings.

She spoke:

"CHAOS TRIPPERS OF THE MILLENNIUM IS HERE TO PARTY!!!"

Readers, I must confess that I gawped in slack-jawed horror. I had some idea what levels of depravity and FOOLISHNESS the young people of today had sunk to, as a result of the SOCIALIST-DRIVEN COLLAPSE OF SOCIETY, but this shocked even I. The apparition flickered like a TV screen encountering interference, and resolved itself into the same woman, but different in appearance:



The Spirit Of Christmalith Past

"Von Mises, dude, whattupp! Eleven! I have many names, but you can call me the Spirit of Christmalith Past, you ass-eating pussy preacher!!! Come with me and I will show you visions of your past, which will totally fuck with your mind and help you see out of your current reality tunnel, which is totally fucking bogus! Twenty-three!!!"
 
 
HCE
21:41 / 27.12.05
More von Mises, please!
 
 
Ethan Hawke
18:07 / 30.12.05
Holy shit I love this!!!!
 
 
HCE
17:38 / 10.12.07
Must not change username to BIATCH OF ER1S.
Must not change username to BIATCH OF ER1S.
Must not change username to BIATCH OF ER1S.
 
  
Add Your Reply