Christmas.

BAHUMBUG!

But I did get my no-good employee some presents; just to shut him up.

This is what he got.

 

( This is what he got. )Besides giving and recieving meaningless crap <s>which I loved but will never admit to</s> we forgot the rest of the day with a little help of egg nog, wine and something a japanese bloke gave us. I can't pronounce it, but I want it for breakfast, lunch and dinner!

Bernard sat up as though an invisible rope had been tied around him and now tried to pull him away from the sofa where he'd been sleeping. He'd had a terrible dream, he was hosting a birthday party for a bunch of 6-year-olds with sharp fangs and bushy tails. He was laughing, dancing, singing and sang happy birthday next to a 10-tier-cake that he had baked himself. Suddenly one of the fanged kids launched at him, and just when he was about to bite off Bernard's right arm, reality returned. He had to collect himself for a second. Scary thought, if he had his right arm bitten off he'd have to smoke and drink with his left hand... only artistic hippie people with lots of hair did that.

"Manny! Bake me a cake!! Many!!!!!!!" he shouted hoarsely while slowly crawling off the sofa, betting with himself whether his legs would carry him or not. They did, but only barely. He stumbled a little and ran his hand through his hair; that was the closest he came to grooming. If customers were scared away by his appearance, Bernard smelled his armpits, or smell... that meant he had finally perfected his secret weapon; people repellent.

"Manny!!!" he called. "I just had a bad dream so you have to do everything around here today!"

"For a change," he muttered to himself as he fished a fag out of his pocket and put it between his lips. What the hell? Where was the lighter? Bernard begun to do the pocket macarena, but finally gave up. Instead he managed to get to the phone and pick it up, dialing a familiar number. "Fran? Fran?! It's an emergency. Come now! No, I'm not exaggerating this time, it is an emergency." He hung up.

Where was his ever-so-loyal dog/son/assistant/maid/slave/husband? "Manny!" he tried to shout again, but his voice broke and made him sound like a teenager. He took a deep sigh. His companion was probably staying the night at Rowena's. Bernard had no idea that what he was feeling was actually jealousy, he didn't work that way. Instead he got irritated at the fact that Manny hadn't asked permission to stay the night in some hussy's bed, and not turning up for work. "You are so grounded," he said as if Manny could hear him, wiggling his finger threateningly into thin air. Suddenly a thought emerged in his screwed up irish head... More work! Need to give Manny more work so he'll stay!

After a litany of curse words and threats such as; "Just send me like a thousand books, get them here tomorrow or I'll turn your belly button inside out with a hover sold to me by a man from Dorset!", he dropped the phone onto the desk and took a drag from his fag (the lighter was hiding underneath the book he was currently reading). The bottle of red wine was already standing in front of him, half empty, next to a glass that was now completely empty and waiting for a refill. He was celebrating what a genius he was!