They were selling christs at the market. It was the season for it, of course. Fifty pence each or four for a pound. I said, “I’m not sure you should be selling discount christs, really,” and the man running the market stall said, ”What why not?” and I said, “It just seems a bit disrespectful really,” and he said, “So it’d be better if I ripped you off then would it?” and I shrugged my shoulders and said “I dunno,” but I still didn’t like it.
A woman came up and asked for a christ and the market man said, “Just the one love? It’s four for a pound,” but she said, “Nah just one I could never manage four I’d end up just throwing the others out for the birds,” and she handed him a 50p and he handed her a christ and she bit into the skull and I could see her shiver uncontrollably in delight as the hallowed brains burst out into her mouth. Then she pulled the arms and legs off and gave one each to her children, who all began to gnaw with a sullen determination at the foetal limbs.
She handed the torso back to the stall holder and said, “Can you wrap that up for me?” and he put the bloody lump of it down on some grease proof paper and wrapped it up neatly for her and said, “Saving it for someone special?” and she said, “The heart’s my favourite bit. I’m saving it for later,” and then she smiled and said, “For the when the kids have gone to bed,” and she winked at the christ seller and there was blood on her teeth and quite a bit on her chin and then she tucked the bloody package into her bag and went on her way, her children following behind like dogs, still chewing on their bones, trying desperately to extract some holy flavour from the seeping marrow and the gristly meat. I watched them disappear into the distance and thought of many things.
“Are you going to fucking buy any christs or what you fucking cunt?” the christ man said to me and I handed him a pound and took my discount christs without a word.
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Notes:
1. Written on December 10th, 2016
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