Duane Swierczynski's "A Christmas Carol"

For holiday amusement purposes only. With photographs by Meredith Swierczynski. And profound apologies to Charles Dickens.

The London air was cold enough to freeze your balls solid. Still, the two old hard bastards were outside, trying to make the deal happen.


Neezer the Geezer was the older cunt's name. He had six kilos of coke and nowhere to move it. His usual contact, Marley, was no good. "Marley you son of a bitch," Neezer told him. "I'm going to cut you so hard you'll feel it in your bone marrow."


Marley wasted no time. He sent four double hard motherfuckers in with chains and shit to fuck up Neezer good. They were due at midnight. Sharp.


Before he knew it, Neezer was kneeling in front of Klaus the Pimp, who had some weird Santa fetish going on. Neezer didn't know. Didn't fucking care. "I need a piece," Neezer told him. "Double fast." Klaus told him to go see Bobby the Crotch. "Oh fuck me," Neezer said. He'd double-crossed Bobby the Crotch a few years back. Still, he had no choice. He needed the heavy iron.


Neezer found Bobby the Crotch at home with his usual gang of underage whores, drinking absinthe and eating delicious holiday pies spiked with ecstasy. Bobby the Crotch claimed not to have a piece that night. Scrooge called him a fucker and a liar. Bobby the Crotch said, fuck you, I'm serious. Neezer broke the leg of one of Bobby's little rent boys, some little cunt named Tim, and told him to not to let it happen again.


Out on the streets, near Beggar's Alley, Neezer ran into an old mate named Buchan. Buchan happened to be carrying an extra piece. Neezer asked him how much. Buchan told him. Neezer didn't like the price, so he sliced Buchan's throat and took the piece anyway. He changed into a nightcap and a purple robe. This was a night for killing. Oh yeah.


But then Death found Neezer. Death was one of Marley's top torpedoes. Liked to dress in black and wear a skull mask and shit. Death was so fuckin' sick, he even liked to carve the names of his targets on styrofoam headstones and then present them to his victims, just to fuck with their heads. (I know, right?) Once Neezer heard Death had taken the job, he knew didn't have a fucking chance.


Neezer flung open the windows of his overpriced condo and hurled himself to the piss-soaked streets, 10 stories down. Neezer struck the ground head first, but he didn't die right away. It took a while. A long, long while.


Marley happened by Neezer's flat, hoping to catch him while Death worked him over. Instead, he found Neezer's twitching, bleeding body on the street. He started laughing. His sweet bitch Agatha started laughing, too. Oh, how they fucking laughed. And Neezer could hear them. He could hear every word.


Tim the Rent Boy also happened by. His leg still hurt like fuck, but the strangest thing had happened: Tim realized he liked the abuse. Kind of got off on it, actually. He'd gone to Neezer's flat to see if he wouldn't mind breaking his arm. But then he saw Neezer's head, smashed open on the cold asphalt. "God fuck us," he said. "Every last fuckin' one."

The End