by Jak Koke and Jonathan Bond
“M. X‑M. everybody, and welcome to the show. You know the game, you know the stakes, and the only thing you don’t know is our contestant. This X‑Mas Eve vidcast we feature Harmon McDonnel from Arlington Virginia. He’s a special case folks, because normally Harmon is a law‑abiding citizen, with monthly spending averaging two to three percent above the quota. But tonight Harmon is in trouble. Deep trouble.”
Harmon grits his teeth and lowers his shoulder to muscle through a knot of shoppers clustered around a food pavilion, then past the Children‑of‑Marx booth. One of the “Children” waves a pamphlet in Harmon’s face.
As Harmon tries to move around, the man steps directly in his path. Long hair and beard draping over the collar of his red, Moses robe, he asks Harmon for a donation. Actually, more of a trade. He’ll give Harmon a live tree for a modest contribution. Harmon stiff arms him and dodges. Harmon has a family and his job to think of. He can’t afford the hassle which comes with associating with Marxists.
“Trouble with a capital ‘T’ my friends, which rhymes with ‘D’ and that stands for dollars. Our unfortunate Harmon has only one shopping hour left before midnight when all the stores close. And he’s far from reaching his X‑Mas spending quota. Our show sent him a huge X‑Mas bonus‑‑a ten‑thousand‑dollar, mall‑only gift certificate. Can Harmon spend it by midnight? That is the magic question.”
Harmon eyes two heavy‑set COPs‑‑COnsumer Police, their mirrored contact lenses reflecting the passing throng. The COPs wear Kevlar flex‑armoring, riot pistols and lead‑lined rubber bats.
“The COP force looks exceptionally mean this X‑Mas eve. They must have recruited them from last year’s losers. Heads are gonna roll. We’ve given Harmon forty‑to‑one odds of spending out his quota before midnight. Place your bets now, or forever hold your peace.”
Harmon glances at his watch and pushes towards Macy’s. He bucks against the current of shoppers, powering through the lines of children at the virtual‑Santa consoles. Kids too young to be subject to spending quotas, oblivious of the desperate movements around them. Free to jack in and tell Saint Nick what they want.
Harmon sweeps past the glass doors, past the COP sentinels checking expenditures, standing tall like thick prison bars in their black Kevlar. Through the tinted glass of the doors, Harmon eyes the fenced platform outside in the splash of floodlights. He sees the silhouettes of the people in the crowd around it, gathering for the show at midnight. He shivers.
“Forty‑eight minutes to go, and Harmon hasn’t bought a single thing. It doesn’t look like it’s going to be a happy X‑Mas for him and his family.”
Harmon has things under control. Macy’s has the piece of jewelry he wants‑‑a $10,000 true‑emerald necklace for Jeni. Still, he wishes he wasn’t cutting it so close. Harmon presses into the throng of bodies clogging the entrance to Macy’s, and begins the push to the jewelry section.
“And now for a word from our sponsors. We’ll be right back.”
Harmon stands behind a huge mountain of a woman in the jewelry line and waits. And waits. He checks the time and checks it again as the line creeps slowly and not so surely towards the counter. Twenty minutes to go.
A teen‑age boy sneaks past, wearing a black t‑shirt that shows a hologram of Santa nailed to a cross. The kid makes a move and tries to cut in line. It’s obviously his first year under the quota law.
In front of Harmon, the woman plants a quick elbow in the kid’s face. “End of the line, asshole!” she yells.
The kid grabs his bloody nose and reels back, straight into the cosmetics line. He is promptly beaten to the floor.
Harmon waits. And waits. And checks the time. Ten minutes. And waits.
“Okay, we’re back. Harmon’s time is running low. Look out. The stage out front is surrounded by the biggest crowd we’ve seen in years. We’re sure they won’t leave disappointed. The odds against Harmon have dropped to sixty‑to‑one.”
Two from the front with three minutes to go, Harmon hops from foot to foot in frustration. The old lady in front can’t decide if she wants the ruby earrings or the video bracelet. Fatty is equally agitated, clenching and unclenching her fists. Finally, the old lady decides on the earrings. One more to go before Harmon.
“Two minutes until the carriage becomes a pumpkin again. He’s reached the counter, but what will he buy? Has it sold already? We’ll see.”
Harmon glances around frantically for the sparkling necklace of true‑emeralds, but can’t find it anywhere. The crowd squeezes in, pressing Harmon against the glass counter. Frantic to get their quota spent.
“One minute.”
There it is! “I want that necklace,” he yells, reaching across the counter to grab the attendant’s shirt, making sure she sees it. He slaps his quota card into her hand.
The attendant gets the necklace and scans his card through the register, just as the man behind Harmon crams in, trying to shove Harmon out of the way and muscle to the counter.
Harmon turns and jams his knee into the man’s gut. The man gobbles air and doubles over, flailing and striking out in order to keep his place in line. Harmon spins back to face the attendant, touches his finger to the signature pad and watches as. . . $9,000 is deducted from his quota.
NINE THOUSAND DOLLARS!
“But that price tag says $10,000.”
The attendant smiles patiently, handing him the necklace and his quota card. “Sorry, sir. Everything is ten percent off today.”
The man behind Harmon has recovered, clenches his fist, and rams a searing jab to Harmon’s kidneys. Harmon collapses under a pressing tide of shoppers.
“Thirty seconds now and $1000 to go. It looks as if Harmon McDonnel is going to spend this X‑mas in the slam‑slam‑slammer. Wait a second. He’s getting up now. He’s running.”
Harmon pulls down two women and a little girl as he thrashes to get to his feet. Then he’s up and powering through the throng. The flow of bodies thins as he gets out of Macy’s. He sprints straight for the Children‑of‑Marx booth. No line.
“Ten seconds.”
The long‑hair in the red robe looks at him with surprise. Harmon slaps his quota card into the man’s hand. “One thousand dollars for that live tree,” says Harmon. “Now!”
“Five seconds.”
The man slides Harmon’s counter through his machine.
“Three.”
The remaining $1000 is removed. The man hands him the tree.
“Time is up. It looks as though Harmon has survived. Good for him. And good for those of you who bet on him. Lucky winners will be credited.”
Harmon smiles at the man. “Thanks,” he says. The man offers Harmon a pamphlet. Harmon hesitates, but takes it before turning towards the exit.
“Now let’s take a quick commercial break before going live to the gathering outside to bring in X‑Mas. Everybody remember to have an M. X‑M. and an H. N. Y.”
Harmon hands his quota card to one of the COP sentinels by the glass doors. He is let through without resistance.
Many of the shoppers are not.
The convicts‑‑men, women and children who did not meet quota‑‑are gathered together on the fenced‑off platform.
As he heads towards the shuttle tram, Harmon looks to the stage. The first of the criminals is escorted out by two big COPs. It’s the boy in the Santa-on-the-Cross t‑shirt. Tears run down his cheeks, mixing with the blood from his nose.
The crowd cheers as the two COPs take turns with their lead‑lined rubber bats and beat him senseless.
X‑Mas has come at last.
🎁