A SNN Christmas Carol

Stave II: The Ghost of Christmas Past or Jeff Field Likes Blowin' Things Up

Now Ballway tried to settle in to his anti-gravity bed, but could not, as the words of Cathcart haunted him, despite his outward showing of apathy. Ballway sat up in his bed, and looked about, then turned the gravity on and looked about.

There was nothing. And then, the chronometer announced midnight. Could it be? Ballway looked at the display on the wall. It was past two when he finally went to bed. Had he slept a whole day? His pondering was interrupted by a hand, which moved between the crack betwixt the doors of his room and opened them.

Standing there was a child, not unlike any other, but with a single peculiarity. From the top of his head there issued a bright green glow, perhaps stifled at times by the cap which he held in his hand. In his other hand were several sticks of dynamite and a sheep.

"Greetings," said the figure, "I am Jeff Field, the Ghost of STF Past."

Ballway stared a moment, then looked in horror as the Ghost lit the sheep and threw it to a corner of the room. It exploded and destroyed that corner, reducing it to shards of micro-milled duranium foam. Indeed this truly was Jeff Field.

"And I assume," said Ballway, "that you have come to show me my past? Hmm? To let me look back upon my life with alleged awe? Well, Spirit, you suppose wrong."

"We’ll see," said Field, lighting a cow and tossing it casually out the window, where it destroyed a small shop on the other side of the street, and damaged those adjacent to it. In this instant, Ballway was transported from his apartment to another time and place, the Academy.

"Spirit, what are we doing here?" asked Ballway, for it was the middle of winter in the cold, drafty building. The two walked closer to a first-floor window, and saw a boy inside.

"Field, who is this boy that remains here? Why is he not home with his family like the others?"

The Spirit threw a pig through the window, and it sent shards of glass flying and a section of wall caved in. "Look," said he. "Look and see who this is that remains here at Christmas."

Ballway moved closer to the child, then his eyes shown terror. "Its . . . it’s Jerry Phelps!"

The Spirit sighed and said, "Try again."

"One of the Platts?"

"No."

"Um...Randy McCullick?"

The Spirit slapped Ballway around a bit with a large trout, and then he knew who it was. "Why, Spirit, that’s me!"

"Well, DUH!" exclaimed the Spirit.

Ballway continued. "I . . . I always stayed here over Christmas, my uncle wouldn’t have me at home."

"And why not?"

"When I was younger I, well, when I was but an infant . . . I wrote a piece called ‘SNN News/Announcements Service.’ My uncle was so repulsed by it that he extricated me from his home."

A slow hum was to be heard outside, and even the younger Ballway heard it. He leapt out the hole in the wall created by Field’s brand of construction, and saw a shuttle outside the Academy, waiting for him.

"But here," said Field, "here you are being taken home, am I correct?" Ballway sniffed. "My . . . my uncle finally lifted his ban on me at home, and so I was able to come home . . . apparently he read more of my work and calmed down. Ouch, wait until he hits WeBBSights."

Field sniffed. "This would make me emotional if I had tear ducts." He continued, "Now, let us move forward to visit your first REAL job."

"My janitorial position in the Executive Washroom?"

"No, you buffoon! At SNN!" With that, Field tossed a lamb through the air, it exploded in bright colors, and soon they were in a different time and place.

They were in front of the SNN Building now, a newer SNN Building than Ballway had seen that day. Ballway stared in amazement and confusion.

"Spirit," said he, "I have already been here; I left here not a day ago." Field smiled and threw a goat down the street, sending an elderly woman several meters into the air. "You haven’t been here in thirty years. Come, look at what those inside are doing."

Ballway looked in the window and saw Genesun Han, the founder of SNN, inside.

"Come," said Field, as he blew the door off his hinges with a carefully set pig. The characters inside took no notice. "This was you many years ago, before you became encompassed by greed and a Journalistic Motto of ‘Quick, Informative, Totally Biased Reporting’ of STF Events."

Inside were Ballway, younger, indeed, and Mike Cathcart, alive and well, setting up for a Christmas celebration.

Ballway smiled. "Old Han sure knew how to throw a party." Inside was a cube of Blue Jell-O three cubic meters in measure. "This is McParty I!" he exclaimed. As he exclaimed, many persons arrived.

In came Jim Midyette, in his long flowing robes. In came Phillip Bishop, with a medical kit at hand. In came Mike Bourdaa, stressed out moreso than usual. In came Mike Bourdaa’s sister (who looked oddly like Mike himself). In came Greg Hertzsch, fairly new to the club and stumbling around (not as Chris Healey or Jason Rauch would stumble, but he was stumbling, to say the least). In they all came, beginning to party, and then, to take pieces of Blue Jell-O and eat them merrily.

There were great dances, feasts, lavish assortments of things, Jell-O fights, and things great and small occurring in every corner of the room. And Mr. Han, well, if there had been twice -- no, four times -- as many people at that party, he could have out-satirized them all, throwing in his two cents where may or may not have been wanted and everyone still enjoying it.

When the chronometer struck 2300 hours, the ball broke up. Mr. Han and Mr. Midyette stood on either side of the door and hurriedly shooed people out of the room, attempting to get them out of there as fast as they could. They hated people, and wanted nothing to do with them, save on this Christmas Eve. During this ordeal, Ballway acted as a man out of his wits, singing and dancing and playing Twister in the street.

"Quite inappropriate," remarked Field, chucking a cow towards a nearby meat market, "that people of this caliber should prance in such a way."

"Inappropriate!" stammered Ballway. "Why, McParties have been a staple of STF since, well, since I joined!"

"Yes, he has spent only a few space-bucks of your mortal money, and still he deserves this praise?" said Field as he aimed a sheep at a nearby shuttle. "It isn’t that," said Ballway, ducking as Field tossed an exploding pig over his head and into a match factory window, "it’s that he has the power to determine whether we live or die. He can make us happy or unhappy. Why, he..." Ballway stopped, then began again. "Rubbish, Spirit, Rubbish!"

The Spirit checked his watch, and then snapped his fingers. Soon, Ballway and the Sprit were in the SNN Building, a newer SNN Building. Inside was Ballway, in a small "Associate Editor" office, and a young woman standing outside, with tears in her eyes.

"What Idol has displaced me?" she exclaimed.

"A satirical one," responded a younger Ballway, writing out a copy of SNN Update. "I can make big things out of this, I’ll be a star, I’ll . . . I’ll be FComm-2!"

The young woman laughed. "Yes, that’ll be the day."

"You think not?"

"I think that you have become so absorbed by this . . . this . . . SNN Update of yours that you have forgotten me, forgotten yourself, forgotten everyone in STF that matters to you!"

"No one matters to me. That is the plight of all STF Mikes. To be stolid and emotionless, like so many Vulcans. Good day."

"But Mike . . ."

"Good day."

The elder Ballway, watching, was pained. "Spirit, conduct me home. Why do you delight to torture me?"

Field laughed a very hollow laugh. "Oh, c’mon, I torture everyone. Don’t think you’re so special. Here, have a horse," said Field, handing Ballway a horse. The Spirit ran to an alley, leaving Ballway with the horse. A moment of realization dawned on him . . . all too late. Ballway was exploded into a million pieces.

He woke up drenched in sweat, and indeed he found time to put on swim trunks there was so much of it. Ballway was back in his bedroom, safe and sound. He soon retired into a heavy, snoring sleep.