A Very Strange Christmas . . .
Hannibal Lecter's take on Christmas. Only read this if you're totally and utterly fed up with the holidays, at least as the corporations would have it–shopping for 5 months straight, and all that jazz.
In the 5th year of my incarceration, a volunteer-group came to the Violent Ward on Christmas eve–to give us all the gift of cheer, presumably.
"This is the Violent Ward . . . Does anyone want to try to cheer them up?" Barney asked. (I could tell that this was not his idea.)
"Everyone needs Christmas cheer!" one foolhardy visitor replied.
"Okay, then. If anything happens, scream." Barney joked.
I think it was a joke, anyway.
"So, why are you here?" the volunteer asked us, smiling. She looked, to me, like a chipmunk on acid.
I was writing Christmas carols for Satanists to pass the time–I have a strange sense of humor. They were all in Latin; that way Chilton couldn't punish me. He didn't know Latin. (He was delicious after I escaped–but that's a tale for another time. . .)
"Half of them don't know, my dear . . . and the other half, you wouldn't want to know." I laughed at the stupidity of the whole situation. "I'm writing my own carols. What do you think of that?"
"Good for you! That's the spirit!"
"Every single one is Satanic and a blasphemy, but they're in Latin, so no one can tell. I know how to write in Latin; I'm very well-educated."
She gaped.
"I don't think you really get it, do you? This is the violent ward of an insane asylum; that means, basically, that everyone here is a madman and murderer. So go home, girl, and thank your God you weren't killed. I'd love a little morsel like you, my dear. We all would, in one awful way or another. The man in the cell across the way from me likes to rape little kids. The one next to him thinks that if he kills exactly 144 people, he will go to Heaven–and he's got 55 already, 89 to go. There is no Christmas cheer to be had here. If you want to make us happy, I suggest you kill yourself when you get home. Death is the cheeriest thing I can think of. I wonder how many churches collapse on Christmas, hmm? To us, a church collapse on Christmas Day is very cheery indeed."
"That's not cheery!" she said. She was looking more like a chipmunk all the time. A scared one, though, by now. "Who are you, anyway?"
I laughed. "I'm surprised you don't recognize me by now, my dearie. Dr. Hannibal Lecter, at your service." I started to hum one of my bitter little 'carol's.
'Ideo Gloria, Princeps Infernorum!–Glory to the Prince of Hell!'
I grinned at her.
"Dr. Hannibal Lecter? But Hannibal Lecter is also the name of a serial killer, you know. Why didn't you change it when he was captured?"
I decided the lady must be an idiot. In fact, it would take willful stupidity–and a lot of it–not to get this. "Stupid of you, girl. I am the Hannibal Lecter, and I am proud to be so. This is the Violent Ward, girl! If you are a rapist, a poisoner, or a cannibal you are welcome here! We don't want Christmas; and if some of us do, it's only because they are insane in a religious way! Now get out!"
She flinched, but still had that idiot smile on her face. I wanted to cut away that idiot smile, wanted to destroy that face. "Okay, okay, okay, you're just in a bad mood today . . . Hey, I'm a poet and I didn't even know it! But tomorrow's Christmas, so everybody better turn the frown upside-down!"
Miggs threw his food-tray at her. It made a mess of her clothes. "Hey, bitch!" he yelled.
I laughed bitterly, and started to sing to myself.
"Ideo -o, -o,
Ideo, -o, -o,
Ideo Gloria,
Princeps Infernorum!
"And merry Christmas, my dear. This is the asylum. But you have managed, my dear, to cheer me up. I could be out there, instead of in the madhouse. And I really do hate Christmas."
She left. I had the feeling that she had never actually known why people are sent into an asylum before; she seemed very sheltered.
Her husband appeared. "My wife came out of there crying! What's in that room?"
Barney smiled slightly; I could see the dislike in his face. "I think she saw why there isn't a nice tree and a warm fire in here, that's all. Dr. Lecter can be harsh to visitors."
"Who? Not the–"
"Yes. The Lecter. I pity anyone who thinks an asylum can be made to feel like Christmas, frankly."
"Hello." I grinned. "Want to come in? We don't much want Christmas, though. Do you have any Halloween? We're good at Halloween."
He frowned at me.
"Oh, well." I said. "Have to wait, I guess. Have you tried to give the Christmas spirit to Chilton yet? He's a real Scrooge, he is–'Ba, humbug' and all."
"You–"
"If you want Christmas, try Sammy No-Last-Name. He's the most religious one here. Crazy as a fruitbat, yes, but very religious."
"Why, you . . ."
"Be quiet, you idiot. Christmas isn't something that works here. I'm sure you're trying to help, but that's not the point. The point is, you are trying to teach pigs to sing; and, as the old saying goes, you are wasting you time and annoying the pigs. So stop it, before you get yourself hurt. Good day," and I went back to my Satanic choir-music.
"That was funny. That girl acted like–"
"A squirrel on drugs."
"Or a chipmunk, yes. At Christmas I'm almost glad I'm in here, you know. Madmen are so much saner!"
"Exactly . . . life is funny that way, sometimes."
"God's sense of humor must be very dark then, though, I'd say. Good night, Barney."
"Good night, Doctor."
Christmas Morning
"No presents, I'd guess?" The silence gave me my answer. "Oh, well. I don't mind."
"I think they don't like to be reminded."
"Merry Christmas."
"Merry Christmas."
The End