Merry Christmas!

The matter of Quintilius, Apollonia, and the abacus led quite directly to my resignation from the newspaper's editorial staff, after the censorship department of our association forcefully forbade the editor-in-chief from publishing it. I never would have dreamed that we had anything like censorship.

In any case, I shook the dust off my sandals and turned my back on this unworthy bunch. Because, of course, it was the same old story, as so often happens with the powerful of this world: when a red warning light comes on, they unscrew the bulb, but they don't fix the actual problem...

For a year and a half, I received monthly payment reminders from Businoxx. One sunny December morning, I was on a plane to Cyprus and inevitably overheard a conversation between two businessmen, one of whom was an employee of that very manufacturer and was praising his company to the skies. I couldn't very well intervene, although I almost choked with anger at involuntarily listening to these tall tales, but I immediately decided to write a Christmas story.

Here she is.

As I promised, here you'll find the ultimate, most heart-wrenchingly emotional Christmas story ever! The only truly complete compendium of pre-Christmas poetry—it would make even Selma Lagerlöf or Karli Waggerl drool!

Santa Claus in his sleigh, with reindeer, snow flurries and traffic jams on the A2 motorway, little cherub angels fluttering excitedly around the manger, their little frozen bottoms hidden beneath their smocks...

???

One moment please, the doorbell is ringing, I think it's the postman!

Originally, it was supposed to be a really lovely, sentimental Christmas story with Santa Claus, reindeer, snow flurries, and Jingle Bells. But then the postman rang twice...

The European Christmas sensation!

e-XMas at its finest!

Download now!!!

Quintilius called me about a week ago, distraught and quite frantic.

"I'm at the airport, but I have to tell you this first!" He's apparently huffing and puffing Apollonia's suitcase through the departure hall. I wait patiently until the crackling of his guaranteed crystal-clear cell phone subsides, then I urge him: "Well, go ahead then!"

Quintilius seems very exasperated and confused, because he asks back: "What then?"

As you know me, dear readers, my proverbial patience is not easily tested, so I demonstratively remain silent and continue typing ".....schte, and then the rag mother placed the tiny, most adorable rag baby in the ..."

"Oh, yes!" said Quintilius, "so, what I wanted to say is that we're flying off on holiday this morning, as you know, and then suddenly the doorbell rings and the postman delivers a registered reminder from Businoxx and I think I'm going to have a heart attack, which you can surely understand!"

"Please, dear Quincy, not so many 'and's, and besides, how do I know you're going on holiday? And – who approved that?"

Quintilius was of course no match for this masterful rhetorical hook, and in the ensuing pause I corrected the passage "...but no matter how hard Santa tried, the reindeer veered sideways into the bushes..." and listened to Quintilius again.

"I'm not in the mood for jokes," Quintilius grumbled defiantly into his cell phone. "They've sent me another reminder, again threatening legal action, but this time by registered mail!"

I remain silent and think, "That's what he gets for not being a club member," but hey, he's got to be stubborn! If I remember correctly, this lackluster club already denied its history once before...

"What should I do?" he interrupts my club-philosophical musings, and I hear in the background the announcer asking the driver of the car with the license plate W 236 KL to please go to the information desk.

Time is clearly of the essence, because if he's parked his car illegally, he'll probably have to walk. So I help him and answer:

"I don't know what can be done either!" This whole Businoxx saga has been dragging on for quite a while now; perhaps something should be done...

"I have an idea, Quincy, why don't you write the whole story down and send it to me via the internet? Then we'll see what's next!" I hear him breathe a sigh of relief, and he says:

"Thank you, I'll do that! But I have to go now, my car is parked right in front of the fire station entrance and Apollonia's hatbox is..."

I quickly interrupt him and wish him a good flight. — Annoying fellow!

A few days later, as I was writing "...a small piece of road dung flew from the hoof of the last reindeer Santa directly into his eye, so that his tears mixed with the snowflakes...", my PC sang: "You have got an e-mail!", so I checked, and lo and behold, it was the story that Quintilius sent me from his holiday.

The shrill ringing of the house bell jolts me awake.

7:01 AM! Well hello, that can't be! But the short-short-short-long signal tells me that it's Mr. Wawranek, our postman — a die-hard old radio operator who simply ignores the official worldwide discontinuation of Morse code (July 1, 2000) and is waking me up with the (now former) call signal.

He surely wouldn't do it without a good reason, I think alarmedly, and rise with a groan, trying not to wake Apollonia. I shuffle down the corridor and open the door: it's the postman.

"Well, boss, how are you?" he asks as always, holding out an envelope. I grumble something to him in a friendly-grim tone and look at the sender: Businoxx Internationalis Machinibus, BIM!

Are they completely out of their minds? Are they now sending their annoying monthly reminders by registered mail?!

I sign nervously and nod to Mr. Wawranek, then shuffle back to the bedroom, roll into the warm blanket, and try to fall asleep again. My heartbeat subsides, and Hypnos, the god of sleep, graciously takes me under his wing once more. As I drift off, I think about how we're flying off on vacation today, and that's precisely why this idiotic reminder doesn't interest me in the slightest. I'd much rather imagine the blue sea and the palm trees, the ice-cold tequilas, and romping around with Ornella in the hot sand...

And then the bell rings shrilly again. Di -Di-Di-Daaa! Wawranek! What has he forgotten now, the idiot? Why does he have to ring me out of bed again?! I jump up angrily with the grace of a bulldozer, waking Apollonia, who sleepily murmurs, "Well, what is it, darling?" and rolls back onto her side.

"I'm leaving already!" I whisper, stomping out with a grim look. Of all things—now she'll probably be in a bad mood all day! As I open the door, I joke grimly, "...and if the postman rings twice!"

Mr. Wawranek looks at me with his dachshund eyes, trustingly but uncomprehendingly, holds out a package and says: "Excuse me, this seems to be for you too!".

I look at the thing; it's incredibly heavy. Addressed to Quintilius T. Faber, Big Boss. I tell Wawranek I'm not a Big Boss, but he says I'm the only QTFaber in the house, except maybe my nephew, but his name is QQFaber, Quintilius Quartus.

I shrug and sign, then head back to the bedroom. On the way, I put the package on the couch, checking the sender's name first. But it's illegible, some random person from San Tacla, USA. Aha, from the USA—well, it'll probably be some kind of plug-in or something. I sneak into the bedroom and am just swinging my front leg over the edge of the bed when the doorbell rings again. Clink.

Okay, now I'm going to punch Wawranek, damn it! Can't he just deliver everything at once?! First that stupid reminder from Businoxx, then the ominous package—what could it be this time? I stride boldly to the door and yank it open, freezing mid-movement. Outside stand Joshua, aka Samuel Jackson, and Vince, aka John Travolta.

No, I'm not completely crazy, as you might assume—I'm just standing here with my mouth open in amazement. Out there are the two super-assassins from Quentin Tarantino's film PULP FICTION, Joshua and Vince. In their black suits, Joshua with oiled, curly hair and Travolta with a shoulder-length wig. Casually clutching their silenced guns, they're at it. [If you haven't seen the film yet: a hilarious heist comedy that will have you laughing so hard your French fries will stick in your throat!]

"The Lord gives, the Lord takes away," says Joshua, the former preacher, pushing past me into the apartment.

"We're just picking up the package that was dropped off here!" explains Vince, uh, Travolta, and pushes me back into the apartment with the silencer on his chest, closing the door behind him.

We walk — me backwards — to the living room, Joshua picks up the package from the couch and grins: "Seek and ye shall find!".

It's totally paradoxical, it can't be true! How did these characters get to me, why do they want this package, what do I have to do with any of this? Joshua—Mr. Jackson—sees the question marks on my forehead and explains: "We're tasked with delivering greetings from the Little Boss to the Big Boss—he wants to become the Big Boss himself now. Sending the package by mail seemed the easiest way; it's still the most reliable method!" Although I'm still glued to Vince's overly long gunshot, I can't help whispering, "You're probably the only ones who still believe that." Vince nudges me in the chest with the barrel of his gun and asks Joshua, "Kill me?"

I'm horrified at how quickly something like this can happen. Travolta is aiming at me, just waiting for Joshua's OK. Despair and a healthy dose of anger make me blurt it out: "It's simply unfair! First that stupid reminder from Businoxx! Then the package—and now the two of you, trying to crush me just like that!"

Mr. Jackson—Joshua—thinks for a long time, then nods. Travolta aims the bullet directly at me; I squint and hear a double "ploff!", hear the bullets click into the plaster behind me. When I open my eyes again, I see Vince fiddling angrily with the device, presumably due to a jam.

Not so Joshua. He grabs Travolta's silencer, the barrel dips to the ground. "A miracle! The Lord has performed a miracle! Listen, my brother, this miracle is a sign!"

Perplexed, I listen as Joshua delivers a sermon, speaking of the Lord and his miracle, of how Vince has never, he repeats, never failed! While the mad Joshua becomes increasingly entangled in his sermon and Vince stares down, more and more embarrassed, I glance towards the bedroom door where Apollonia, still looking completely sleep-deprived, stands in her short, good-morning-darling toga. Suddenly it dawns on me why Vince had missed the mark: no man can overlook that tiny toga!

My knees were shaking as I sank onto the couch. Joshua's phone rang, interrupting him mid-speech. He politely said, "Excuse me!" and held the phone to his ear, listening to the other person. Finally, he said, "Okay, Boss!" and put the device away. Turning to Vince, he said laconically, "Our mission is accomplished; the Big Boss got sick while jogging this morning!" Vince shrugged, then asked, "So what now?" Joshua sat down, Vince did too, and gestured for Apollonia to join us. After a long pause, Joshua asked me, "What was that about trouble this morning?"

I cautiously ask him if he hasn't read my story online; but Joshua denies it. So I explain in broad strokes that we leased a computer from Businoxx. And since the first payment, we've received (until today!) a reminder every month, sometimes even a forceful one threatening legal action. Today, for the first time, one arrived by registered mail, which suggests that Businoxx has finally lost all control.

Vince asks if I haven't complained? "Oh yes," I reply, "and I do!" I've called them at least a dozen times. They told me there were two computer systems involved: one that receives the payments and another that gently enters them into the accounting ledgers. Apparently, the two just don't get along. And they advised me to simply throw away the payment reminders; they become obsolete after a few days once computer number one has notified computer number two. Month after month, a curt reminder arrives, then my automatic payment comes through, and then there's peace and quiet for another three weeks.

Furthermore, I said, I suspect that Businoxx has a problem with my standing order, since they apparently only programmed the direct debit correctly; but, and now I look innocently at the two crooks, would you grant such a company automatic direct debit, seeing how incompetent they actually are at Businoxx?! When they both shake their heads, I grin and explain that—in order to add a humorous touch to the whole thing in case of a legal dispute—I also made a manual overpayment.

When Joshua looks at him blankly, Vince explains that Businoxx apparently has absolutely no control over its system; in the case of an overpayment, the reminders should stop immediately—the customer has a credit balance, after all. It's a disgrace, says Vince, he used to work in accounting himself, back in the day, before computers. But Businoxx? Such a huge computer manufacturer, boasting about e-business and solutions for a small planet, yet using such a disastrous system that God have mercy! Well, people have saved money, I soften, otherwise I wouldn't be getting reminders for "(-,—) ATS" every now and then—zero schillings, so to speak. Vince laughs so hard that tears run down his makeup.

"I see," Joshua says, "so you rented the machine and set up a standing order; but because they can't manage their own computers and programs, you're being bombarded with payment reminders, month after month!" He pauses for a long time, letting the thought sink in, before slowly continuing: "Well, then we'll just bombard them back!" I stare at him wide-eyed, and he grins, patting the package with his hand. "Well, what did you think was inside?" he smirks, "A little greeting from Santa Claus!" — I suddenly understand what San Tacla, US, means.

"But you can't do that!" I protest, "You can't just..." Joshua grins and snarls: "Oh yes we can! So, let's go!" He and Vince get up, and since neither Apollonia nor I make any move to follow them, Vince pulls out his buffer and forces us to come along.

A rapid drive in the white Mercury ensues, along the Ring Road to the Danube Canal, where the Businoxx headquarters is located. I close my eyes, praying that Joshua doesn't drive over a bump, because what could happen! I remember all too clearly that in the film, the car bounces over a bump, and a shot goes off from Vince's cannon...

The car stops right in front of the main entrance. Vince takes the package, they both get out and go to reception. While Joshua engages the receptionist in a complex conversation, Vince gets into the elevator and comes out again a second later. I hug Apollonia, shivering in her "Good Morning, Darling" toga, warmly to my chest and silently pray that today might be a holiday. That the early birds might not be inside yet and the latecomers might not be. But it's still 7:01 a.m., so there's no real danger.

Joshua and Vince return to the car. Joshua says, "Merry Christmas, Businoxx!" Vince lights a cigar and counts, "Four, three, two, one, boom!" At the same instant, a dull explosion rips the Businoxx building apart, and Joshua adds, "...and a Happy New Year!" The building is ripped apart from the inside out, desks, filing cabinets full of punch cards, and insanely long rolls of computer printouts are catapulted out into the morning stillness. One such filing cabinet full of punch cards flies directly toward our car, spins on its axis, and is about to crush us! While the others stare transfixed at this projectile, I throw open the door and hurl myself sideways out...

...and I crash onto the bedroom carpet with a whimper. Where am I? What happened to the explosion? Slowly, I recognize the familiar outline of the bedroom, sit up dazed, and rub my eyes. Apollonia wakes with a sigh, leans over me smiling, and kisses me: "Merry Christmas, my love, we're flying off on holiday today!"

Quintilius swallows gratefully and says: "Merry Christmas, my love!" (Also a kiss).

His gaze falls upon the registered letter of reminder, which lies crumpled on the floor.

And — okay then: "Merry Christmas, Businoxx!" (but no kiss), "...and a Happy New Year!"