I did a quick change into Santa. I don't think anyone realised it was me. Kris Kringle was a giveaway, but at least I got what I wanted. I even won the door prize. Though the surprise guest wasn’t really a surprise, it was the most accurate singing telegram I’d ever heard.

The dessert wafers were so small, the waiter put two of them straight onto my tongue. I left the party about an hour later so as not to cramp my style. Once I was gone, I really cut loose.
When the karaoke started, I was the only one to get up. Some people just don’t know how to let themselves go. Then I did a skit taking the piss out of the boss. No one laughed - out of respect I suppose. At last the DJ played ‘Time Warp’, ‘Bus stop’, ‘Madison’ and ‘Nutbush City Limits’. For once, everyone danced in time.

The DJ left at midnight so I fired up the jukebox. Someone chose the same song seven times. I’m quite partial to the Nolan Sisters, but I felt for those who weren’t. I tried a conga line out to the street, but it didn't catch on, so I grabbed the company video camera. I couldn't find anyone to film except the koala in the bathroom, who also happened to be filming.

Much later, when I was really drunk, I slipped into the broom cupboard and felt myself up. That got me so frisky, I did something I'd always wanted to but am a little ashamed to admit. I had sex on my own desk.

Early in the morning, after the hired help had gone, I went outside for a ciggie. No one would let me back in and I had to smash a window. The cops came; then the fire brigade. Some fool had butted out on my tree fern.

At least there were no gate crashers.

After

Though I always front for work no matter how much I’ve drunk, I almost couldn’t face myself next morning. As expected, no one offered to help clean up. My office was a disgrace. If I don’t get sued for harassment, I’ll at least get a good talking to.

I changed the password on my computer, just in case I’d let it slip. Someone had photocopied his genitals, which were really too small to have warranted the effort. Worse, some pervert had called a sex line and left the phone off the hook. Nor will I rest until I find out who pissed in the bath. The only bright moment in my day was when a thank-you bunch of flowers arrived.

You put these parties on and people make a mockery of them. Next year someone else can organise the damn thing. Come to think of it, I might even take myself off the guest list.

The End.

During

I’d booked a limo to keep transport arrangements simple, but was the only one to cough up his share. It cost a fortune, since some idiot got the address wrong on the invite. I arrived late because I didn't want to be first there. Even so, the cook, the waiter, the barman and the DJ were the only people present. For hired help, they seemed to be having a pretty good time.

I took my shoes off so as not to dirty the carpet. The smoke, strobe lights and floating balloons made for a pretty disorienting environment. I put up with it, remembering that I too had been young once. I’d authorised a taxi voucher, so I figured it was safe to have a tipple. The barman gave me a drink with a funny name. It didn’t taste like beer, wine or soft drink.

The theme was ‘Fun with Fur’. I was disappointed when I saw another koala in the bathroom. Whoever it was must have also been upset, since they stayed there all night and wouldn’t speak to me.

The DJ refused to play my request, so I went into the back yard to join the party games. I might be the boss, but I’m not aloof. The limbo competition was a dead loss and blind man's buff took forever, but I won every other event except the three legged race (there were odd numbers).

The dinner was fine, though the Christmas crackers were impossible and some prankster had rearranged the name tags. I ordered chicken but got beef and no one was prepared to swap. That’s gratitude. As CEO, I naturally had to make a speech. I thanked everyone for coming. Despite having the best sales figures, I didn’t get a bonus. I should’ve guessed; I'm such a tight arse.

To be continued...

I work alone from my home office. Running your own business is great, but it can make you a bit paranoid. Last year was tough and, as my only employee, I really carried the can.

When December finally arrived, I felt a Christmas party was needed to reward effort and boost morale.

Before

I asked for volunteers to form a committee. Naturally, I was the only one who gave a damn. This didn’t really worry me, since administration is my strong suit. After squabbling over the budget, I decided not to allow partners. You build a better team that way anyway.

I couldn't agree on a venue, so I opted to have the party at the office. I did the invitation myself, after the damn printer said he couldn't be bothered with such a small run. The name tags didn't take long either.

The RSVPs came back straight away, with 100% acceptance. I took it as a good omen. I got a permit from the council for noise after 6:00pm and even sourced a Portaloo in case there was a queue. No one was going to accuse me of slipshod organisation.

Though I knew it’d be unpopular, I opted for light beer. Someone had to look out for company liability. By way of compensation, I ordered a wide range of appetisers. Even those horrible spurty asparagus vo-au-vents that burn the roof of your mouth. Like they say, it takes all sorts. At least I don’t employ any vegetarians.

Anyone who’s organised a Christmas party knows what a time consuming and thankless task it is. My sole reward for chairing the committee was that I got to choose where I sat.

To be continued.

One night, Mars eclipsed the moon, and all the good townspeople knew
That with the dawning of the sun, Slasher would turn twenty-one
And though it caused and awful rift, they chose among themselves a gift.

A boy with hair as black as night, complexion fair and body tight
Was stripped and scrubbed with sacred soap, and tightly bound with golden rope.
Then, creeping with the stealth of mice, the people left their sacrifice.

On her birthday, Slasher stirred, and took the boy without a word.
As she prepared herself to feed, she caught his eye, and felt a need
That hitherto she had not known, the seeds of love had just been sown.

'Young boy, will you marry me? We'll live in filth, beside the sea.
I'll catch people, you'll catch fish, and I'll fulfill your every wish.
And look! To show you how I'm fond, I've loosened all your golden bonds'.

When he was free the boy stood tall and grabbed her knife from off the wall.
He plunged it in her beating heart, and then the blood began to start.
It flowed 'til half past six that night, when, at the climax of their fight:

Chorus 2 (fortissimo)

Slasher, Slasher, Slasher, Slasher, Slasher, Slasher, Slasher, Slasher,
He cut off her head and shoved it down her neck.

Optional Final Verse (For the party faithful)

The young boy'd had an awful fright; so bad, it turned his hair to white
And for the rest of his long life, he never looked for girl or wife.
Phil Smith's fear was burned in deep. That's why he loved Cecil the sheep.

Chorus (ad infinitum)

The End.

There; that wasn't too hard, was it? Next up, back to bona fide stories with 'Sole Trader Christmas Party'.

Egad! Lyrics! Fear not; it's still a surreal short story. To recreate the glory days of my band Fluffy's Chain (which celebrates its tenth anniversary soon) you may wish to sing this song to some special friends in your home. Any minor twelve bar blues progression will do, so long as it's fast. Employ zydeco syncopation for best results. Enjoy!


The Story of Slasher

I've got a story, just for you, about a girl that I once knew,
A girl born under a harvest moon, in the house of Mars on the cusp of June.
The whole town got a nasty fright, when Slasher's birth scream split the night.

She grew up fast on the family farm, long of leg and strong of arm,
And when her father's tractor broke, he harnessed Slasher to the yoke,
And downing raw meat, eggs and beers, she ploughed those fields for eleven years.

When she turned twelve, as a special treat, her dad let Slasher cut the meat
Of a cow he'd killed for her birthday, to celebrate at a party gay,
But as Slasher slowly took the knife, something snapped, and changed her life.

Deep within an evil streak, bitter bile began to leak.
Sick of slaving all her life, she killed her dad, and then his wife.
At the age of twelve, she stood and swore, unholy faith to blood and gore.

Chorus 1 (fortissimo)

Slasher, Slasher, Slasher, Slasher, Slasher, Slasher, Slasher, Slasher,
She cut off their heads and shoved them down her neck.

She' chopped her parents into bits, because they'd given her the shits.
When she was done, she gave a roar: 'I like meat, and I want more!'
So gulping the last pieces down, she and her knife set off for town.

On the way, her pet dog Stan, bounded up and licked her hand.
She felled him with a fatal blow and disemboweled him, top to toe,
While Frank, the postman at the gate, met with the same grisly fate.

Just out of town there was a shack, where lived a pensioner named Jack.
He was a gentle, kindly bloke, who died at Slasher's second stroke.
And with her hunger barely spent, into town Slasher went.

She feasted hard, she feasted long, on limb and brain, heart and schlong.
Then up into the hills she fled, and in a dark cave made her bed
And once a month, for nine long years, she fed on grown-ups, kids and beer.

Chorus 1

To be continued...

'It's not that I don't enjoy your ideas, baby,' explained Fon carefully. 'It's just that it's easier for you to invent them than it is for me to picture them. And when, like today, I'm hot and tired and thirsty and uncomfortable, I don't really enjoy the experience as much as you obviously do. Do you understand what I'm trying to say?'

'You know, the ones that have little recesses, like egg cartons. You lay them down and cover them with topsoil. Then you sow grass. When the grass grows, the concrete foundation stops cars from sinking into the earth or tearing it up. Beats the sh*t out of a normal car park surface.'

Feisty and Fon were power walking along the Yarra. It was a hot Summer Saturday, nearly lunchtime. Having trekked from Armadale, Fon was feeling they'd bitten off more than they could chew. Fitzroy was still five tortuous kilometres away. Feisty decided to distract Fon from her cruel blisters and protesting calves. He pointed at a tall poplar tree.

'To neutralize this threat, our government has created the Kombi-van Rail Cannon.'
Neil regarded Liam narrowly. 'Go on.'
'The Kombi-van Rail Cannon is an entirely new concept, designed to break deadlocks in the sort of drawn-out debates that really get on people's goats.'

Behind her stood the drummer. A brassy, busty blond, her face shone as she thrashed her instruments. Tattoos flexed and a thonged lace top strove to contain her as her arms fell in king hits.
To her left stood the bass player, tall and thin with angular face. Sheathed in a cat suit, her only adornments were a gold link belt and a spider ring that flashed and scuttled over her fretboard. She stood with one leg forward, regarding the audience with faint disdain, occasionally favouring the drummer with an undertaker's smile.
The singer pranced and posed like a demented bride; prowling the stage in taffeta rags, hair reaching for the rafters. She taunted the crowd, raged against them, lifted them and lay them on her lion skins. On her feet were silken points. In moments of utter incongruity, she interspersed her base gyrations with perfect pirouettes. Spellbound, Yvonne and her girlfriends barely registered the men's retreat.

'Behold!' cried Liam. 'The messenger!'
'Hurrah,' offered Ulrik.
The group gazed at rusty panels, faded flowers and dribbling slogans. The streetlights splayed over filthy windows, rendering the driver invisible. The rotting muffler vomited detonations as the van shuddered past on the slippery rails, a scrap yard its only credible destination.

Liam grinned. 'I want us to form a cosmic circle, to unite our groovy energy before crossing over.'
'Unreal,' slurred Sonya, missing Sylvia and Ulrik's outstretched hands.
Liam guided her back. 'Is everyone ready?'

'So we're going to experience the greatest girl-band of all time?' pursued Yvonne.
Sylvia's eyes sparkled. 'I'm in.'
'Me too,' concurred Sonya.

Three couples sprawled around the lounge, digesting pasta. Wine lapped at tilted rims as wreaths of smoke cruised into guttering candles, spread against the ceiling and descended. Fairy lights completed the scene.
'Let's go out!' exclaimed Yvonne.
A shudder swept through the others. Liam, the host, shot a visual plea to Neil.

Concentrating on his opponent's next move, Marty tried to ignore a strange flicker of light playing over the opposite roof. Then the sun dazzled him and the penny dropped. The scope! Its caps were off! Marty lowered his weapon in panic and the reflection flicked over the face of Bruno De Souza, who immediately fired at the sparkling source.

The bullet slammed into Marty's cover, releasing a vicious jet of coolant. Deidre sprang in terror from the screaming plume. Bruno saw her vault and was surprised at her sex. Without hesitation he drilled three rounds into her body, cocked his head toward the sirens and reached for the door to safety.

Concentrating on his opponent's next move, Marty tried to ignore a strange flicker of light playing over the opposite roof. Then the sun dazzled him and the penny dropped. The scope! Its caps were off! Marty lowered his weapon in panic and the reflection flicked over the face of Bruno De Souza, who immediately fired at the sparkling source.

The bullet slammed into Marty's cover, releasing a vicious jet of coolant. Deidre sprang in terror from the screaming plume. Bruno saw her vault and was surprised at her sex. Without hesitation he drilled three rounds into her body, cocked his head toward the sirens and reached for the door to safety.

With mounting excitement, Marty targeted the groom's champagne glass. How tempting to take it out first, just to spice things up. He grinned, then gasped as the flute exploded into a cloud of particles. His mouth fell open.

'What the F*CK?'

Marty pocketed his jeweller's screwdriver. The scope had taken a knock during the fifteen-flight ascent. Nerves were doubtless interfering as well. After this last adjustment, however, he was confident of accuracy.

He panned to a grove of elms, far from grey suits and gay dresses. Pale leaflets trembled in a gentle breeze.

Marty had neither the time nor the resources to identify his targets. Morose and irritable, he spent hours with his rifle, bitter that their brief affair was almost over. Like meeting the perfect girl on school holidays and knowing he'd never see her again, Marty decided to make the most of his remaining time.

The Ruger was beautiful. Sleek and compact, its oil sheen was a potent pheromone to the fluttering thing in Marty's brain. Cool even in summer, the blued steel clove to his face whenever he sighted: at the television, the toaster, a neighbour's silhouette or the pulsing temple of his sleeping girlfriend. Each leapt large in the powerful scope, free from fetter and his to dandle without interference.

Martin Banff had been a bride sniper. An honours degree in arts had earned him only a brutal factory job. Desperate for a better life, he took a redundancy package and failed miserably in a lawn mowing franchise - flogging his recalcitrant ride-on to death in a hailstorm. He next tried pizza delivery, only to be savaged by the wolfhound of an incautious pensioner.

Too proud for the dole, Martin decided to use his expensive Canon rather than pawn it. He targeted an early morning wedding in his best suit and was immediately arrested. He was the first victim of bridal party fight-back, in which family friends pointed out unfamiliar faces to hired guards (who checked identities before calling police). Martin was given the option of prison or a fine. Too ashamed to contact anyone, he chose incarceration.

The Fitzroy Gardens are a paradise for brides: rolling meadows, mighty avenues, follies and ponds. Dozens marry there each year. Hundreds more come for photographs. As a consequence, the gardens have become Melbourne's premier bride sniping ground.

It began during the recession. Intersections filled with menacing youths, smearing car windscreens with jagged rubber devices. Oblivious to protest, they extracted change from red-light maroons, then fled before two-minute tides.

Marty cradled the Ruger Sportsman lovingly, Circassian walnut cool against his cheek. In the lush park below, a puff of earth appeared beside the carved fairy tree.

Deidre gathered his grimy jacket around her knees. 'Jesus Marty, can we go now? You said "one shot" - that's three! I'm cold, and we're going to get caught if we stay any longer!'

The Farting Biting Cat launched itself from the bookcase, thudding into Roger's neck and piloting him through the coffee table. Roger struggled from the glass-sharded confines and lurched back into the kitchen. The Farting Biting Cat rode shotgun, seeking his eyes, farting continuously and biting murderously into his scalp.

In the ensuing struggle, Roger dropped his knife. Sensing victory, The Farting Biting Cat tightened its hold and slashed open his forehead. Blinded with blood, Roger's desperate fingers sought a new weapon. Glass and crockery crashed to the floor. At last his hand closed around something smooth, which dovetailed into his palm with familiarity. It was his old Junkers oven ignition pistol.

Eyeing his nemesis warily, Roger steeled himself, filled the feeding bowl and stepped back.
The Farting Biting Cat advanced, regarding Roger through hooded slits. Roger retreated to the kitchen, took down a carving knife and clutched it to his breast.

Roger eyed Stephanie with anxiety as she released the Farting Biting Cat into their new home. She cooed and murmured to her pet, as it ambled from the cage and flashed its red eyes at Roger. Then, with a force astonishing for something so revoltingly obese and orange, it sprang and fastened itself to Roger's chest.

Spread-eagled on his heavy jumper, the Farting Biting Cat bit his collar bone ferociously, its corrupt breath hot on his skin. Roger leapt back, smashing into the front door, his frantic thumbs digging into the folds of fat under the Farting Biting Cat's forelegs. With all his strength, he flung the animal to the ground and kicked it. The Farting Biting Cat spun across the polished floorboards, farting profusely with rage.