You've never been on the Nice List

(Quick warning-Some twisted imaginary here))

Tronique, cyborg futurist and a recent brain surgery patient stood enraptured in the mall food court. Her synaesthesia was bombarding her with the taste of the colored lights and the sounds of tinsel and garland strung across the ceiling beams. One woman, calling for her children to come and sit, had a voice that smelled of cinnamon. Tronique started toward her but a gentle hand on her shoulder stopped her.

Dr. Cassidy Winters, aka The Neurosculptor, rested her hand on Tronique’s shoulder and spoke to her a voice usually reserved for speaking to the insane: an appropriate choice on this occasion. “Stay here. You’ve nearly got us thrown out twice.”

“Say ‘twice’ again. I like the way it slithers out of your mouth and across the floor.”

Dr. Winters sighed. Artistically resculpting someone’s neurons had unexpected results-when the patient lived-but Tronique’s procedure wasn’t even done and already the woman was problematic. “Can you please stay here, dear?”

“Why am I here again?”

The doctor hoped it was a literal, and not philosophical, question. “I wanted to see how you’d respond to all this stimuli. And I need to pick out something from Cook’s Electronics. If I leave you alone…” Dr. Winters decided that Tronique would be easy enough to find it she wondered off. It was doubtful there was another six-foot two woman in a patchwork outfit of leather and armor bits painted black and neon pink. The silvery/purple sheen of her hair would also be a good indicator. “Don’t move dear. I’ll be back shortly.”

Tronique, who was studying the shapes made by crying babies, failed to notice the doctor’s departure. She was entranced by the triangle of a little girl crying and reaching for a toy, until a voice broke her from her reverie. “Hello Esther.”

Suddenly Tronique was lucid. She turned to face the speaker, silver words coming from her mouth before she saw who she addressed. “No one’s supposed to call me that. How do you know that name?”

“I know everything about you.” The man who spoke was large, nearly round. He wore a white shirt and red pants with suspenders. A red jacket with white trim was slung over his shoulder. “And frankly, I wish I didn’t.”

Tronique blinked. “Santa?” She laughed. “I’m hallucinating aren’t I?”

“Perhaps,” said Santa, “but artists and people seeking guidance have turned to hallucinations for inspiration for millennia. Not that Santa would ever suggest such a thing. Just take what I have to say to heart.”
“You came to talk to me? But I’m…”

“Deplorable? A murderer? Evil? Wicked? Naughty?” Tronique managed a weak nod. “I have the list, remember? The downside of knowing who’s naughty and nice is that I get to read about all the horrible things that people like you get up to. A zombie plague inside a mall-nine hundred and seventy people…eaten. I’m an old man whose job is to spread cheer and because of people like you I have to read about things like that.”

“It was a prank,” she said weakly.

“A prank doesn’t have to kill nearly a thousand people. When you turned Willy Wheeler into a blueberry it didn’t kill him. More pranks like that would be better. I’m not asking you to reform-I’m not setting myself up for that kind of disappointment-but it would be nice if next year I don’t have to read about your severed head choir or whatever other murderous idea you have.”

“Wait…” Tronique said meekly. Santa sighed; why did he blurt that out? “You’re disappointed in me?”

“How could I not be? I’m all about Peace on Earth. Goodwill to Men. You’re all about zombie musical numbers and taking the over world. You’re gifted. You have a talent with technology that is incredible and mind unlike anyone else. And you waste time with killing and stealing. Theatrics! Murder! Making people miserable! I hope one day that you realize you can get more satisfaction from making the world better and not worse.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I know; I know you don’t. But Father Christmas has to try. If we sent the Ghosts, you’d only trap them and use them to terrorize people. Here.” He thrust a shopping bag into her hands. “This is for you. In the New Year try to be nice. If I can live with elves for three-hundred and sixty-four days a year without killing someone, you should be able to do the same.”

Tronique looked into the bag; it was filled to the top with coal. “Santa?”

“Yes?”

“Why is it that while I’m talking to you I’m not seeing or hearing or smelling or tasting odds things?”

“Maybe…maybe this was important enough for you to focus. I have to go now. Remember, Be Nice. And Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas.” Santa turned and walked away and the flood of sensation returned. The Christmas lights sang out. The mathematical formula for the smell of cheap orange chicken floated by.

“Tronique?” The doctor was back. “Who was that you were talking to?”

“That was a figment of my imagination.”

“No, it wasn’t. It looked like a mall Santa.” The word Santa left the doctor lips as a storm of snowflakes.

“Why would Santa talk to me?”

“Why indeed? What’s in the bag? Have you been shoplifting?”

“I don’t know.”

Dr. Winters took Tronique by the hand like a child. “Let’s go back to lab and finish up your procedure. Then you can get back to whatever it is you do.”

A man walked by with an arm load of packages. Each carried a different scent and it caused Tronique to scrunch up her nose. “I don’t like Christmas.”

The doctor drug Tronique toward the elevator. “It’s not for everyone.”

Love this.

Thanks!

Wow, that was so neat! Entertaining, well-written, and very unique. Good job!