You can buy his latest book I was a Punk before you were a Punk

Charles Talbot met his brother Paul on the steps of their mother’s palatial Shaughnessy estate. He hadn’t seen Paul for a long while, and was pleased to note that his younger sibling’s hairline was receding at a speed to match his own. It seemed all the money in the world could not delay the onset of Male Pattern Baldness.

    “Merry Christmas, Paul, how good to see you!” said Charles, shaking his brother’s hand with the hale and hearty grip learned carefully at a prestigious law school. “How long has it been? Two years, at least? My, God, how the time flies!” Chunky gold Alpha Phi signet rings glinted dully in the muted light above the door.

    Paul, a reputable stockbroker, had a confident but oily grasp. “And a Merry Christmas to you too, my dear brother! We really should get together more often!” Both men knew the words were meaningless bullshit, mere platitudes spouted by rote.

    “Well, you know how it is…” said Charles, as the butler opened the door and let them into the luminous, marble-floored lobby, “so much currency and so little time!” The rich sound of the brothers’ laughter set the crystal chandelier jingling and twinkling. It was the heady sound of money; the crisp, greedy sound of stocks tickered and bonds manipulated. Pennies on a dead man’s eyes.

    “Good evening, gentlemen,” said the butler, scraping the floor with a deep bow. “May I take your overcoats?” His nose was streaked with blue veins from years of heavy drinking to escape his humiliation. It was no easy job, working for the Talbots.

    “Why, thank you, Alfred,” said Charles, passing the servant his jacket. It mattered to him not at all that the butler’s real name was Terrence. Alfred sounded better.

    “Oh, there you are, boys!” trilled a voice from across the lobby. A shimmering woman of advanced but well-preserved years floated across the marble to greet her sons. “I’m so glad you’re finally here, I was beginning to think we’d have to start dinner without you!” She leaned forward and pecked each of her sons on the cheek with razors of dry, crimson flesh. Diamonds and jewels sparkled at her throat and fingers like flashbulbs.

    “Have no fear, mother, the prodigal sons have returned,” said Paul, squeezing his mother carefully, as if her brittle ribcage might shatter in his arms.

    “Oh, thank you both so much for coming!” said Mrs. Talbot, checking to make sure the hug had not damaged her façade. “Now, let’s go have dinner, the whole gang is waiting!”

     Christmas muzac played softly through hidden speakers as the Talbots walked down an oak paneled hallway decorated with festive streamers of green and red. Fake snow painted the windows and bright lights blinked merrily. The house had all the warmth that money could buy.

    A steady babble of voices became audible as they approached the dining room. Paul Talbot, walking slightly behind his brother, pulled up short and frowned. “Umm, I don’t mean to pry, Mother, but you mentioned earlier that relatives from all over the country will be here tonight, and that this is a reunion of sorts. I’m wondering, without trying to be rude, just how far you went with the invitations––if you know what I mean.” He stared down at the tips of his highly polished shoes, embarrassed. 

    An icy smile twisted the crimson razors. “If you’re trying to ask whether or not I’ve invited Uncle Simon, the answer is no. I feel we deserve to have Christmas dinner in peace, uninterrupted by the delusional ravings of the deeply disturbed. With any luck, Simon will be drunk in a bar somewhere, having completely forgotten all about us.”

    “That’s a relief,” muttered Paul “I just don’t get it––the old man worked himself to death while Simon simply resigned from the human race. How did they end up becoming complete opposites?”

    “Kind of answered your own question, didn’t you?” said Charles with a superior tone.

    “Don’t pretend you don’t care, I know how much you hate the sonofabitch.”

    “Now, really, Paul,” admonished Mrs. Talbot, and the crevice in the middle of her forehead deepened. “There is no need to resort to vulgarities, especially on Christmas Eve!” She shook her tight silver curls sternly. “Simon needs professional help.”

    “Yeah, shame on you, Paul,” teased Charles. “Have you no empathy for kin?”     

    “Behave yourselves!” snapped Mrs. Talbot suddenly. “We’re going to have a proper Christmas if I have to tie you to your chairs and gag you!” She was a fiery old bird, iron handed and overbearing as a drill sergeant. Charles winced as he contemplated the painful evening ahead.

    The trio entered the lavish dining room and servants hurried to seat them. Mrs. Talbot took her place at the head of the table, while her sons sat together on her right. Silverware glittered elegantly and a chorus of delightful smells rose from the lavish banquet in front of them. It was a feast fit for kings.

    Paul spread a white linen napkin over his knees. “Jesus Christ,” he whispered to Charles, waving his hand under his nose. “I can’t believe they still smoke in the dining room. They must think emphysema is a country in southern Africa!”

    Charles glanced around the football field sized table at his kinfolk. Indeed most of them, the youngest who appeared to be at least eighty, puffed on various tobacco products and the air was rank with smoke. He realized he hadn’t seen any of them for so long that he could barely remember their names. Cousin Andrew, sitting directly across from him, exhaled a large cloud of fumes up at the ceiling. His tiny pink eyes and white eyelashes looked like bloody embryos in a nest, twiggy hairs sticking out at all angles. “What are you looking at?” challenged the old duffer. “You got some kind of problem?”

    “No, no––it’s just that I haven’t seen you for so long,” said Charles, unused to direct confrontation. “How are you? And how is your lovely wife…Selma!” The corporate lawyer was proud of his ability to recall names, no matter how useless they might be.    

    “Dead. Over a year ago, of cancer,” said Andrew, giving his nephew a look cold enough to stop Global Warming. Twin jets of smoke plumed from his nose.

    “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that,” Charles said, lamely.

    TING! Mrs. Talbot chimed a fork against a crystal goblet and the guests quickly fell silent. They knew better than to make her angry. “Merry Christmas, and it’s good to see you all again…” She made a rambling five-minute speech about the importance of Traditional Christmas Values while Charles timed her with his Rolex and the food cooled. Finally the old lady wrapped it up. “Now, if Edna will be so kind as to say Grace for us, Edna?”

    The poor old thing was almost asleep and had to be prodded awake. “Huh?” she squeaked. “Oh, of course… Lord, let us thank thee, blah blah blah…”

   Charles bowed his head solemnly but let his mind drift to thoughts of hostile takeovers and corporate mergers. Nothing in the world came close to the thrill of foreclosure; the sheer, visceral rush of robbing people blind legally. His dick twitched in his pants as he calculated profits and anticipated interest.

    “Amen,” murmured everyone as Edna droned to a halt. Servants rushed forward to heap turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce and buttered asparagus onto plates of fine china. Charles and Paul dug in with gusto but the majority of the guests merely picked at their meals or ignored them entirely, preferring instead to suck on cigarettes, cognac, or wine.

    “Mother’s chefs must have slaved in the kitchen all day to prepare this,” joked Paul to his brother, lifting a slab of turkey with his fork.

    “When it comes to cooking, Mother can write cheques with the best of them,” agreed Charles. Butter dripped from his lips onto his printed silk Burberry tie.

    There was a loud commotion as the butler rushed into the dining room, red-faced and clearly at a loss. “Madame, Mr. Simon has arrived and insists on being admitted. He really is quite unruly, shall I phone the police?”

    Mrs. Talbot sighed and set down her knife and fork. “No, it’s alright, Terrance, let him in. I don’t suppose we can turn him away.” She seemed quite capable of it, actually.

    “Ya bet yer ass ya can’t!” said the unwanted guest, pushing his way past the butler. “What would you do without a little Christmas dazzle?” He pulled a string of dirty, red and green handkerchiefs from the pocket of a purple and orange checked jacket and waved them around as if he had caused the Eiffel Tower to disappear. His bloodshot eyes gleamed malevolently. 

    Charles gasped in shock. Uncle Simon was dressed from head to toe as a clown; filthy, with a tattered, multi-coloured wig and enormous, floppy yellow shoes. His face was jet black but for a white, upside down smile and a bulbous red nose that looked partly prosthetic, partly the result of drinking large quantities of wood-grain alcohol. He wore a Santa hat smeared with mud, and menace leaked from him like radiation at a Soviet power plant. This was not a happy clown.

    “Andy! Good ta see ya!” said the evil-smelling arrival, pulling up a chair next to Uncle Andrew. “Sorry ta hear ‘bout tha wife. Say, ya got another one a them smokes?” He filled a water glass half full of cognac, drained off a large portion.

    The room fell dead quiet. Those few who had been eating stopped, forks poised mid-air. Paul swallowed the food in his mouth with one large gulp. Cone of silence.

    “How nice to see you again, Simon. I trust you have been keeping well?” said Mrs. Talbot, finally. The words sounded ridiculous even to her, but what do you say to middle-aged man who has chosen to live life as a clown? If only she could press a button and drop Simon into a tiger pit. If only…

    The party crasher took one of Andrew’s cigarettes and glowered at the guests. “What?” he asked belligerently, “did someone piss in the gravy boat? Go ahead and eat!” He took another slug of cognac, mostly killed it.

    Conversation resumed slowly, but in reserved, hushed tones. Simon seized a drumstick from the platter and began gnawing away, snarling like a dog. His cracked, yellow teeth shredded turkey and his lips smacked loudly. The visitors cringed.

    “Good grief!” Charles whispered to Paul. “When did he start dressing like this? What the hell is Simon trying to prove? He’s gone completely mad!”

    “As far as I know, he started with the clown thing about six months ago––says it’s an expression of his contempt for the human race,” Paul whispered back. He reached for the closest bottle and filled his glass to the brim with wine.

    “You mean to tell me he always wears that outfit! What about that greasepaint? Surely he doesn’t go to all that trouble everyday!” Charles was flabbergasted.

    “Look closer. That’s not greasepaint––he’s tattooed his face! I’m telling you, the man is certifiably insane!” Paul chewed a man-sized chunk of cuticle away from his forefinger and trembled nervously.

    Charles risked a peek. The angry clown wore a three-day stubble and his eyes were a roadmap of disaster. He threw the mangled drumstick over his shoulder and took a long haul of his grease soaked cigarette. “What th’ hell you lookin’ at? Simon demanded. He was the anti-Ronald McDonald.

    “Uh, nothing, er…I was just admiring your bold new look. Are you making a fashion statement or is this a legitimate political protest? It must take great courage to appear in public dressed in such a manner. I applaud you, sir.” Kissing ass came easily to Charles.

    “Don’t give me that crap!” howled Simon. “You tried to run me down with your SUV because I insulted your wife!”

    “You called her a prissy little fussbudget with a mind like a closed steel trap!” shouted Charles, recalling the incident vividly. The fact that he secretly agreed with Simon only deepened the wound. Uncle Ziggy at the end of the table snuck quietly from the room.

    “Boys, boys!” yelled Mrs. Talbot, jumping into the fray. “Stop this nonsense at once!” She was livid with rage and her bony fists shook with anger.

    “But why, Marsha? Should I talk about the time I saw you fucking the gardener in the pool house instead?” sneered Simon. “You munched that boy’s dick like a cob of corn, you horny old bitch! No wonder my brother was such a miserable bastard!”

    “Excuse me!” choked Paul. “How dare you speak to my mother like that! Why, if I wasn’t such a gentleman I’d take you outside and thrash you within an inch of your life.”

    “Say the word. I’d love to show you how we fight downtown,” said Simon, throwing his empty wine glass after the turkey bone. “A scrap isn’t something you can use insider information to weasel your way out of, like you did with that Benzex stock. How much did you save by selling before they announced the merger, anyway?”

    The guests gasped, but Simon wasn’t finished yet. “And you Charles, have you siphoned any money from Mrs. Henley’s trust fund lately? What do you think your partners would do if they found out about that? How about you, Andrew? Have you told everyone how you chased your wife to an early grave by consorting with underage male prostitutes?” The evil clown snapped a wooden match on his front tooth and fired up another of Uncle Andrew’s Dunhill’s.

    Charles and Paul were shocked catatonic. “Where did you get your information?” whispered Paul. “No one knows about that, if it were true, that is.”

    The servants arrived on the run, summoned by a bell from Marsha. “Throw this, this, ruffian out at once!” cried the outraged matriarch, her voice quavering with rage.

    “No need,” said Simon, getting up. “I’d rather eat at the soup kitchen than share a table with you jackals.” His disdain went only so far, however, and he quickly stuffed his pockets with food, grabbed two bottles of booze from the table. “I’ll let myself out,” he said, brushing past the nervous servants. Several moments later, the front door slammed.

    A devastating silence followed the clown’s departure. Uncle Andrew clutched at his chest and fished for nitroglycerine capsules. Not only had Simon dropped nasty bombs on most of the family, but he had used the wrong salad fork. Mrs. Talbot stared straight ahead as if struck by lightning, the moment suspended in time.

    Charles recovered first and lifted a fresh bottle of Chardonnay. “Merry Christmas, everyone!” he said, smiling gaily. “Now, who would like some more wine?”

    Outside, a light snow began to fall.