AN ASVS CHRISTMAS CAROL
by Chuck Sonnenburg


In a shady shop in usenet, in a little unseen corner saved only for those
who've no care nor concern for their fellow man, Ebenezer Jones continued
his daily scratchings of quill on paper.  Nearby, young Bob von Lowe is also
forced to labor these long days, driven away from virtually all human
contact.  Poor and destitute, trying to earn enough money to get his large
scottish family good and liquored up for the holidays in the hope that just
for once the cops wouldn't have to be called out.  Driven to this end, he
now labors under the grueling demands of Mr. Jones, working day and night to
rewrite technical journals and create "extra special editions" of films, all
to further serve his miserly efforts.
As they labor away there is a knock at the door, and Mr. Lowe, grateful for
the chance to leave his heart-wrenching chores, rushed up to open it.
Inside stepped Jones' young nephew, Master Cheese.  Master Cheese tipped his
hat to the young Lowe, and stepped forward to greet Mr. Jones.  "What ho
uncle!" he cried pleasantly, "Is it not a joyous time?"  Jones made a noise
in his throat as if in answer and continued his scratchings.  "Brighten up
dear uncle," Cheese implored him, "for Christmas is nearly here!"  Jones
continued to ignore the young man, who turned momentarily towards young Mr.
Lowe, who quickly returned to his work.  "Have you nothing to say, uncle?"
    Jones slammed shut the copy of the "Essential Guide to Droids" and stood
up in anger.  "Have I nothing to say?  I have but one thing to say to the
likes of thee.  'Ad hominem!'"  He gave the fire a jab with the poker and
returned to his seat.  "Be gone with thee."
    "But, uncle," Cheese began.
    "I said 'ad hominem'!" and with that Master Cheese turned and left,
leaving Mr. Jones to mumble and curse.  Mr. Lowe knew all too well the
attitudes of Ebenezer Jones, and continued his work as if nothing had
happened.
    It was perhaps an hour later that there was another knock at the door,
and Lowe admitted two eager men, Phong Nguyen and Rykit.  They stepped in
with large grins on their face, anxious to speak with Mr. Jones.
    "Good sir," Phong began with obvious excitement, "we're here to look for
benefits on behalf of the poor denizens of usenet."
    "The poor," Jones mumbled.
    "Yes sir," Phong continued.  "Many are unable to access the FAQ, and
we're looking for generous contributions to find places where it can be
easily reached by the masses."
    "Tell me," Jones replied, "is not the Daystrom Institute still available
for them."
    The two men were taken aback.  "Why yes sir," Rykit replied, "though I
do wish that it were not so."
    "Then they have all they need there," Jones replied, continuing his
alterations.
    "Some would rather not, sir," Rykit replied, his voice solemn, "Some
would rather resign than resort to that."
    "Then perhaps they should and decrease excessive bandwidth," Jones
replied.
    "Sir, have a care," Phong replied, "The FAQ..."
    "Bah!  False!"
    "But sir...."
    "False I tell you!  Now off with ye and your accursed FAQ!"

    The days labors ended, Mr. Jones returned to his sanctuary in the eve,
the snows begin to gently sprinkle over the nearby area of ASVS-land.  Jones
entered his own dwelling, nearer to ASVB5, and walked the steps alone to his
darkened corner of usenet.  As the evening passed he sipped his broth and
watched the low fire, alone in the world.  It mattered little to Mr. Jones,
as he had no care for the world outside himself.
    Suddenly, there was a horrible unearthly screaming sound and Jones
nearly spilled his bowl with the sudden start.  It continued, and Ebenezer
Jones watched with wide eyes as a spectral form stepped through the door
into his chambers.  He was wrapped from neck to toe in string with thickness
thrice that of cable, and he squirmed through the air like a large
translucent maggot.  The face that Jones had known so long caused a
quickening of his breath, and for but the moment his voice did abandon him.
    "Graham Kennedy?" he said with shock.  "'Tis not possible!"
    "Ah but it is," the spectral form said, squirming across the room
towards the frightened man.  "I was your partner before being called away
from this group."
    "What has happened?  Why have you been thus bound?"
    The spirit's eyes were filled with sadness.  "These are the threads I
forged in life," he said with grief.  "I myself fashioned them, word by
word, paragraph by paragraph."
    "No," Jones said, his pity for his lost partner evident.
    "Yes.  But my judgment has come to pass.  Yours awaits."
    Jones shook his head in disbelief.  "False!" he cried.  "It's all false
I tell you!"
    "Would that it were false," the figure replied.  "But when I left I saw
your thread was near twice the length of that I bear."  All was silent, save
the quiet crackle from a shifting bit of log in the fire.  "You shall be
visited by three spirits.  Pay them heed, or thou shalt wear threads greater
than mine."

    At the ringing of the first hour Jones was shaken from his bed by a
trembling.  The room was filled with a blaze of light, and finally his eyes
were able to discern the shape of a man standing in his chambers.  He
stepped forward and extended a hand.  "Greetings, Ebenezer Jones," he said,
"I'm Aron, the ghost of deja past."
    "I care not for you spirit," Jones replied, but against his will he was
pulled away.  He watched the behavior of his younger selves as he claimed
that watts and joules were naught but the same, that light doth move like
the syrup over plum pudding, and his contradiction of the FAQ.
    "I said none of these things," Jones replied with a huff.  "Thou is
attempting to smear me."
    "Do you not see for yourself the truth?" Aron replied.
    "I see only lies.  Begone false spirit."
    With a rushing wind Aron was gone.  Jones was alone for several
hearbeats, until he heard a rustling sound, and heavy footsteps.  Suddenly a
strange creature came round to view.
    "I am Jimothy Tones," the jolly fat man said.  "I am the ghost of ASVS
present."
    "What have you to show me spirit?" Jones asked defiantly.  "Not lies as
this last spirit I hope."
    "Come and see."  Jimothy Tones drew Ebenezer Jones along, and together
they traveled into the village of ASVS-land.  They listened to the
whisphered snatches of conversation, and watched as the citizenry
occassionaly banded together to stop an invading troll.  Along the way the
same whisphered word was passed from one set of lips after another."
    "TOWNMNBS?" Jones asked, clearly puzzled.  "What of this word?"
    "'Tis thee," Jimothy Tones replied, "for they dare not speak thy name.
You are a misfortune to them, and they would not have you curse them."
    "False," Jones muttered under his breath.  "What care I for their words?
They are too stupid anyway."
    "Care though not for thy fellow man?"
    "No," Jones replied.  "Take me hence, spirit, I have no interest in
them."
    Jimothy Tones looked at him with pity and slowly fade away, and Jones
nodded in self-satisfaction.  Two spirits dealt with, now just the third.
    As if hearing his thoughts a cloaked figure rose up behind him, giving
Ebenezer quite a start.  "I take it thou art the spirit of threads to come?"
    There was no reply, but the spirit gestured for Jones to follow.  He
stepped along slowly, slightly fearful of the palatable malevolence from the
specter.  As they walked a great fog did embrace them, and when it cleared
it was the bright time of day, with people milling about, speaking their
minds about the trivial things they did concern themselves.
    "I hear he did pass last night," spoke Kynes to Deimos Anomaly.
    "Aye, and narry a tear was shed," Deimos agreed.
    "Still, there is a loss," spoke Elim, pruning his feathers with his beak
as he spoke.
    "Not where I sit, I think," remarked Mr. Dalton.  Mr. Hyde and Mr. Yates
nodded their agreement.
    "Ah zay et was a tare-a-bell thing!" remarked a crazed lunatic strapped
into the village stocks.  A collection of snowballs gave the public's
answer.
    "Who are they speaking of?" Jones asked as the spirit walked slowly
through the crowd, almost as if they weren't even there.  In hast Jones
followed.  Suddenly another step, and the street was gone, replaced by an
open grave, the spirit standing near its edge, a freshly chiselled headstone
driven into the frozen earth.  Jones looked between the two items and back
to the spirit.
    "This is, of course, where I'm supposed to confess that I've done
terrible things and am remorseful, right?  Well your games are but in vain,
oh spirit, for I have out-smarted you.  I have seen these things, and yet
remained unconvinced.  Your efforts are fruitless and your methods of
persuasion are all false.  False!  FALSE!!!"
    The spirit's hand lashed out at the words, and for a moment Ebenezer
Jones thought he was going to strangle him.  It was then that Jones saw the
spirit clutching a Glock semi-automatic.  Three rounds slammed into his
body, and he toppled into the bottom  of the open grave.  The spirit tossed
the gun into the grave with the corpse and pulled back his hood.
    "Jesus," said Lt. HIT-MAN, "I thought he'd never shut the fuck up."  He
signalled to several people hiding in the shadows, who came rushing out with
shovels, filling the hole with dirt.  As he walked away he pulled off his
leather gloves and passed them to Ali, who threw them into the nearby fire
and watched them crumble within.  Their ashen remains were blown from the
flames and they took to the air, mixing with the snow and settling among the
flakes on top the pile of a freshly covered grave for a man whom none would
miss.

The End.