Yes There Is

As documented on A&E's Biography, there is a Santa Claus. His full name is Saint Nicholas, but most of his followers didn't get it right. Saint Nicholas is a popular saint. He's the one who converted the Greeks and Russians to Christianity in 446. He accomplished this by teaming up with Good King Wenceslas and Saint Patrick. Together the three heroes amassed a fortune in gold, frankincense, and myrrihuana, which they lavished on the poor folk, in order to bribe them into becoming Christian. The tactic worked and the region has been Christian ever since, even when it was communist. Anyone who says there's no Santa, I point to every present they receive from Santa every Christmas as evidence against their claim. Further to that, I would add the volumes of answered letters to the North Pole, the thrilled faces of small children, and the combined sworn testimonies of every Who in Whoville. Nice children have something to look forward to, but naughty children are worried. Santa's dark nemesis, Salt Peter, plans to put rotten potatoes in their Christmas stockings. Just ask the Dutch. Salt Peter is hiding in your chess set right now, mixed in with the black pieces, disguised as a fool. Sometime soon he is expected to spring to life, swell up to enormous size, and go on a parade. Time is running out for the naughty children.
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© 2007, 2013. Scripts by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved.

Catching Wind

Dog catching was more heroic in the old days. Back then a dog catcher was a kind of knight who swore an oath to protect his community from all stray pets, wild and domestic. In vigilance the dog catcher slept in the bell tower, waiting for the bell to wake him so he could get up, grab his net, and slide down the rope directly onto his mount. The draw bridge of his castle would unfold and off he would trot, as long as it wasn't a prank. Some of history's most important explorers were dog catchers. Labrador is named after the European mutt who first swam to her shores from Newfoundland in 1502. Her pursuer thought it only fair. A prolific breeder, she soon had every dog in the region looking like her. The Industrial Age got off to a good start for dog catchers. Special motorized vehicles were introduced with a hatch in the floor to let the driver pick up a stray without having to take his foot off the gas. By now dog catchers were organized into units who stayed together in a barracks and usually slept or played cards between sorties. Most of these brave men perished as pilots in World War Two. Their vehicles were turned into amphibious landing crafts. In recent times this profession has lost much of its lustre. Tranquilizer guns have changed everything. And global positioning tools let owners monitor the movements of their pets. Maybe they no longer wear a uniform, maybe anyone can do their job, but when you step out into your yard and find the dog house abandoned, with your dog's tracking device smashed on the ground, there's no reason to suspect that it is the work of a desperate, unemployed dog catcher. There's an abundance of openings for him today in parallel fields like parks administration and zoo security.
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© 2007, 2013. Scripts by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved.

Dare Devils

"Let's get started right away with our first contestant, a bank manager. Sir, were you ever charged with fraud? Truth or dare?" "You mean that little income tax mistake? That was cleared up ages ago, but to avoid your loaded question, I choose 'dare'." "Very well. I dare you to take this cheque to a bank and cash it." "But it's not in my name." "Just use the name on the cheque." "I can't do that!" "Why not?" "It's illegal!" "You should've thought of that before you committed fraud. Moving on to our next contestant, a schoolteacher . Ma'am, were you ever disciplined for corrupting your students with vile lessons on human anatomy and reproduction? Truth or dare?" "You mean sex ed? It's in the curriculum. However, rather than argue with you, I choose 'dare'." "As you wish. I dare you to take these magazines and circulate them in your class." "Good heavens! They're as bad as the internet!" "Yes, you might want to put them in a brown paper bag if you're using public transit." "I can't expose the innocent eyes of my third graders to these abominations!" "You want the money, don't you? Get going. Time for one last challenger, a top secret federal agent, though you probably know him as belonging to some other occupation - especially if you're watching from abroad. Sir, are you permitted to kill anyone who exposes you as a spy? Truth or dare?"
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© 2007, 2013. Scripts by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved.

Eve of Destruction

Eve had timed her arrival with the peak of visiting hours to avoid being noticed. Unopposed she made her way to the door of a helpless patient. He shouldn't have dumped her. Her first act of revenge, pushing him down the stairs, had come from feeling humiliated by him and wanting to get even, but his inability to connect his ensuing streak of bad luck to their relationship's recent demise made Eve lose all respect for him. Rather than being appeased to calmness by the belief that she was better off alone, her greatly reduced concern for his well being removed a barrier to her darkest violence. He suffered more accidents. He came down with the flu. His car exploded. Still, when she saw him being wheeled around the hospital like an emperor, it had taken every ounce of restraint to keep from kicking him. She took him out him later that day while he was heavily drugged and no one was looking. The result was only more pampering in the intensive care ward, pretty nurses waiting on him around the clock as he gorged himself on oxygen. If she wanted justice she would have to work harder. He had his own room and she didn't need to look under his bandages to know his face. Quietly she approached him in the dark. He appeared to be unconscious and attached to a monitor that registered his vital signs. She took his hand and pressed it flat against his mouth and nostrils, suffocating him for a long time, but the blip of his heartbeat persevered through the monitor. In frustration she seized him by the throat and shook him fiercely. This caused a more erratic signal, but he clung to life somehow. Then she noticed that a special machine was breathing for him. No wonder she couldn't kill him. She bent down and pulled the plug. Success at last. The room flooded with light as the door behind her burst open. She turned around and was blinded by camera flashes from a crowd of unexpected reporters. One of them had promised to be the first to take a picture of the man she had just slain, for her estranged lover had been moved to another bed and in his place was a fireman with third degree burns from rescuing a small child. The media had come with friends and relatives to interview the stricken hero before Eve got to him. His wife began to cry as he was pronounced dead. Eve couldn't remember anything past that because she'd been incarcerated ever since.
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© 2007, 2013. Scripts by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved.

Honest to a Fault

As his chauffeur driven car cruised to his next engagement he reflected on a recent press conference. A foreign reporter asked him how he had escaped assassination. He explained that he killed potential assassins before they become a threat. Then to prove his point he shot a loyal bodyguard in front of them. There were no further questions. He had founded the Honesty Party on the recommendation of a team of marketing analysts who located a popular need for more honest politicians. The proud capital 'H' in his party flag stood for just that kind of honesty: the kind of honesty one can look up to, towering and monolithic, the honesty with which he could openly and unashamedly defend a bad system with good, traditional fear of change. How much more would they let him get away with? As long as he was honest about exploiting them there seemed to be no limit to what he could ask. He had taken their jewellery. He said it was needed to pay the debt. He didn't say it would be used to pay the debt. He had taken away their holidays, telling workers to call in sick if they want a holiday. He had uprooted them from their homes and talked them into renting caves, promising that it would increase property values. Now he believed that his unfortunate people were ready to make the ultimate sacrifice for their country. After all, a war would at least get them out of the caves. The war would be against a country they liked. They would fight for a small island rumoured to hold buried treasure and as many as five geysers. Neither he nor his enemy counterpart really cared about the disputed land and were just looking for a way to increase their power, to thin out the population, and to test new weapons. He would not need to explain his decision. The people knew he didn't like them. He once even told them that they remind him of rats. They expected to be mistreated by him and appreciated his honesty. The car parked and he got out. As usual he was met and surrounded by an escort of loyal bodyguards armed with assault rifles. These men protected him as he traveled on foot between his bulletproof car and his screened public appearances. Today's venue was strange and desolate: the City Morgue.
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© 2007, 2013. Scripts by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved.

Captains Outrageous

The captain's assignment was top secret. He stayed under constant surveillance through the training program and would not know his destination until he was safely aboard a spaceship, hurtling away from the Earth at near light speed. The news wouldn't reach him until he approached the maximum range for ground transmissions. He believed he already knew what he had been chosen for and why. He figured that his mission was kept secret to assure public calm through a period in which the fate of the world hung on a precipice. Apparently he had been hand picked on the basis of his gift for model airplane construction and his unbeatable high score in Asteroids from 1983. His destination must be a life bearing planet to be claimed for his country and named after himself by wiping out every living thing on it if necessary. Only the details were a mystery to him. The captain still did not know his precise destination nor how he would return home once his ship lost contact. These concerns were foremost on his mind as he pushed a button on his armrest console to tilt his chair back for the long awaited message. By contrast the figure coming into focus on the screen stood upright. It was his supervisor, the doctor. Now he would know everything. The doctor's voice began in ingratiating tones, "Greetings from Mother Earth. Your friends and loved ones greet you. Your leaders praise you and your peers salute you. Your mother kisses you and your priest blesses you. Your team plays for you and their cheerleaders cheer for you. The 4-H Club have knit their warmest thoughts of you into a quilt, and they wish they could give it to you." "Standing by to receive co-ordinates of the enemy planet." "Enemy planet? Are you joking?" "Then where are we going?" "Your ship is on course and time is unessential to your mission." "Unessential to you because you're not stuck in space." "That's not true. We are all stuck in space. Why, Gaia herself is just a spaceship following the Sun to God knows where. But you should be happy. You have air conditioning. There are many here on Spaceship Earth who would envy you." "You have sunsets." "If all you need are coloured lights, why don't you get started with your Christmas decorations?" "You've still not answered my question." "Your ship is on course-" "On course for WHERE?" "Why do you care about that? Has your life changed in any noticeable way? You can watch any program you like on your giant screen. You have a host of digital gaming options, plus a dart board. Have we not considered your every need? We've even provided you with women. To deprive you of them for such a long voyage would be inhumane. Incidentally, where is your pretty first mate?" "In the brig for trying to poison me. What do you mean, 'such a long voyage'?" "Well, I'm sure you'll sort out these little misunderstandings and learn to trust each other. There are a lot of single men back here who wish they had your problems." "Doctor, perhaps I'm not getting through to you. When may I again feel the gentle kiss of a warm summer rain?" "Stand under a shower head with the water mixed to a luke warm temperature." "It's not the same." "It's better." "And I'm missing out on history." "You're not missing anything, trust me. We were even thinking of starting another war just for something to do. Now, don't you feel lucky? Instead of being shot or taken prisoner, you're far away from it all." "Doctor, why are you trying to make me feel good about being out here instead of answering my question?" "Be proud, Captain. You are the future of humanity, stretching out into space and taming the wild regions, the volcanic moons and the poisonous dust clouds and the black holes-" "Hold on, no one told me anything about black holes." "Relax. You couldn't reach the nearest black hole in your lifetime." "That's a relief." "It will be your ancestor's problem. Good luck and Godspeed." In a flash the doctor's image evaporated. The communication beam, vital tether to the home world, had stretched beyond its limit and snapped, stranding the captain and all hands in deep space for the expansion of civilization as we know it.
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© 2007, 2013. Scripts by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved.

Wanda's World

Wanda's confusion was clear on her face. Invading troops had taken her by surprise earlier that day, loading her on a truck with her unit and hanging a large number around her neck, as though she were some sort of criminal. She was just a simple farm girl, doing her duty. Her job at the camp was like her job at the farm. It was an ordinary experience, not worth the attention of the cameras converging on her. As a girl Wanda always got her way. Papa not only bought her a pony when she turned nine, but had the animal's head stuffed and mounted for her when she turned thirteen. And all the farm animals knew who was in charge when Wanda was around. She saw herself as a beautiful goddess and looked upon the animals as her subjects. The animals had no choice but to agree with her. When the time came to lead them to slaughter, she usually took care of it. She had a special way of talking to the calves. They trusted her and rarely did she have to use the pitchfork on them. A relative got her the job guarding prisoners, calling it a well paying opportunity that suited her skills. She was expected to control prisoners with the same ruthless efficiency as she herded cattle. At first she thought the camp job would be easier, but the prisoners were too unruly. They walked upright and muttered insults like 'blonde bitch' and 'homicidal hayseed'. They neglected their appearances and often needed extra persuasion to accept Wanda's world. Now that the camp was closing, she longed for the simplicity of her grandfather's farm. The delay of these proceedings were a senseless waste of time to her. She had surrendered, disarmed, and was no longer a threat. If she shot a few inmates who caught her at a bad moment, so what? It's normal. Next to the mass graves caused by others, her body count was negligible. And her targets were dangerous enemies of the state. Surely she would be seen as a conscientious worker doing a respectable job during a time of war. At last, her advocate appeared. His smile held the promise of good news. "Well, what is it?" she asked him eagerly. "We talked them down to a hanging!" he proudly declared.
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© 2007, 2013. Scripts by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved.

Folk Tales: The High King Mortimer

Legend has it that long ago there reigned a High King Mortimer who failed to pay his royal biographer, Geoffrey Canterbury. Canterbury writes: 'No one liked Mortimer. Whenever a storm caused damage or some other natural catastrophe befell us, we all surmised that God was angry with Mortimer over something and taking it out on us. Mortimer passed a law forcing all brides to lie with him on the eve of their weddings. He did it just to infect all the brides in the land with plague and thus make them less attractive to their husbands. In battle Mortimer was a notorious coward. Against the Dragon of Doonsbury he behaved both as a fool and a knave. First he shed his armour when it proved to be itchy after being soaked in a magic potion to make it heat resistant, conjured by his wizard, to whom he also owed a princely sum. Then he let the Dragon chase him naked through the square, with only his hands over his bare bottom to protect it from his foe's fiery breath. He hid in a well until the dragon had had its way with all the maidens in the land and had eaten its fill of all the children in the land. His horse, Shadowbox, was also a coward and fled from any small, harmless creature popping out suddenly from the bogs. Mortimer did not die at the hands of his guards, who he insulted constantly, nor did he die at the hands of the angry mob of peasants who gathered to burn down his castle with him inside, for God got to Mortimer first, smiting the hated tyrant with a powerful lightning bolt. Mortimer miserably perished. Such was the end of this unhappy King.' Mortimer may not have been as bad as his biographer said, but he is certain to have had one weakness: illiteracy. He is not to be confused with the figure of Vortigurn, who is said to have reigned as High King in the roughly same period.
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© 2007, 2013. Scripts by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved.