Winter-based shit was going down.

Ok, let's face it - they weren't
a great example of the joys of Marriage. Image via WikipediaOn the trees, snowdrops glistened. All around us, romantic, winter-based shit was going down. Max, wrapped in an over-sized scarf, jacket and padded hot-pants, looked particularly morose in the winter morn.

 
 "Why did things not work out with Maxine?" He asked at length.

 "You kidnapped her, remember." I said.

  "Well. Yes, so we weren't perfect. But you know, I'd hoped we might last. I just want someone to go the distance with. You know, like that couple... Hitler and Eva Braun."

  I double-took. It wasn't hilariously over-the-top. I just looked at him, looked away, then looked back suddenly in shock. Ok, Max was obviously just mistaken. But still...

  "Hitler... Hitler and Eva Braun? They didn't really last Max. They're dead, for one thing."

  "Dead? Oh no, when did this happen? Do people know... Oh, the children! What about the children?"

  "Yea. It's a pretty well-known story. They killed themselves not long after getting married, for one thing. And there weren't any children. Are you sure you're thinking about Hitler here?"

  "Pretty sure, yea. On no, wait a second... Prince Charles and Diana! That was who I was thinking of!"

  I nodded sadly. I wasn't sure where he got these ideas from. I mean, I'm not Prince Charles' biggest fan, but he's no Hitler. I retraced the conversation and realised Max was still not exactly on Love Boulevard.

  "Max... They got divorced."

  "What? But, at least they've still got their health?"

The snow fell around us. I'd upset Max enough for one day, so I just smiled and nodded. After a while, some penguins arrived and frolicked happily. In real life, Penguins aren't overly romantic, of course, but these were Disnified. In front of us, they did little to cheer Max up, forming budding romances and entering monogamous relationships. Above us, the disimbodied voice of Morgan Freeman tried to confort Max, but it was no good, and he cried all through that cold, winter morn.

 

Winter wonderland.

A cold wind blew from the East. It wasn't dramatic though, just chilly.

 Max and I were in the park. In the warmth of my home, going out had seemed like a good idea - the morning frost glistened on the eyebrows of the tramp in my tree-house, the breeze lifted stray newspapers and sent them into the faces of elderly dears, and the whole world looked like some sort of snow-globe. Or something, I don't really remember. But anyway, it looked nicer when I was inside in the warm.

 Which reminds me, must throw some more fire out to the tramp. Not too much, of course, tree-houses are flammable. Besides, I need my fire. Prometheus went to a lot of effort to get my that fire, not to mention the personal expense. Oh, and the eagle-innards thing.

 Actually, I don't trust the tramp with fire. He certainly couldn't manage his hedge fund, which is why he's in my tree-house. I charge him rent. You're probably ashamed of me, shaking your head in disgust. But let me tell you, he's not a nice man. He keeps pretending he's a chesnut, and when I'm out, he steals my bed linen to make flags.

 But I digress, where was I? Oh yea, don't trust him with fire. So I think I'll freeze the tree-house with liquid nitrogen, so when I give him the fire, he won't go making mischief.

  It seems the most humane thing to do...

The rain splashed down around him, the soft earth recently uncovered splashing up. Coating his trousers, staining his shoes, running down his coat and dripping back into itself. The solitary figure toiled onwards though, digging down deeper and deeper, stepping back occasionally to examine his craft. Whenever he did so, it was with a look of disappointment, shaking his head and tutting to himself. And then, reluctantly, he would dive back into the abyss, into the torrent of mud, flowing around but getting nowhere, and he would continue to dig, or knock at the walls and widen his crevasse.

  So he continued for close on an hour, his shovel endlessly rising, then plummeting down, his brow furrowed and dripping, mud coating his person. Another half hour passed, and he emerged from the pit once more, seemingly satisfied by his inspection. Discarding his spade for now, point first into the most solid pile of solvent soil, he walked a few metres from the pit to a small track, almost obscured by the rain and the flowing topsoil. He followed this trail for maybe a half-mile, arriving at a large, empty dump-truck. Fumbling in his pockets, he found the keys, entering the cab and reversing his vehicle to the pit dug some distance from the road.

  Arriving at the gaping maw of earth, he tips back the truck, spilling forth the unwanted cargo, eager to hide his goods from the view of the skies. Sadly, squelching, squeaking, honking, they fall from the truck, filling the hole whole, eagerly swallowed by the mouth he has constructed. This duty done, he fills in the hole again, the soil floods into the crevice and makes his job easier. The rain will hide his crimes, leaving no trace of his tire-tracks, nor the freshly turned earth. This done, he drives the truck away into the dawn-light.

  His name is Oscar, and he regrets killing all those clowns.
  Still, it's a living.