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On December 25th, 2020, a dirty white car roared up the driveway of a fine house. A white-clad young person holding a box and reeking of gasoline and rum left the car and knocked on the door, yelling "Merry Christmas, Famine!"
The door was opened by a handsome black-haired man dressed all in black, including a black shirt twinkling with tiny hematite beads. “Hi Pollution. What on Earth are you wearing?”
“A synthetic coat with real ermine trim. I had it custom-made as a gift to myself because it’s Christmas! Wahoo!” They spun in a circle, their white ponytail whipping around, then hurried to a nearby living room and began to unpack a waiting box of red lights, black candles, and white tinsel. “I love Christmas. So much buying, so much garbage, so much travel.”
“Surely not so much travel this year?”
“Oh, lots of people are on the road. I gave Pestilence an earful when he shut everything down in the spring, but he said I just needed a little patience and he was right. Hey, where’s the rest of the asbestos faux snow I brought last time?”
"I'm not letting you mess up my house with that stuff again. I’ll give it to you before you leave, and you can pour it all over your house. Or eat it, if you prefer."
Famine helped put up decorations, trying to ignore Pollution singing fragments of Christmas carols off-key, until Pollution looked at him and said “Hey Famine, this songwriter wanted a sable for Christmas. I bet that’s a song you like.”
“Mm-hm.”
“Does Frannie sing it to you?”
“None of your beeswax. Or your paraffin wax. Whatever.”
“You are so soppy.”
“Quit being childish.”
“Christmas is the time for unleashing one’s inner child, isn’t it? Not my fault if you’re too old to remember being young.” They walked off across the room, twirling a length of tinsel that fell apart in their hands, pieces flying everywhere. “Saaanta Claus is comin’ to town…”
Famine sighed. Pollution teased him relentlessly about his human lover. It was part immaturity, part drunkenness at the moment, and part envy born of unrequited attraction to him. That was unfortunate, but couldn’t be helped. Pollution could be sweet when they were in a good mood, but they lacked Frannie’s beautiful hunger and had a very off-putting love for all things toxic.
War arrived, a beautiful red-clad woman with sprigs of holly in her firestorm of hair. After a brief greeting, she hurried away down the hall, carrying a large box. Famine looked after her, but was distracted by the arrival of a white-haired old man with a friendly face and a tall figure swathed in dark robes. “Pestilence! Death! I didn’t know if you’d have time to attend my party.”
“Yeah, I’m taking a breather,” said Pestilence. “I’ve got very special gifts for all of you, and I’m not leaving until I give them.”
Death nodded. I ALWAYS GET A LITTLE DOWNTIME ON CHRISTMAS DAY, NOW THAT FEW PEOPLE DECORATE THEIR TREES WITH CANDLES. I’LL BE BUSY AGAIN SOON.
Famine showed them into the living room and had just sat down with them beside a fire in a black marble fireplace when he heard a loud motor noise coming from the kitchen. He hurried there to find War using an electric mixer on a large bowl of batter while Pollution poured something into it.
He stared at them. “Uh, what are you doing?”
War turned off the mixer. “We’re baking cookies. Do you mind?”
“No, but why?"
Pollution stabbed the batter with a spoon. “I like cookies. And it’s hard to make them at home by myself, because my electric tools keep breaking and my oven is usually too filthy to use. I suppress my influence well enough when I need to, on the job, but I can’t constantly control it.”
“I believe the term is ‘walking techbane.’” War peered up at the cupboards. “Famine, where are your spices?”
“Top left shelf, just for your visits. Are you making drinks?”
“I’m going to mull red wine and you’re going to share it with me. Christmas is no time for your potato vodka.”
“Fine, just leave the red pepper out of mine.”
“I brought eggnog with rum for me and spoiled eggnog without rum for Pestilence,” said Pollution. “Death can drink whatever he wants. And I’m a technopath, not a walking techbane, because I can often make machines work in ways they’re not supposed to. I looked it up once.”
Famine shook his head and went to the living room for a strategy planning session with Pestilence. War and Pollution eventually joined them with the drinks and cookies, and they sat discussing the past year. Pollution boasted of successes and complained about setbacks, War gave a sanguine report, Famine and Pestilence described their projects, and Death only said I AM TIRED.
When they finished eating and drinking, the time for gifts arrived. War went first, as always, handing Famine a small box. He opened it to reveal two small silver trident-shaped pins of different sizes. "Well. This is unexpected, but very welcome."
“A trident is a weapon and also a fork,” War explained. “There's a lapel pin for you and a brooch for Frannie. You once told me she liked tridents, though you didn’t say why.”
“You wouldn’t understand. Trust me, she’ll love this. Thank you.”
“Soppy,” muttered Pollution.
“Quit pouting and open your present.” War tossed them a red folder. They pulled out a bundle of papers, stared at it for a moment with smog-colored eyes wide, and then shrieked in delight.
“What is it?” asked Famine.
“It’s a set of comprehensive information on military herbicide storage sites! War, you’re the best!” They threw themself at her in a hug. She hugged back, a bit awkwardly, then pushed them away and turned to hand Pestilence an envelope.
He removed a sheet of paper. “What’s this?”
“It’s playlist of songs about the current pandemic. I gathered them while searching the internet for new anti-war songs to laugh at. I know you have a Smartphone for your social media work, so you can listen to them.”
“Humans wrote songs about the pandemic?” asked Pestilence.
HUMANS WRITE SONGS ABOUT EVERYTHING, Death commented.
“Weird. Well, thanks, War. Your turn, Famine.”
Famine handed War a large package. “Here are a few sets of my new CHOW™ military rations. Feed it all to some soldiers and tell me how they react. I'm working on a MEALS™ version too."
War raised an eyebrow. "You want me to help you with field-testing as your gift to me? Fine. It's not a dagger with flowers in the handle, but I'll take it."
"I didn't know you wanted a dagger with flowers in the handle. I'll keep it in mind for your non-existent birthday next year."
"Don't forget my non-existent birthday," said Pollution. "I'll celebrate it in early April because five of my most famous big sabotages have anniversaries in March and April. I'll host a barbecue next to the most polluted waterway I can find."
"We'll watch for invitations. Just don't expect us to swim in the so-called water with you." Famine handed Pollution a package. "My sources say this is the most synthetically-toxic food item in the world. Enjoy. Now, Pestilence, this is for you." He held up a silver plaque engraved with "Award of Excellence presented to PESTILENCE in honor of your outstanding achievements."
Pestilence took it. "My goodness. I've never gotten an award like this before."
"They're common in the corporate world," said Famine. "The engravers probably thought I ordered it as a joke, but you've certainly earned it."
War waved a fist "Speech! Speech! Speech!"
Pestilence looked around at all of them with unusual bashfulness, a faint blush on his sickly-pale face. "I do have a speech, actually. I've done well for myself in the past year, but I wouldn't be where I am now without all of you.
“War, my companion, I may no longer be able to follow in your every footstep but you continue giving me spaces to work in. Famine, my mentor, you saved we when I was ready to give up. I’d spent my life trying to keep people from learning how to fight me, so I thought I was doomed when they finally figured it out. But they’ve always known how to fight you, and you taught me the arts of deception and strategic retreat that have served us both so well. Pollution, my former assistant, you’re annoying and we often work at cross-purposes nowadays, but your climate change is a gift to me that will keep giving forever. And Death, you’ve always been there for all of us, cleaning up our messes so we could return to make more. All of you have my deepest gratitude.
“As you may know, I learned a variety of artisan crafts long ago. Metalwork, sculpting, and so on. They gave me a portable livelihood and a reason for my presence wherever I went. While I scoped out an area, or worked undercover instead of holding a position of authority, I sold my goods at a market stall or suchlike. So although I've been very busy this year, I made each of you a gift in thanks for all of your help."
He held out an open box containing four small boxes -- one mahogany, one black-lacquered, one Styrofoam, and one covered in black-and-white striped satin. "I'm sure you can guess whose is whose."
They all took and opened their boxes. War carefully lifted an intricately-shaped pendant wrought in red gold, on a matching chain. “What’s this?”
“A flame,” said Pestilence.
“But you don’t like fire. You never did.”
“I don’t, but you do.”
“Oh. That’s very thoughtful of you.”
Famine tipped out an ebony figurine of a bird with jet eyes. “Oh, wow. A raven.”
Pestilence nodded. “I remember you clasped your sable-fur cloak with a brooch like that when we wandered Medieval Europe together.”
Famine smiled down at the bird cradled in his hands. He loved ravens, as he resembled one in many ways, and had chosen his alias for more than the shared color scheme and the appropriate homophone of ‘ravenous.’ “It’s beautiful.”
Death examined a white marble sculpture of a skull, inlaid with ebony eye sockets and nostrils. THIS IS REMARKABLE CRAFTMANSHIP. THANK YOU.
Pollution gazed at a small mosaic made from chips of ivory and mother-of-pearl in wavy patterns, bordered in pearls and set in white gold. "Holy carbon, this is gorgeous."
War snorted. "'Holy carbon'? Who says that?"
"Petroleum-worshipers probably say it. I read about that in fiction and I intend to make it happen."
Pollution pulled a box out from under their chair and tipped it over, dumping five books onto the floor. "Speaking of which, here are my presents to you. Shopping is hard for me when things tend to break or turn wonderfully filthy the moment I touch them, but I managed to shop at a bookstore without destroying all of the merchandise, and I bought books that celebrate our teamwork.
"War, this book is about our military-industrial complexes. Famine, this book beautifully describes the industrial food systems you and I created, with nods to War and Pestilence. Pestilence, this novel trilogy puts you as the cause of an apocalypse in a world shaped by me, and involves petroleum-worshippers."
Pestilence rolled his eyes. "You're giving us books that celebrate our teamwork with you. Pollution, you have an ego the size of a planet."
SO DO THE REST OF YOU, Death observed.
Famine grinned, unabashed. "I guess we do. On that note, here's our collaborative gift to you, Lord."
He got up, took a box off a shelf, and presented it to Death with a flourish. "It’s a handheld Trivia Scrabble game. Pollution created it, don't ask me how, and we all filled it with questions about our achievements in the past thirty years. You know all about them, of course, usually firsthand, but we’ve seen that's never stopped you from enjoying this game."
THANK YOU.
They launched into a discussion of the game's contents, which predictably grew heated when Pestilence and Pollution began to bicker about the times when they worked at cross-purposes, while War and Famine exchanged long-suffering looks.
Eventually Famine had had enough. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he said loudly over the arguing "As the host, I declare this party over."
Death stood. THEN HERE IS MY GIFT TO YOU ALL. He waved a hand and all traces of the party vanished from the room, including the buildup of soot and plastic particles that had been gently precipitating out of thin air in Pollution's vicinity. ALL PARTY MESS IN THIS HOUSE HAS BEEN CLEANED UP OR PUT AWAY. NOW I MUST RETURN TO WORK.
"Me too," said Pestilence.
"Me three," said War. "Thanks for hosting us, Famine. See you all again soon."
As the others filed out, Pollution rolled their eyes at Famine. "Workaholics. Me, I'm taking the night off. My projects can sustain themselves while I wander around admiring displays of Christmas lights. Want to come with me?"
"No thanks."
"Oh, right, you have better things to do." Pollution kicked angrily at a chair leg, then stood. "Just get me the faux snow and I'll be gone."
Famine obliged. After Pollution had slammed the door, he sighed in relief. Much as he cared about his colleagues, they could be exhausting to deal with. War was easygoing enough, but Pestilence tended to be grumpy, Death was aloof, and Pollution was, well, volatile. He had fulfilled his holiday duty to them as the Horseperson with the most hospitable houses, and was due for some fun of his own.
Smiling and humming a few lines of "Santa Baby," he went to his car and drove off to Frannie's house for Christmas dinner.