Someone turns on the Christmas tree’s chain of lights – just like the glittering red ball above the ice rink and the church’s Bling Bling suit – the city shines as if a nuclear power plant had exploded in the immediate vicinity. I blast when the guy behind the counter charges six euros for a cup of mulled wine. Anyhow, I don’t give a shit about the Feast of Love, and the piss-warm lousy liquid poured from the container anyhow.

Where the hell are we going? Where’s the relation if I can get a gram of heroin for ten cups of this stuff? Something is going wrong in the world; I tell the vendor to shove the booze up his ass and get his butt in line.

I still hear the punch seller shouting something about “there is three euros deposit for the cup,” but I skillfully ignore him.

More and more people are romping around the small wooden huts, which sell not only adulterated alcohol at the price of champagne but also all kinds of other shit. Starting with ridiculously looking Pommel caps, which are most likely made in Bangladesh and Hungarian Pyramid cakes, probably made in China, marmots ointment, with no marmots at all inside, felt patches made of polyester or incense mixtures for the energetic house cleaning – the who is who of the Christmas-market- poppycock is getting in the mood.

Right next to the incense stand some dude sells liquor. First of all, no hyperactive toddlers are running around; secondly, the guy behind the counter doesn’t want to use the shot glass, and surprisingly, it doesn’t smell like a corpse but like a church organ.

Oh, yeah, that smoker over there.

After I’ve worked my way through from A like Anika- to E- like Enzian liquor the first snowflakes fall from the sky, at the same time “Last Christmas” buzzes out of the boxes above me to suddenly make me pleasant and turn me into a fragile-nostalgic Christmas neurotic. All I want now is incense, gold, and myhrre. …

“But the very next day you gave it away…”

So another Enzian liquor, please.

“I´ll give it to someone special..yeahhhhahhhhaaa”

The snowfall gets denser and denser, just like my very charming self – when I finally arrive at Z like Zirbe tree, (German pine tree: translators note), a discrete loss of the German mother tongue becomes noticeable.

“Iiiiiwanapay, I’m babbling over the counter, where I support myself with both hands in order not to fall over. I wonder how pretty the waiter suddenly turned out to be. The red cap really suits him well, and it harmonizes with the full white beard and the matching overall. He reminds me of someone I only know of whom?

“Ho ho ho, miss. Well, have you always been good?” he wants to know from me. I’m beginning to realize who he is. Certainly not the one with the spirits, he didn’t have a full beard. Well, at least he doesn’t want any money from me – it’s practical because I don’t have any.

I ask Santa if he can lend me a hundred euros, he asks if I blow him. The child on his lap asks what “blowing” means, his mother often says this to uncle Ferdinand. I suppose it’s Uncle Ferdinand who suddenly bumps into me from the side, rushes past me and rips the little one out of Santa Claus’ care to bring her to the blonde with a bright red head and an open mouth who stands a few meters away from me. I don’t know why she looks so strange; hopefully she doesn’t want to devour the poor child. That’s not appropriate, after all. Not for Christmas.

I’m all too confused around this, best to get out a here. Only when I arrive at the smoke stand again, I calm down a little. After all, I know that there are high percentages from A to Z in the vicinity and I also find some chemical support in my coat pocket.

But first I examine the assortment of dried plants that lies in front of me – neatly sorted and packed into small plastic bags, I feel almost like the dealer I trust. Estimated hundred different packages the put old guy offers for sale.

“is this stuff smokable, boss?” I want to know?

My alcohol banner should be enough to bring it to a similar level within seconds. Grinning, the head crooked and his eyebrow raised, he convinces me of the sense of the old custom smoking outside rooms on rough nights to drive away negative energies. All you would need is some coal, sand, incense and – depending on the effect you want to achieve – the right herb. I choose stuff whose description promises to release mental blockages and magically attract the opposite sex. Sounds like coke and vodka. But this is not.

“Coal, sand, vessel, iris root – that’ll be fifty-three euros and twenty cents, miss.”

I turn my head to the left, direct myself into the middle of the crowd before I scream excitedly: “Santa Claus rapes one of the reindeer! Somebody stop him! Call 911!”

The seller rushes out behind the booth, startled, in order not to miss the Xmas live porn show, which in reality is nothing more than a diversionary maneuver since I don’t have a 53.20 at all. I’m gonna grab the bag of stuff and get out of here. With the firm intention to pay a part of it next week, the rest the next but one… – after all at the electronic market there is also an installment purchase. Then why not at the Christmas Market? So why is it always consensual?

Besides, what if the stuff doesn’t deliver what it promises?

Then I’d be the one who got robbed. Cold lured into the trap, out of pure greed for profit and manipulation by marketing…

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