This Is Christmas Metazen

loud, I slowly and deliberately counted how many soldiers were contained in the box, winding up the key in the back of each one as I did so. When I had fnished, the room was flled with the clattering of toy drums.

“Twelve?” I gasped. “Really?”

My true love nodded, and then passed me a hammer.

“But I promise, I absolutely promise you, that I’m not interested in rock drummers anymore.

I know it’s a lot to ask, but if you can fnd it in your heart to forgive me, I want you — I need you — to line up all the drummers in a row and smash them into hundreds of small pieces. That will put an end to it, forever.”

I turned each of the toy soldiers over in my hands, examining them carefully. They were exceptionally detailed, and while I could understand my true love’s reasoning, it seemed a shame to completely destroy such beautifully crafted items. No, I had a better idea.

A few hours later, I called my true love back into the room to watch the toy soldiers on parade. However, instead of the clattering heard before, this procession was almost silent save for the delicate whirring of the clockwork machinery. With the utmost precision, I had cut away the twelve pairs of drumsticks clutched tightly in the drummers’ hands. They were now all action, but no noise. Completely useless, in fact. I couldn’t help but smile at a job well done.

Emasculated — that’s the word I was looking for. Yes, emasculated.

Every few days, I feel that it’s my duty to stage a ceremonial march-past by our legion of toy soldiers. It’s just a little reminder. Twelve drummers not drumming. My true love understands.