Blood Lite II: Overbite

by Kevin J. Anderson

  “And you’re still naïve enough to think that matters,” bin Laden said. “Halloween may thrive as a night of blood, or it may fade away. Either way, we win. But the credit for destroying Halloween is yours. I thank you. For being exactly what I needed you to be.”

  Only then did I realize. Bin Laden saw me as a coward, craving safety, always running from confrontation as if villagers carrying torches hounded my steps. And I was that coward, for him. Because I’m nothing but a goddamned avatar.

  The deliberations were short. Mr. Higginbotham’s staff exited the conference room. Bin Laden and I went in while Elizabeth and Dewey stayed out in the hallway.

  Mr. Higginbotham motioned for us to sit. We sat at opposite sides of the table.

  “A change in a holiday’s administration is not something we take lightly,” Mr. Higginbotham said. “We would do this only for the best interest of the holiday. Although Halloween has grown much since its beginning, we have not seen much improvement since the 1970s, and there has been a noticeable decline in trick-or-treating. The fact that Halloween has failed to gain observed status has not escaped our notice. However, Halloween’s overall growth cannot be overlooked. Therefore, it is the decision of the Holiday Commission to give the True Monsters a period not to exceed two years to obtain nationally observed status for Halloween. If, after two years, they are unable to do this, the Real Monsters will assume administrative authority for a period not to exceed fifty years, after which time their progress will be reviewed by the Commission.” Mr. Higginbotham rose to leave. “My suggestion, Mr. Frankenstein, is that you use your time wisely.”

  After Mr. Higginbotham left, bin Laden got up from the table. “Not as expedient a victory as I would have hoped, but patience is, as they say, a virtue. Next year’s Conclave will certainly be interesting.” Bin Laden went to leave, but he stopped at the door and faced me. “We’re going to be watching you. I just thought you should know that.” Then, he was gone.

  After a few moments, Dewey wandered in. “So, what happened?”

  “We have two years. If no one gets the day off for Halloween by then, we’ve lost Halloween to the Real Monsters.”

  “I don’t believe it. What do we do now?”

  “What can we do? We either find a way to pull it off or somehow convince the Commission to change its mind.” I slid out of my chair. “I’m heading up to my room to crash. I’m in no mood for barhopping tonight, but I promised you booze, so you can put them on my room tab.”

  “Why couldn’t you have offered when I felt like drinking? Damn. 2012 is gonna be a hell of a year.”

  “More than that, Dewey. It might very well be the end of the world.”

  Oh, the Ho-Ho Horror

  JOEL A. SUTHERLAND

  (For Alex and Murphy, for inspiring this story.)

  How any parent can say they love Christmas with a straight face is beyond me.

  Ginny and I host an annual Christmas party for thirty to forty of our closest casual acquaintances and strangers. Neighbors I hardly know, co-workers I can’t stand, distant relations and in-laws I hold a special dislike for. Idle chitchat and an endless loop of Christmas tunes compete for my disdain, while people’s dirty kids run their dirty shoes over my Persian rug and paw their dirty hands over my fifty-eight inch flat screen. Someone inevitably gets drunk from two measly glasses of spiked eggnog and talks too close to my face with garlic breath before running off to vomit in the bathroom, no doubt leaving some bile on the tiles behind the toilet. Sort of like a special little present for me to find later. What would Christmas be without special little presents?

  God, I hate our annual Christmas parties.

  Although, we can’t call them Christmas parties anymore, can we?

  No, that would offend someone out there, so Ginny buys the invitations that say “Holiday Party” or “Festive Gathering” or, failing that, buys blank cards and writes “End of the Year Party,” as if that will hide the religious undertones of the event, despite the fact that she alternates writing each letter in red and green ink. It drives me banana sandwich.

  And that’s just the parties. There’s plenty else about Chistm—the holidays—that makes me want to bury myself under a mound of overdue January bills. Shopping mall carols. Crowds. Battles to buy the year’s overpriced must-have toy. Subarctic temperatures. Shoveling driveways. Dorky sweaters. It’s a Wonderful Life repeats. Crippling debt. Traveling nonstop to visit the in-laws. The in-laws, in general. Lining up for my kid to sit on fake Santa laps. The psychotic reindeer that’s eyeing my fingers—as if they were a pile of carrot sticks left outside a child’s home for it to eat on Christmas Eve—as I’m chained to the wall of a dank basement, unable to defend my outer extremities.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

  Back to the Holiday Party.

  I couldn’t breathe. The house was oppressively stuffy thanks to all the people I wanted nothing to do with. When Ginny started passing out Christmas crackers (something else to add to my list of holiday pet peeves: those flimsy multicolored paper crowns and the people who wear them) I grabbed my coat and my keys (which were weighted down with a Swiss Army knife key chain—last year’s Christmas present from my wife, thank you very much), then stepped outside.

  I inhaled deeply and exhaled with a sigh, watching my breath stream from my mouth and nostrils in a misty cloud. The night was frigid but calm, lazy snowflakes drifting to the ground. Up and down the road the streetlights shed light for no one. It was too cold and too late for anyone to be outside. I smiled. I was alone.

  “Whatcha doin’?”

  “Jesus fuck!” I yelled, jumping and spinning around like a ballerina on speed. It was my boy, and by the look on his face, “Jesus fuck” was not a regular part of his vocabulary. “Gregory. I didn’t hear you come out.”

  “I saw you grab your coat. Sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. Although the temperature was approaching -20°C, I began to wish I had left my coat inside. “What do you want?”

  He shrugged his shoulders and mumbled something unintelligible.

  “I was thinking of taking a walk. You should head back in. You don’t want to catch a cold and have to spend the rest of the party in bed.”

  On second thought, that didn’t sound like a terrible idea.

  “Don’t wanna,” he said. “Wanna go with you.”

  “All right, then,” I said with a sigh. The kid was incorrigible. “Grab your coat, earmuffs, and mitts and let’s go.”

  He stared at me and smiled.

  “Quickly now,” I added, “before someone catches wind of our planned escape and alerts the guards.”

  His smile contorted into a panicked grimace.

  “There aren’t actually any guards. Go.”

  His smile returned as he bolted inside and returned a moment later with his winter gear bundled in his arms. Snow crunched loudly underfoot as we walked, Gregory slipping into his puffy purple coat (his mother’s doing, not mine), rainbow-patterned mittens and earmuffs in the likeness of Pikachu.

  “You look good.”

  “Thanks,” he said. No sense of sarcasm. Sure, my boy was a little weird, but walking with him sure as hell beat staying at the party. As we walked side by side, I felt an odd sensation and part of me wanted to stop to give the boy a hug. I gave him a manly pat on the shoulder instead.

  Little did I know that this once dreadful, now peaceful night would end with my current predicament, held hostage and staring down Rudolph the Red-Tempered Reindeer.

  Still, even if I did, I probably wouldn’t have gone back to the party.

  “Grandma, Shrek the Halls, and fruitcake”

  We had detoured out of our neighborhood, crossed a country road and were walking along a twisty wooded path behind the local hockey arena. How long had the boy been nattering on for? I had zoned out ten minutes before and had no idea what he was talking about. “Huh?”

  “Dad!” His voice was thick with exasperation. “Those are my three
favorite things about Christmas. Now it’s your turn.”

  Ah, yes. He was obviously referring to our once yearly trip to Montreal to visit my mother in between Christmas and New Year’s; he had watched that Shrek special every day in December since we bought the DVD for him a couple of years back; and the boy can pack away fruitcake with the best of them.

  What a weird kid.

  I’m so goddamned sick of that DVD and fruitcake is disgusting, but we probably should try and visit his grandmother more often. If I survive the night, that is.

  “Dad! Your three favorites!”

  “Hm? Oh, right. Um . . .” I scanned the forest around me. “Snow, and . . .” His earmuffs caught my eye. “Pokemon winter apparel, and . . .” Up ahead around a bend I spotted a pine tree farm. “Christmas trees.”

  As soon as I said that last one I regretted it.

  “Me, too!” He slowed his pace as he gazed at the trees that rolled up and down over the snowy hills like an ocean of green and white waves, frozen in time. “Dad, are we going to have a Christmas tree this year?”

  “Look, son,” I began but trailed off. Something in the way he was looking up at me, so full of optimism, hope, and, yes, Christmas spirit, made me start to choke up. That weird feeling of wanting to hug him washed through my body again—the last thing I wanted to do at that moment was slap him with the cold, hard truth.

  How does one look their kid in the eye and say, “Sorry, we can’t afford a tree this year because Daddy’s former boss is an asshole who laid off one of his most loyal employees three weeks before Christmas. But, hey, at least our family room won’t look so weird—I can’t afford presents this year either, and wouldn’t that have been dumb to have a tree with no presents under it?”

  Damn, I wasn’t always this cynical. Especially around Christmas.

  I used to love the decorations, the carolers. The hot chocolate after a cold night’s tobogganing. Taking Gregory to the Santa Claus parade and oohing and aahing at the procession of lame floats. Hell, I even dressed up as the big guy himself one year and paid surprise visits to my nephews and nieces on Christmas Eve. Scared the bejesus out of little Laura—she’s been terrified of fake Santas ever since—but man, those were good times.

  And there I was, out in the middle of a field, trudging through the snow, avoiding my own freaking Christmas party, pissed and bitter and unable to give my boy a simple goddamn tree for Christmas. Surrounded by tall, silent pines. No one else in sight.

  Something had to give.

  I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my key chain. The red Swiss Army knife glinted in the moonlight, as rosy as Santa’s cheeks.

  “Yeah, kiddo,” I said, feeling the Christmas spirit seep back into my soul. “We’re going to have a Christmas tree this year.”

  It had seemed like a good plan at the time—use the saw on my Swiss Army knife to “liberate” a pine tree from the frozen ground and “borrow” it for the season—but I quickly realized that it was actually a sucky plan. Maybe the suckiest plan ever conceived. But I didn’t care. I was getting my family a tree for Christmas.

  Still, as my biceps began to seize up from the strain of using a two-inch saw to cut through a thick tree trunk and the newly formed blisters on my palms popped, freeing clear liquid and blood to trickle down my forearms, I began to wish I had a more appropriate tool to complete the task at hand.

  I had sent the boy home with a message for his mother. “Tell her I’ll be home soon,” I said, “and tell her I’m bringing the cheer.” If I could have seen my own face, I’m sure it would have looked wickedly demented, but the boy just smiled, giggled, and turned and ran. A good kid.

  I began to huff and puff as my tiny saw passed the halfway point. Sweat stung my eyes and dripped from my nose and chin. The scent of pine burned my nostrils. My blood began to flow more freely from my palms, splattering the needle-covered snow. It painted a beautifully festive picture on the ground, red, white and green. I laughed at the thought, ignored the searing pain, and quickened my pace.

  Soon I was near the end of the trunk. I pocketed my bloody knife, grabbed ahold of the treetop, and yanked. Wood cracked and an owl took flight from the concealment of a nearby tree, the powerful flapping of its wings fading away as it went. The tree fell to the ground with a crash and then the night grew eerily quiet. I paused and scanned the hills around me, ready for someone to come charging out of one of the rows of planted trees, alerted by the racket I had caused.

  Nothing happened.

  My head pounded with a thief’s high. It felt like my blood was coursing through my veins with renewed vigor. Confident that I had pulled off a successful crime yet eager to hightail it back home, I grabbed the trunk of the tree and began to flee.

  It was hard work, dragging the tree with its dense branches through the snow. So hard that I had only made it five feet when I saw a giant red sleigh crest the hill in front of me. A single reindeer, foaming at the mouth and eyes ablaze, pulled it. The animal was larger than the reindeers at petting zoos, more like a small moose, and it gnashed its teeth when it spotted me. A figure stood up in the sleigh. Portly, bearded, and dressed head to toe in red velvet, there was no mistaking who it was. But the look of pure fury etched in his face was all wrong.

  Santa Claus pointed at me and bellowed, “Who dares to steal one of my trees?” His deep voice seemed to shake the snow from the branches all around us.

  All I could think in response was, Oh, I didn’t know I was stealing from Santa, but instead of saying anything I simply pissed eggnog-scented urine down my left leg.

  Okay, so the reindeer wasn’t actually the size of a small moose, it wasn’t foaming at the mouth and its eyes weren’t ablaze. Those were embellishments of my overactive imagination and the panicked adrenaline that had consumed me in the heat of the moment. It did gnash its teeth, though. A lot. I would learn that was Rudolph’s trademark move.

  It’s not the real Rudolph, of course, nor is Santa the real Mr. Claus. Do I need to mention that those are make-believe characters? Actually, under my present circumstance, it feels oddly necessary.

  “I’m not the real Santa,” Santa said as he tied my wrists together with a strap of red leather covered in tiny gold bells. I stood rooted to the ground and let him have his way with me. What can I say? Even though I knew he wasn’t really one of the most powerful men in the world, I had a deep-seated and powerful reverence for the suit. “The name’s Randall Jenks. I own this tree”—he hefted it up into his sleigh—“and all the others. This is my farm.”

  Regardless of his introduction, I knew I wouldn’t be able to think of him as anything but Santa. He grabbed my bound wrists, looped a length of rope through the binding and tied it to the back of his sleigh.

  “And you’ve gotta pay for trying to steal from me.”

  Rudolph gnashed his teeth and Santa hopped nimbly into his ride. With a crack of his whip, Rudolph took off at a gallop, and we—Santa seated comfortably, I dragged along the ground rather uncomfortably—were whisked away to Santa’s farmhouse.

  Which brings us up to speed.

  Santa’s basement is a particularly nasty place. Think of the abodes of Buffalo Bill and the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and you get the idea. I rattle the chains holding my arms above my head to the old stone wall behind me. I discover the wall is crumbling and the chains aren’t too securely attached to it, but that wasn’t my purpose. I rattled the chains involuntarily—my whole body is shaking thanks to the ride here and the “I want to eat your fingers” look in Rudolph’s eye. The reindeer clomps slowly toward me and, you guessed it, gnashes his teeth.

  Why did I have to steal a tree from a deranged psychopath? Why did my boss have to lay me off only twenty-one days before Christmas? Why is this farmer masquerading as Old St. Nick?

  “You’re probably wondering why I’m dressed as Santa,” Santa says, “and why I have a sleigh and a reindeer.”

  “No,” I lie. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction.<
br />
  “Sure you are. Who wouldn’t be?” He steps so close I can smell a hint of nutmeg and cinnamon on his breath, and I catch myself wondering if he isn’t really who he claims he isn’t. “Three years ago business was in the crapper. People weren’t buying real trees anymore. Artificial trees could be purchased on the cheap at any discount department store and people were becoming so damned eco-conscious. Thank you Walmart. Thank you Al Gore.”

  Rudolph’s gaze isn’t flinching from my hands. I curl my fingers into fists reflexively—not so much an act of aggression as an attempt to hide my much loved and needed digits.

  Santa steps back and begins pacing the basement, looking at me only occasionally. “The world was changing. I was forced into confronting the truth that if I wanted to eat”—Rudolph’s tongue wets his hairy lips—“I’d have to change with it.”

  “So you bought yourself a Santa suit,” I say.

  “Very good! I bought myself a Santa suit. And a sleigh. And let us not forget the reindeer. His name is Harvey, by the way.”

  But I know he’ll always be Rudolph to me.

  “I hoped that kids would drag their parents to my farm to meet Santa, and while here, their folks would buy a tree. Christmas is, after all, for the kids.”

  For the first time since I sent him home I think of Gregory, and I’m glad he left when he did. Like Santa said, Christmas is for the kids, and I’d hate for my boy to have to see me kill the big guy in red. That might put a damper on the holiday for him for, gosh, a couple of years at least.

  But that’s the only way I can foresee this night ending. Either I die, or Santa dies.

  “And it worked! Families came in droves. They fed Harvey, they took pictures of little ’uns in the sleigh, and they all wanted a piece of me. Santa sells.” He pauses, and both his smile and the twinkle in his eye fade. “But I still didn’t sell enough. Tree sales only rose marginally. Most people came for the free family fun and left without opening their wallets and purses. Cheapos.” From his right pocket Santa pulls a knife. It gleams in the light of the basement’s solitary bulb, dangling from a cord overhead. “And to make matters worse, I began to notice fresh stumps in my fields each and every morning.” From his left pocket he pulls an oversized candy cane. Somehow I find this more menacing than the knife. “Poor sales, the cost of all the razzle-dazzle, and stolen stock. It all adds up to guaranteed bankruptcy. So I decided to take action. If I’m going down, at least I’m taking one thieving son of a bitch with me. And wouldn’t you know, you’re the first thieving son of a bitch I’ve caught.” With a sound like metal scraping bone, he shaves a piece of candy cane from the tip. It plummets to the ground completely unlike a gentle snowflake, and I feel my heart plummet with it.