​Walking around downtown a glimmer of light hooks the corner of an eye.  Glance down the alley spy a little match girl kneeling over a diminutive bonfire.  Her entire wares crackling up in flames, she feeds the fire with Chinese take-out boxes.  She gets them from a nearby dumpster, darting between the cold, and her ever growing spot of heat.  Sometimes she nibbles a bit of stray lo mein. 

A hobo shivers out of a doorway.  Fire is a magnet for the frozen.  Icicles dangling off his beard he makes his way towards the flame.  His patchwork suit, made of carpet samples, crackles as he moves.  The little match girl whips out a switchblade.  Hissing like an alley cat, she juggles the knife to hint at her skill with it.  The hobo slumps, though his frost stiff suit maintains the same pose from a moment ago.  He continues on his way, aiming for the lake shore where he'll be found, a frozen statue on the beach.  Come Spring there'll be dozens with him -- Winter's grim statuary.  Not all used to be homeless, but it's only by walking among the dead anyone can maybe tell the difference. 

​And it feels like the right year to take that stroll; however, I have other places to be.  Better?  That's always the hope. 

​#

Parking out front of my parents house I take note of the lights.  One side is covered in Giftmas lights, the rest is bare.  Glittering half finished Christmasy arabesques tumbling into a sloppy kabelsalat, where I presume Pops decided fuck it, and went back inside.  It's rare to see even that degree of effort.  Usually he hooks one strand on a side of the door, walks around the house, stapling the wire at random to the siding, and the circle complete, plugs the lights into a timer -- done. 

Gather the goodies from the trunk.  There's going to be bountiful bribery this year.  So much so I almost feel bad for not being worse, a 72 inch 4K flatscreen buys a lot of forgiveness.  Gifts balanced on the TV, I lug the load to the front door. 
Before I can press the buzzer the door flies open.  Mom sticks her head out.  Frowning at the lead grey sky she sighs. 

"It only snows when no one wants it to," she says.

"I'll make it snow if you give me a hand here."

She doesn't so much open the door as forget to close it.  Grunting, I manage to cart the gifts inside just in time for a controlled fall.  The crunching noises some boxes make tempt me to change the labels, not who for, but whom from, yet I decide to play it honest.  Leaving the pile in the foyer I find Pops in his recliner.

He puts a protective hand on a nearby bottle of scotch, "Glad you could make it."

"Free food.  Free booze.  Why wouldn't I?" 

He snorts, "Nothing is free."

Hustle back to the Giftmas goodies, and return with a tin of cookies.  Handing them to Pops gets the permissive wave allowing access to the liquor cabinet.  Amidst the bottles I find an old favorite, liquid reminder of misspent youth, and pour a glass. 

Into the kitchen to ask Mom if she needs help with anything.

She smiles, "I'm good honey.  Oh! and never mind the ghost." 

A hooded specter hovers in one corner escorting a miserable looking pig.  The forlorn swine, looking daper in a waistcoat, watches itself cook in the oven.  It puts me in a vegetarian mood.  However, I don't want to have that fight with Pops again.  His response is simply to eat twice as much meat.  One National Christmas Kick-off Day (Thanksgiving) he hate half a turkey, and ended up vomiting.  So, for the sake of familial peace, I decide to eat the ham.  Besides, in a way, it's already dead. 

Mom says, "I picked out this ham special.  You know how much your father hates communists."

"He is a man of his time," I remark.

The doorbell rings, and soon the house is flooded with relatives galore.  Aunts, uncles, cousins, siblings, and friends close enough to be considered kin pour inside.  A whirlwind of greetings ushers the way to a rain of small talk.  Few conversations embark into anything deeper than, "Hi, how ya doin'?"; and, "Whatch ya been up to lately?"

"Same old, same old." 

No sense going into details.  None of them want to hear about selling pills to winos down at the local pub, poker games won thanks to desperate risks so the rent is paid, or the girl who tried to set me on fire -- Heureux au jeu, malheureux en amour;  Winter's statuary... the road goes both ways because I'm certainly not here to hear about the daily grind polishing bones for the grave, the growing concern over thoughts about disemboweling their own children, fantasies getting steadily more real:

"Where's your son?"

"Never had one."

Moving on, we gather in the dining room to tell old jokes, ancient family folklore, and compliment the cook before ever taking a bite. 

Mom insists we join hands, while she leads us in prayer, "Dear Lord, who is wearing that awful perfume?  It smells like a baby hooker.  I don't want some pimp wandering in here, slapping a baby for her money.  It would ruin Christmas.  Amen."

"Amen," in one word we collectively echo the sentiment.

Discretely my cousin's girlfriend sneaks to bathroom to wash off the fragrance of baby whore.  Meanwhile, Dad slices into the ham muttering, "Marx can't help you now."  Passed along hand to hand side dishes orbit the table.  Mom salts her mashed potatoes with a private shaker full of salt and Hydrocodone.  Corks pop free from wine bottles which drain empty before the sound fades.  A steady static buzz of chatter fills the room, but no one mentions anything more serious than a desire for more food.

Afterwards I help clean the dishes, while the gorged lounge throughout the house.  Through the kitchen window I can see old man Diefenbach.  He's collecting a bottle of booze left in the snow to chill.  He and his wife used to take part in the procession down main street, parents carrying candles and photos of the children they lost, taken by Krampus, but it's been years since he did that.  His limp seems part of the reason why.  Still, seems more like he stopped once his wife died.  He held the candle.  She held the photo. 

The sound of tearing paper rips me away from the window.  The youngest kids have plunged into the presents.  Their eyes light up as if this junk will somehow make them happy forever, and we adults bask in it, trying desperately to absorb some of that feeling.  The booze helps.  And it isn't long before our own gift greed is being satisfied.  All karmic debts between us are ended, or at least suspended indefinitely thanks to the right blu rays, gift cards, books, games, clothes, speciality ammo and booze, art prints, and kitchen appliances.  It's amazing what forgiveness a panini press delivers -- blessed are the sandwich makers.   

Like all things the night eventually ends.  My family parts pleasantly.  It's been a relatively madness free evening, and yet I feel a twinge of displeasure.  A nagging tought at the back of my mind prodding.  Lighting a smoke in my car I glance over.  I can see old Diefenbach sipping schnapps in his living room.  Alone.

I get out of the car.  Knocking on his front door, it isn't long before he answers.

He cocks his head to the side, "Wie geht's?"

Recalling what little German I know, "Es gehts mir gut.  Uh, mind if I come in?"

"Please, I vouldn't mind ze company."

"I had a feeling."

Fingers dance along the keys.  Hammer out the scene just the way the old man described it. 
 
#
 
Exterior – a high steeple church in the early evening.  Close up on sign out front of the church.  It reads:  "Looking for a Sign from God?  This may be it." 
 
Interior – church.  Only one pew is occupied, a man sitting quietly regarding the room.  We see statues and stained glass implying where his eyes roam, dim flickering candles everywhere.  The man is Remy.  He’s dressed like a school teacher, his face shadowed by stubble.  A priest emerges from a confessional, notices him, and steps over.
 
Priest:  I’m sorry.  I thought no one was here.
 
Remy turns towards the Priest and smiles. 
 
Remy:  I was thinking the same thing:  there’s no one here.
 
Priest:  Are you here for confession? 
 
Remy:  No, thank you, although since you’re here perhaps you can help me with something.
 
Priest comes closer to Remy.
 
Priest:  What can I do for you?
 
Remy:  Wait with me.
 
Priest sits down near Remy.
 
Priest:  May I ask what we’re waiting for?
 
Remy:  To see if God comes.
 
Remy stabs the Priest in the stomach several times.  Shocked, the Priest cries out and staggers toward the exit bleeding down the aisle.  Remy stands up.  He slowly follows the Priest who collapses near the holy water fount.  The Priest rolls over bleeding profusely.
 
Priest:  Help me.  Help me.
 
Remy kneels down beside the Priest.
 
Remy:  I’m praying just as hard as you that He comes. 
 
The Priest expires.  Remy sighs.  He gets to his feet and washes the blood off the knife in the holy water.  He puts the knife away.
 
Remy:  Guess it takes a little more to get your attention.
 
#
 
Push back from the typewriter, light a cigarette.  It seems like a night to howl.  Pages done set headphones in ears, otherwise might hear the cry of wendigos wandering the arctic city outside.  The wind chill is pulling the thermometer below zero, and there’s two miles to walk.  Can’t have any hesitation creeping in. 
 
Layered for warmth not fashion set off into the night.  Spit, a touch of saliva whipped against a cheek thanks to the wind.  The chill freezes it into a strand of icy lace.  Peel this natural lingerie off, and watch it melt in the palm only to solidify again in the next breeze. 
 
Music gets the blood pumping, yet the cold is bound to win.  So a course is plotted.  Bar hop until the door swings open at Mr. Delacroix’s.
 
“Oh child, it’s been too long.”  The old witch doctor’s toothless grin is good as any space heater.  He shuffles into the house.  It’s impossible to tell who is making more noise, him or this rickety building.  Both seem liable to collapse at any moment. 
 
Following him in, “I was wondering if we could continue our conversation from the other day?”
 
“I figured.  Jus’ gimme a sec to wrap up this brew.”
 
Delacroix is sort of like a prison vintner, only instead of toilet wine he concocts voodoo potions.  Bathtub miracles bottled for sale to anyone willing to risk swallowing.  Side effects may vary, but the intended outcomes are assured.  Though those side effects can be nasty, like the time that love potion made a young man’s eyes bleed.  But the bleeding eventually stopped. 
 
Stirring a small bucket on a hot plate Delacroix remarks, “There’s rum in the fridge.  Help yaself if ya like.”
 
Don’t mind if I do, thinking it’s time for a celebratory drink.  Pages done deserve reward.  However, good manners demand pouring a drink for the host too.  It’s just polite.
 
Raised glasses clinked to an unspoken toast.  Delacroix sips his.  The burn seems to fuel some memory.  He shakes his head, muttering, “Amanda,” but it’s clear the memory is private.  He keeps it in his pocket for himself. 
 
The witch doctor leads the way to the living room.  He plops down on the couch, gesturing the guest towards an empty seat nearby.  Sit down casually in case the green easy chair decides today is the day to give up on life, collapsing to pieces.  It groans, but holds together.
 
“So how that script comin'?” Delacroix asks.
 
“It’s coming along fine.  But I was wondering if we could get into what happened after the priest.”
 
Delacroix nods, “Well, Remy kept up what he doin’.  He figured he could do something awful enough it’d get God’s attention, ya see?  He went on killing nuns, and children, and doing things I don’t even wanna say aloud.  There’s some wickedness conjures the devil, even just mentionin’.”
 
“Yeah, I know.  We talked about this.  I’ve got all the details of the killings I need, more than I need.  What I’m interested in is what he felt while he was on this, for lack of a better term, quest.”
 
Witch doctor shrugs, “Can’t say all uh his feels, but I do know one thang.  He got powerful depressed.  He didn’t exactly want to do what he did, only he thought it was the only way to get done what he wanted.  And for a while seemed like alls he’s doin’ is proving there is no God.”
 
“When he called you would you tell him otherwise?”
 
“Course I would.  I did.  Magic is real.”  His eyes glaze over, reminiscing, a thin red crack creeps across the white of his eye, “Though he once said something like magic is just the world without explanation.  Like just cuz a fellow can call up fire out his fingers don’t make it unnatural just not understood.  And by unnatural I jus' mean spiritual, divinity and such.  Magic never was special to Remy, no sir.”
 
Delacroix rubs his fingers together.  It seems like little arcs of blue electricity are crackling between the digits, but it could just be static electricity, not some mystical act.  Yet the desire to see it one way or another feels like a choice, and why anyone would choose the simple scientific banal reality is a mystery itself. 
 
Another round of rum.  The conversation drifts to other aspects of life.  The old witch doctor is making a balm for a hooker lives on the fourth floor.  It should clear up some nasty chaffing, although it might make her extra hairy down there for a few weeks.  She’s willing to pay in trade.
 
“If you’re interested,” Delacroix says.
 
“No thanks,” try to say it kindly. 
 
Delacroix chuckles, “Just tossing a friend a bone.”
 
“Seems I’d be the one tossing a bone.”
 
The old man hoots, and slaps his knee.  Outside the wind howls.  The window frosts opaque.  Somehow it’s a comforting blank grey.  Perhaps every bullet fired tonight will freeze in the air. 
 
A handmade clock, the only clean object in the house, chimes.  Delacroix squints at it.
 
Shaking his head in disbelief, “We been talking that long?”
 
“Doesn’t seem that long.”
 
“That’s a good sign, when time don’t seem to drag, but I don’t plan on gabbing forever.  I got things to do.”
 
“As usual, thanks for your time.”
 
“No worries.  I got more than I need.”
 
And with that the conversation ends.  Fresh details in mind bar hop back to the apartment.  Sit at the keys.  A fresh scene forms inspiring digits into motion.  It’s time to make this killer human.
 
#
 
Remy tortures a nun, slowly peeling her skin off in long strips.  The nun screams.
 
Remy:  I don’t like this anymore than you.  I really hope He saves you.  You seem like someone who should be saved. 
 
Remy looks up.  His eyes are full of tears, some fall down his cheeks.
 
Remy:  When is it enough?  When do I have your attention?
 
Crying, Remy begins to saw off her hands.