​I answered the phone.  The caller on the other end didn't even wait for me to finish the standard greeting.  He cut in, unleashing a frantic outpouring:
 
"It'll be a cold day in hell before I let some Ren Faire fortune teller be right.  I mean, seriously, I live in the suburbs outside Chicago.  The odds of being mauled to death by a bear seem spectacularly low.  However, my mind keeps orbiting the possibility of puns.  Perhaps, attempting to make her prediction more mysterious, she delivered it as a kind of riddle, a coded premonition of sorts.  As such I keep imagining a large hairy man breaking my skull against the brick wall of the local mall, and puns seem likely given she was dressed as an Elizabethan dinosaur, doing readings under the pseudonym Madame Tarot-dactyl. 
 
"Whatever the case I've come to a grizzly realization.  My perception of reality is often the polar opposite of optimism, and though I've accepted the unbearable black view that existence tends to lead along a shitty brown trail to despair, this latest paranoid fixation may actually be another in a long line of excuses to avoid going outside.  In other words, I've spent the last seventy-two hours watching savage bear attacks online in order to fuel a fear that justifies not leaving my apartment. 
 
"Home is supposed to be a castle not a burial site.  However, paranoia and anxiety are great at barricading all the exits.  Even those left wide open are an almost unbearable mockery; there simply to create the illusion of an easy escape. 
 
"I could hypothetically leave at any moment.  There's no tangible barrier preventing exodus.  That said, it's safer here.  At least it feels that way.
 
"I'm not qualified to play psychiatrist, but some moments are easy to adduce as the cause of certain outcomes.  Being attacked by a dog at the age of six, losing an eye in the process, definitely explains my fear of dogs.  Getting stabbed by two girlfriends illuminates why I flinch when romantic partners reach for me too fast.  I left a fast food chicken joint moments before everyone inside was killed, inspiring my belief that eating fried chicken is lucky; however, given that the gunman was never caught, I sometimes worry he's hunting for me. 
 
"Now I can't stop thinking he'll attack me.  A bullet in the dark ripping open my shoulder.  I'll run and hide.  He won't find me, but the blood pouring down my arm will attract a bear.  Then Madame Tarot-dactyl is right!
 
"Maybe I shouldn't've farted in that small tent she used, but that's no reason to fill a patron's head with bear nightmares.  I doubt she knew the domino spiral she set off, and I'm certainly not going to do anything in retribution, though I can think of a few barbaric things I'd like to.  Then I remember my friend Kathy warned me not to get my fortune told, but the bad thoughts have been so minimal lately I thought nothing would go wrong.  So, I guess it's really my fault. 
 
"It's like my doctor says, "No matter what, remember you are the baron of the fiefdom in your mind." 
 
"She gave me this whole psychological trick where I'm supposed to imagine I'm lord of the land, and all the different aspects of my psyche are serfs under my control, protection, etc.  It works occasionally.  It just sucks having to admit I toppled the house of cards that is my mental health.  I wouldn't call it embarrassing, but it is. 
 
"Though that said, I found this online forum for folks like me, the Agoraphenomenal Zoo.  There's a guy on there who lives in the middle of the Arizona desert to avoid shark attacks.  He sometimes doesn't leave his house because he can't convince himself he won't be attacked by a shark.  Maybe I should feel ashamed to say this, but I don't ­-- I feel great knowing I'm not that fucking nuts. 
 
"And that's why I'm calling.  You can't always trust information on the internet.  So, I'm phoning 4-1-1 to find out how many people get attacked by bears in the United States."
 
"Just one moment, sir," I said. 
 
I started typing softly.  I didn't want him to become aware I got my information from the internet.  That's one thing I've noticed about this job.  People seem to believe information services have some mystic repository at their disposal.  Perhaps back in the day 4-1-1 could be considered analogous to search engines, but those days are long passed. 
 
I could hear the caller's teeth grinding.  Fortunately, I found a set of statistics I expected would please him. 
 
I said, "Hello, sir?  There have only been 15 lethal bear attacks in the United States since 1900.  Five occurred in Alaska.  I think it's safe to say Madame Tarot-dactyl might not be a reliable oracle."
 
He sighed heavily, "Okay.  Good to hear.  I'm going to try to go outside now."
 
"If I may." I said, throwing in two cents, "Do you want any information regarding anxiety disorders?"
 
"Why?" He sounded annoyed, "Knowing the odds of a bear attack I can tell my anxiety to shut the fuck up.  I am the baron!  Got it?"
 
I suddenly felt tempted to lie to him; throw out a caution about escaped venomous snakes slithering about the Chicago area.  He hung up before I could.  Still, it showered a few sparks on the oily rags that are my constant desire to quit any job.  Those flames, however, would not come to life until about a week later. 
 
Sitting in Kumas Corner I idled through a volume of "Shirokuma Cafe".   Though not the ideal spot for pub reading, the heavy metal themed tavern is the only place to enjoy the simultaneous delight of eating a Pantera, while listening to Pantera.  I considered getting a Neurosis but passed.  I've had enough of those.
 
Near the end of my burger I overheard two customers jabbering over pints.  One drank oatmeal stout, while the other sipped India pale ale.  I knew what they drank because like most beer snobs they couldn't shut up and just drink. 
 
Oatmeal Stout said, "Didja hear 'bout that guy in the 'burbs?"
 
India Pale replied, "Yeah!  No, wait... which surburb?"
 
Oatmeal Stout answered, "Morton Grove."
 
India Pale shook his head. 
 
Oatmeal went on, "So this truck hauling all kinds of illegal exotic animals gets into an accident.  Most of the critters are just -- splat -- wasted, but a few get loose.  One is this Bengal bear, probably bound for some Russian drug dealer, but it gets loose, and it kills a guy."
 
"Crazy man.  That's crazy." 
 
Oatmeal said, "Crazier still is his last words.  The Tribune says he says, 'But I ate fried chicken.'"
 
India Pale said, "What's that about?"  His face screwed up, and he added, "Wasn't Baloo a Bengal bear?"
 
"I dunno," Oatmeal said.
 
They both looked my way.  Initially I thought they somehow detected the aura of my job the same way the smell of pastry hangs around bakers.  Then I realized a polar bear featured prominently on the cover of the manga I held.
 
Frowning I said, "What?  Cuz I'm reading about a polar bear who owns a café I know everything about fucking bears?"
 
Oatmeal Stout sheepishly said, "Sorry, man, we just looked at you."
 
Feeling bad for losing my temper I said, "No, I'm sorry guys.  Lemme get you some shots as an apology."  I waved to the bartender while adding, "I just realized I have to quit my job."
 
India Pale asked, "Why're you quitting?"
 
I said, "I'm not good at it.  Recently I gave someone information that made them feel safe when they were right to be afraid."  That lit a bulb causing me to think aloud, "I gotta get to Bristol, and see a fortune teller called Madame Tarot-dactyl."

Last Friday I had the pleasure of performing at Universal Sound: a storytelling event.  This is a monthly affair that takes place in Chicago's Flat Iron Arts Building.  Host by Vinny Greco, it features a variety of fine storytellers and a delightful open mic.  Performers get seven minutes to tell whatever story they want, fiction or non.  Overall, it's a comfortable room full of wonderful folks, and the evening feels like friends getting together to share.

I'll be hitting it up whenever I get the chance.  In addition, I may be asked back to fill another ten minute featured slot.  I'll keep y'all posted as that develops.  Meanwhile, for more info on Universal Sound check out their Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/Universal-Sound-a-storytelling-event-226119884926759/

​Otherwise, check out my performance below.  It's a piece I'm still working on, but is getting better with each telling.  It's about insights I gained into my brother when I discovered his porn stash.  Enjoy!

This evening I'll be helping run the variety show I wrote entitled "Sentir le Gant"!  This is a madcap vaudeville inspired variety show featuring various acts peppered throughout a scripted frame story.  That story revolves around the chaotic host Deveraux, and the perpetually exasperated stage manager Wilson Phillips.  This'll be the second time Sentir le Gant is performed, and things are evolving nicely.  For more information follow the link below.  This is an ongoing series, so even if you miss tonight's performance -- for shame Chicago -- you'll be able to catch the next one if you keep an eye out.

​https://www.facebook.com/events/409078399918922/ :

Coffee & Whiskey Productions is coming back with the next installment of "Welcome to Sentir le Gant" on April 20, 2019 at The Den Theatre! For those of you who don't know, this is our new, bi-monthly show that pulls inspiration from vaudeville...but with a modern twist. Each places new actors in familiar roles, and then they bring a fun, fast-paced story to you while showcasing some of Chicago, Illinois' most interesting special acts.

For this show, we are proud to bring Alex Wasson, Hannah Williams, Cullen Rogers, and Stefanie Sajib Johnsen to the stage in a script by Jay Rohr (Honesty Is Not Contagious) and Coffee & Whiskey co-artistic director Nic Wehrwein! The featured special acts are Ross Childs, Karen DuVall and Dakota Jellyfish Pariset.

Keep your eyes peeled for more info, and be sure to LIKE, SHARE, and INVITE as many people as possible. Let's pack this place.

In addition, be sure to pick up a copy of Switchblade magazine issue #9.  It's not available on Kindle and features hardboiled mysteries for the noir pulp enthusiast. Get your copy today! https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07QW5GVZF

Now a bullet sleeps between Malcolm's eyes
'Cause he couldn't stop tonguing sips
Between butter creamy thighs;
Gripping hips to keep from slips
Tossing to the starry skies.
The irony of zero gravity --
Falling in love means floating above.
 
Fool to his root
Always avoiding the boot
From a seaside castle
Princess minding the hassle
Thinking girlish veils will prevail:
He may drift, but intends to sail
Back to arms always open
Welcome in from the ocean
Where's he caught every fish in the sea
"But he only loves me."
So that's what used to be.
Until the thrall twists a blade
Making love songs fade.
One long lonely night
The record skips, and the needle bite
Reminds of forgotten fangs,
Then we hear the gun bangs.
 
Jail bars seem a sin,
Sentencing to hell
Who's already been.
But blood drunk from a poison well
Angel in need of a win
Smiled as she fell
Remembering the murder scene
That made her a headline queen.
 

​At the heart of the North Pole there's a skyscraper.  City ordinance makes it illegal to build anything higher, so it towers over the metropolis.  That's why the North Pole is such a sprawl.  The city can only grow out not up. 
 
I remember being a kid, looking up at that mile high spire thinking, "Someday I'll fly off that roof.  Then they'll respect me."
 
When that dream died it went hard, and took the kid inside with it.  Yet even now lights at the top are blinking red and green, promising anyone looking up he's in there.  A part of me wishes to be that kid again, though I know it's better not to be.  What's coming isn't for children. 
 
The pieces are falling into place.  I don't like the picture, but that doesn't change the view.  In a way, I almost knew from the start.  Still, I keep hoping I'm not smart enough to see what's really happening.  I want to be wrong.
 
Speeding through streets on my bike the snow whips my face.  I take a route through the industrial part of town.  There's less chance of being seen.  However, I forgot the time of year.
 
The factories are in full swing.  Black smoke chugs into the sky hiding the moon.  Low level elves loiter by doors.  Chugging on cinnamon sticks they hope to burn out the part of their brain that knows the future is a dead end. 
 
Down an alley snowmen chase a group of frightened toys.  Looks like panicked deliveries that've probably heard not everyone gets into the arms of children.  Busted out of their packaging, they're making a run for it, though they've yet to realize there's nowhere to go. 
 
I catch a few glances.  However, no one's concern is me.  Making holiday quotas is the real focus here.  Those who don't disappear. 
 
It isn't long before I'm on the main stretch cruising my way into Claus Concourse.  The front of the building is lined by Tin Soldiers, and there's a hundred more inside.  Granted, there's no one stupid enough to go after Big Red, but there's plenty crazy enough to try. 
 
One of the first things we're taught as kids is Santa can't ever die.  If he does, everything his magic created goes with him; the North Pole dies.  Some folks think it's just propaganda to prevent an assassination attempt, though it's only the crazies who're willing to risk finding out.  Me, I've got a sick suspicion it's true.  One more way for Big Red to lord it over us -- we owe him our very existence.
 
I stop a good distance from the entrance.  Tin Soldiers are already taking aim.  I get off the bike.  Hands in the air I approach slowly.  The Tins radio in, reporting my arrival. 
 
Soon enough a Tin Captain comes marching out of the building.  Decked out in dark red and green, the uniform marks her as Big Red's private guard.  A simple gesture, and the other Tins surround me.
 
"We're going to frisk you," she says. 
 
I shrug, "Figured as much."
 
Another gesture.  Two Tins approach me.  One points a rifle, the other goes to work patting me down.  I make no moves, sarcastic or otherwise.  There's a good chance these Tins are just looking for an excuse to fire. 
 
When it's announced I'm clean she says, "I'm Captain Andersen." 
 
"Got a feeling you already know me."
 
She says, "We've actually been expecting you."
 
Her hand signals get me cuffed, and hustled inside.  We board an elevator, jammed in shoulder to shoulder.  Captain Andersen uses a key, and the elevator starts heading to the top.
 
She glances over her shoulder, "I don't normally doubt him, but when he said you were coming here..."
 
I chuckle, "Ya know there is a limit to that trick."
 
"How's that?" she asks.
 
"He knows what we're doing, but never what we're thinking."
 
She replies, "Whatever you're thinking keep this in mind."  She turns, "You do anything I don't like, I will kill you."
 
I smile, "Fair enough."
 
Driving here I figured on one of two outcomes.  Since the Tins didn't shoot me on sight that leaves the second of my guesses still in play.  Call it a reckless gamble, but when the only cards in hand are good for a bluff, everything is a risk.  If I ever want some semblance of peace with Cari Bou in the Outskirts I have to go all in. 
 
The elevator pings.  The Tins march off, and I go as they prod, no resistance.  A black marble hallway stretches on towards towering art deco doors.  Few ever get to see this place.  So few in fact, that as the doors part the bulk of the Tins stay behind.  Only the four in colors matching Captain Andersen may enter.
 
Captain Andersen pulls out a pistol.  Keeping a smart distance -- close enough to eye any subtle movements, but not close enough for me to grab her gun -- she gestures for me to go in.  I take a step.
 
She says, "Remember what I said."
 
"I already feel the bullet."
 
Darkness fills the grand office.  Along one wall is a fireplace large enough to throw a full grown body.  On the mantle above it is the horned skull of a giant goat.  Enormous leather chairs stand in front of the fire, their backs to the room.  Bookshelves ring most of the interior from floor to ceiling.  The secrets in those books are priceless.  A glass trophy case fills one corner.  Its contents seem to dance in the fire light:  the relics of past victories; pieces of defeated foes; mystical awards from other legends.  One wall, though, is just a great glass doorway leading out onto a snow covered balcony. 
 
In front of it is a mammoth desk.  A lamp casts a low light across papers of all sorts.  There are modern pages scattered among ancient scrolls.  In a crystal ashtray overflowing with cigar butts smolders another coal.  It rises, floating in the dark, and as my eyes adjust I see him sitting behind the desk.  Puffing fires that burning cherry, briefly illuminating Big Red's face.  Smoke and his beard mingle, ringing his head in a white wreath. 
 
He speaks softly, yet his voice carries across the room, "How're you doing Rudy?  It's been a long time."
 
"Not long enough."
 
Big Red chews the cigar, a strange sort of grin on his face. 
 
Getting up he comes around the desk saying, "You always were a smart ass.  I kind of liked that about you."
 
"Glad to know someone appreciated it," I say. 
 
There's a scent in the air.  I can't quite place it, the aroma of Big Red's cigar is masking it.
 
Chugging away he saunters towards the fireplace.  I see the familiar crimson suit, shiny boots, and fur trimming. 
 
Staring into the fire he says, "I'm curious what brings you here."
 
The whole ride over I wondered the same thing.  Figuring out the code words, King Crimson, made things a little too certain.  A part of me tried to ignore how some of the pieces fit.  Hell, it's possible I could've spared myself a lot of trouble if I listened to my gut, but some facts a fellow doesn't want to see.  Knowing I don't have all the time in the world, I decide to lay it out plain and simple.
 
I say, "Look, here's the deal.  Someone is planning to make a move on you, and they're going to hit soon.  I don't know who all's involved, but it's some heavy hitters.  They're using the Krampus name to get people onboard."
 
Big Red looks up at the goat skull.  For the first time I notice a bullet hole in it. 
 
Pointing at the skull Big Red says, "He would be happy to know, all these years later, people still fear him."
 
Hints of perfume, baked apple and cinnamon -- I take a step forward.  The click of a hammer tells me to stop.  I freeze.
 
Big Red says, "You haven't told me anything I don't already know."
 
Snorting I say, "Because you always know everything."
 
"Almost."  

​He winks at me. 
 
Then he glances at one of the leather chairs.  A figure rises, wrapped in a red dress.  For a moment I don't recognize the face, then I realize it's Vixen.
 
She says, "Hello Rudy."
 
Big Red chuckles, his belly jiggling.  He says, "Don't look so surprised Rudy.  What'd you think was going on?"
 
I'm still thinking it, though I'm glad to have my doubts. 
 
I say, "Vixen, what the fuck is going on?"
 
She says, "I'm sorry.  I couldn't tell you everything.  Santa thought it was better that way."
 
That doesn't sound like Vixen, but I keep listening.  She tells me she found out about the Krampus cult, and told Big Red.  The two hatched a plot for her to join the group.
 
I cut in, "So he risks your ass to find out who's against him."
 
"And you wonder why you were never a flier?" Big Red says.
 
I reply, "No one should die for you."
 
Vixen comes near me.  She puts a hand on my arm.  Knowing she's fine calms me down, however, there's a look in her eye I can't decipher.  The closer she gets to me the more I notice a figure lurking in the shadows.  It doesn't take a genius to guess it's her bodyguard, Roy Glitterspark.  He's inching closer in case I do something he doesn't like.   
 
Vixen says, "It was my choice.  They wanted to kill him because of the Shortage.  There's a lot of people who think it could've been avoided."
 
I ask sarcastically, "How does a place made of magic run out of food?"
 
Big Red glares at me.  Flicking ash in the fire he thumps back to his desk.  No response is response enough. 
 
Vixen goes on, "I joined the Krampus cause, but they never really trusted me.  That's why I sent you my letter."
 
"Against my instructions," Big Red says.
 
Vixen grabs my hands.  There's something weird about the way she fondles my wrists.  My cuffs feel loose.
 
She says, "But you're here now Rudy.  That's all that matters."
 
She smiles, and I smile back. 
 
"Lot of good sending for you did," Big Red says. 
 
Vixen steps away from me, heading over to Big Red's desk. 
 
Getting a cigarette from an ivory case she remarks, "The snow looks so beautiful tonight."
 
I glance out the window.  She's not lying.  Even knowing what the city is like, from up here it looks beautiful.  I turn to get a better look, and my cuffs fall away.
 
Glitterspark shouts, "He's loose!"
 
A soft thwip sounds followed by the thunk of tin getting struck.  The sound repeats.  Half recognizing it -- a silenced pistol -- I get low.  Sure enough, I barely duck a bullet from Captain Andersen.  Next thing I know shots are going off all around the room.  Tins are dropping, and out the corner of my eye I see Glitterspark firing at them. 
 
My immediate instinct is to run to Vixen.  Hurrying toward her I see Vixen reach up her dress.  She pulls a small caliber automatic out of a holster strapped to her thigh.  She shoots Big Red in the knee then the belly.  He collapses in a quivering pile, blood spurting out his stomach.  Then Vixen starts firing on the Tins.  They're mostly focused on Glitterspark, who's already taken out the majority with those first surprise head shots.  It doesn't take long for the rest to fall. 
 
"The door!"  Vixen calls out, but Glitterspark is already on the move.  He drops the empty pistol.  From under his trench coat he produces a submachine gun.  The door opens letting in a stream of Tins coming to check on the noise.  Without mercy the nutcracker mows them down. 
 
My brain is spinning, trying to get away from the facts, but they're a black hole sucking me in.  Knowing what probably comes next, I spin around.  Charging at Glitterspark I scoop up a dead Tin's rifle on the run.  My eyes still aren't top notch after Kung Fu Karl's beating, so instead of aiming I spray and pray at Glitterspark.  I can't tell if I hit him, but it doesn't stop me from charging forward.
 
The rifle clicks -- empty.  Glitterspark turns, raising his machine gun.  I knock it out of his hands using the empty rifle as a club.  In one smooth move Glitterspark disarms me, almost snapping wrist in the process. 
 
Next thing I know he's battering me with precise blows.  Each strike is a surgical sledge tearing me down.  I've been in a few one sided fights over the years.  I get some solid punches in, but it's painfully obvious I'm on the losing end side.  Even if I were a hundred percent, whatever I've got going for me as a brawler is no match for Glitterspark.  He's a trained killer, blood drunk and thirsty for more. 
 
Then luck shines on me.  I notice him favoring one side.  Whether me, or a Tin, someone managed to plug a bullet in Glitterspark's flank.  Fainting a series of jabs I get him to expose the wound, and deliver a set of vicious hooks to the body. 
 
The fight took us all over Big Red's office, and where we're at gives me a chance.  With Glitterspark off balance, clutching at his wound, I grab him by the shoulders.  We spin, and it dawns on him too late what I'm planning.  Stopping short I plant a foot, tripping the nutcracker as we twirl, and he tumbles into the roaring fireplace. 
 
He rolls out in flames.  He looks like a Yule log scrambling to escape the fireplace -- screaming.  Then Vixen floats by me.  She points her gun, and puts one right in Glitterspark's head.  Seeing her there, standing in the firelight, I don't recognize her.
 
She sighs, "I assume you have questions."
 
Panting I reply, "Sadly, I don't."
 
She smirks, "You were always smarter than people gave you credit."
 
Big Red moans.  Vixen struts back to him.  She glares down at the fat bastard.  Coughing up blood, Big Red grits his teeth.  He starts chuckling, though it clearly hurts.  She puts her cigarette out on his desk. 
 
Clenching his jaw Big Red says, "You stupid bitch.  You can't do anything to me."
 
Vixen nods, "You keep thinking you know what's going on."
 
She fires another round into his belly.
 
She says, "Don't worry.  Remember that practice run, when you fell out of the sleigh drunk."  Shaking her head she says to me, "He lands on concrete two hundred feet below, and was fine in twenty minutes."
 
My head is swimming.  Glitterspark tore me apart, refreshed all the wreckage from earlier.  I'm bleeding from old wounds and new.  However, what's got me spinning is the truth. 
 
I need some air.  What's coming -- what I think is coming -- I head out onto the balcony.  Everything is happening so fast I can feel it slipping out of hand.   
 
Outside, the city sleeps below.  Yet, there are flashing sirens filling the streets.  The glittering gumballs atop squad cars pulse as they hurry towards Big Red's tower.  Snow is falling, but it won't be enough to cover what's going on here. 
 
The pieces started falling into place almost from the get-go.  The odds of someone assaulting Vixen made little sense.  Besides her bodyguard, the seemingly unstoppable Glitterspark, the whole scene at her place felt off.  Those posters backing Papa Nash for re-election stuck out sorely. 
 
Then that whole Krampus cult raised more red flags.  Big Red can keep an eye on anyone in the city, hell, the world.  He just needs to think about them.  However, he didn't seem to have any idea who ran the cult.  Besides Black Jack, only fliers are blessed with Big Red's blindness.  It's one of the perks; they're among the privileged few with privacy.
 
A lot of other bits kept hinting in ways I just didn't want to notice.  Seeing Vixen in Big Red's office, I hoped... that's the mistake I made.  Detective Elfberg said a lot of things changed because of the Shortage, that a lot of people changed as well.  It sounds like a warning now.  Hope died during the Shortage, and that left people desperate enough to do anything.  So now I can't help feeling like I've been a pawn, not making my own choices.   
 
The soft crunch of snow under dainty hooves.
 
I sigh.
 
Vixen says, "I'm not going to kill him."
 
"Not because you don't want to."
 
"You know what happens if he dies.  Everything he creates disappears.  The toys stop being alive, the city vanishes..."
 
"We turn into ordinary reindeer."
 
I turn.  She nods. 
 
Vixen says, "But I can keep him in a coma, pumped full of drugs.  He'll be alive, and we'll be able to live without being under his thumb."
 
Her dress billows a bit in the wind.  It wraps around her like a river of red paint.  She looks amazing, beautiful beyond compare, but I don't recognize her. 
 
Our eyes meet.
 
She turns away saying, "He did it on purpose, the Shortage.  He said it was population control, but it was more than that."  She shakes her head, "We're his playthings.  I mean, he's got all the power, but not anymore.  Things are about to change for the better."
 
I don't who she's trying to convince.  The truth is I think she's right for the most part.  Things in this city definitely need to change.  How that's happening is what's got me worried. 
 
I say, "I've been thinking Big Red tipped off the cops to me being in town, but lately, I've been thinking it was you."
 
A tear in her eye Vixen says, "It was."
 
"Part of the plan?" I ask, though I think I know.
 
She wipes the tear away.  I notice the gun is still in her hand.
 
She says, "It depends what you think the plan is."
 
"I think someone's got to go down for all this.  You can't take credit for axing Big Red.  Some folks, call 'em foolish, they won't appreciate it.  But me."  I start toward her, "Or that Krampus cult, that takes the eyes off you."
 
She backs away.  Raising the gun her hand shakes.  I keep walking toward her. 
 
"Don't worry," I say, "I know ol' Roy was supposed to do me in."
 
I don't hear the gunshot.  I just feel the hot punch in my gut.  Staggering backwards, I lock eyes with a stranger, but I can't look at her for long. 
 
Blue and red police lights ring the building below.  Even if I walk out there's no getting away.  This ends badly for me.  That's for sure.  Though if I've got to be the fall guy I'm going out on my terms. 
 
Turning I stumble towards the end of the balcony.  No railing at all, it tappers out to a narrow point. 
 
I say, "I came back to help because I love you, and you used that love to do something twisted.  Someone like that... how're you gonna make this a better place?"
 
At the edge of the balcony I look back. 
 
Vixen says, "Don't..." -- but I'm already falling backwards. 
 
When the only cards in a hand are terrible it takes a serious bluff to win.  About half way down the spire I start thinking she called mine.  Then I see a flowing stream of red sail off the balcony.  It hovers in the air a moment before plunging towards me.  Her hooves glow gold, a shower of sparks spitting out her hands. 
 
She slams into me.  It's like getting hit by a baseball bat.  It's certainly better than hitting pavement. 
 
We twist up through the air, rocketing across the city.  I don't know what's going to happen when we land, but I'm hoping for something good.  Right now, I just want to enjoy flying.