Spotting a dark dive I duck inside.  Being on the street is a bad idea.  There's no telling who may've followed me from the Krampus building.

​The place is called Persiflage 130.  Candles are the only light inside save for a few low lamps on a tiny stage.  Sitting in a corner where I can watch the door, I wait to see if anyone seems to follow me inside. 

Though the place is on the verge of vacant the band on stage is giving it their all.  The donkey on an upright bass thumps a steady rhythm.  My heart slows.  The rooster on a keyboard plays a mellow neo-soul tune.  Crackling nerves cease spitting sparks.  The cat on a saxophone grooves to the beat.  The tension melts out of my muscles.  An old dog on a trumpet fuses some urban jazz into the mix.  I'm not at peace, but fear isn't in control.

A clockwork doll tick-tocks her way over.  She asks what I want to drink.

I tell her, "Three fingers of something strong."

"Coming r-r-r-ight up."  Her eye clicks shut in a slow wink.  Even in the dark I can spot the rust on her body.  She's an old doll.  Odds are she's older than this building. 

When she returns I'm delivered a glass brimming with red liquid.  It tastes sweet, but the kick soon threatens to punt my brain out of my head.

She twitches into a palsied sexy pose, "How's that sh-sh-sh-sugar?"

I nod, "Just what I needed."

On stage the old dog howls, "Anywhere we can find something better than death... together you see, you and me got no fear of our last breath."

He blows the trumpet.  The saxophone orbits the melody, while the bass bumps in the background.  It's a bittersweet tune.  Hearing it I can't help thinking about being resigned to fate.  Now that Elfonso's dead perhaps I'm destined to take his seat in that chair.  The ghost-odor of blood and sweat conjures a vivid scene of me getting sliced up in that grim basement. 

There's a dark tide rising at the North Pole.  The only way to keep from going under is to get ahead of it.  Rummaging in my pocket I pull out the pages I swiped from the Krampus building.  The writing, something about it strikes me as familiar. 

I've never been one for codes.  Vixen tried to teach me ciphers when we were kids.  That way we could communicate in secret.  Thick fool that I am I never could do anything complicated.  So Vixen kept it simple.  Unfortunately, it's been too many years for me to recall.  Looking at the pages, it feels like the message is at the edge of my mind; the tip of my tongue.  I should know this.

We used to pass each other notes all the time.  Little bits arranging rendezvous where the other reindeer wouldn't find us; sweet words her parents couldn't realize were mine.  Granted, it didn't work forever.  Her parents didn't care about the words only their origin, and the other reindeer, well, they learned the hard way Vixen wasn't soft.  When they got mean they got cut. 

Part of me thinks it was always only a matter of time.  Two people on parallel roads can only walk together until a fork arrives.  We went our separate ways, but we left a mark on one another. 

Signaling the clockwork waitress I watch her clitter over. 

"An-nuh-nuh-nother?" she asks.

I shake my head, "Nope." 

A fat tip goes her way, courtesy of the late Black Jack.  At this rate the cash'll be gone soon.  I don't mind.  He doesn't need it anymore, and I'm pretty sure I can't buy my way out of what's coming. 

I ask the doll, "Is there a backdoor?"

Pocketing the tip she points the way.  I thank her.  The band flourishes.  She tick-tocks away.  I finish my drink, and dive back into the night.  Maybe it's just the drink, however, though I'm still in over my head, I'm ready to go down swinging. 

#

The upside to having one lead is that there's only one place to go.  After sneaking back to my bike I ride to a westside borough.  There's a pool hall there called Jamaica Greene's. 

Tobacco smoke fogs the joint.  Pool balls clatter constantly.  Occasionally low claps and intense murmurs tell of miraculous shots. 

It's a mixed bag inside.  Some folks here are just looking for a game.  Others are killing time between running numbers, or robbing the next liquor store.  That said, everyone here is a hustler. 

Those aspiring to be pool sharks cut their teeth at Jamaica Greene's.  The only rule, besides pay what you owe, is no falsehood.  There's no attempt to down play one's ability, though more than a few folks have overestimated their skills. 

I can feel eyes clocking me the minute I enter.  Whispers kick up all over.  It's a safe bet some here recognize me from news reports, and no doubt somebody is thinking about grabbing me.  Civic duty isn't the motivation.  Cops are on the hunt.  If they show up here, Jamaica Greene's doesn't want them thinking I'm the kind of person frequenting this place.  Tossing me out is the safe play, though calling the cops might also pay off.  Grateful police are never a bad thing.  The point being, I'm on borrowed time every second I'm in here. 

Over in one shadowy corner I spot a pool table surrounded by a tiny catwalk.  Scurrying along it is a mouse.  He lines up a shot, and sends the cue ball bouncing off three rails, ricocheting its way between obstacles until it softly kisses the nine into a corner pocket.  There's no whispered exclamations.  For him, the shot is almost guaranteed. 

Clapping as I approach I say, "Not bad Mortimer.  Looks like you're still good for one thing."

Glancing my way the mouse, Mortimer Read, shakes his head.  Hurrying down the catwalk he heads towards me.  Along the way he pulls out a flick knife.

Brandishing the blade Mortimer says, "You owe me some money motherfucker with years of interest."

Backing away I say, "Chill Morty.  I sent you that cash."  Pointing to a nearby sparrow I add, "I gave it to Andy to give to you."

Mortimer pauses.  He glares in Andy's direction. 

Mortimer says, "Rudy's a lot of things, but one thing he ain't never been is a liar."

The sparrow starts to stammer out a response then bolts for the nearest window.  An otter slams it shut.  Mortimer nods, and Andy the sparrow gets dragged into the alley out back.  He'll be seen again.  Mortimer is severe, but no monster.  However, Andy won't ever be pretty again.  Twenty grand buys a lot of wreckage.

Putting the knife away Mortimer says, "Now that that's out of the way, it's good to see you."

"Good to see you too.  Look, I need some help."

"Then here's some free advice."  Mortimer goes back up onto the catwalk, "Why ever you're killing those reindeer -- I don't care -- but it's time for you to get out of town."

Part of me doesn't disagree.  There's only one problem.  I don't mind going down for something I did.  However, I'm not about to be the fall guy in this situation, and though Big Red tends to leave the Outskirts alone, I get the feeling killing his fliers is exactly the kind of thing he'll chase someone to the ends of the Earth over.  I need to clear my name if I want to be left alone. 

So I pull out the pages saying, "My hoof's out the door.  There's just one, or two things I need to know before I go."

Mortimer hops the cue over a line of balls.  It clips a stripe into the side pocket.  He orbits the table, walking slowly to his next shot. 

He says, "It's been a while Rudy.  I'm not as well connected as I used to be.  The Shortage."  He shakes his head, "Things got desperate.  That strained a lot of relationships, ya follow?"

Everything down to the bare minimum.  People starving in the streets.  No amount of money able to buy a crust of bread.  I can imagine everyone going at each other's throats.  On the Outskirts we did okay, though not much better.  Even good friends ate one another, some literally.

Flashing the pages at him I say, "I'm not here for your connections.  I'm here for you."

I toss the pages on the table.  Mortimer glances at them.  He gestures, and a cat clears the pages off the table.  After his shot Mortimer motions.  The cat holds the pages closer to him. 

He nods, "It's a pigpen cipher."

Hearing it out loud connects all the dots.  Suddenly I remember the code.  Vixen loved to use it because the pigpen felt like alien writing -- "Something from another world," she used to say. 

I ask if Mortimer can read it.  He snorts.  He knows all the codes, invented a few of his own. 
 
So he says, "That's almost insulting."

I smirk, "Then what's it say?"

He reads, "'King Crimson is on the menu.  Three days.  Be ready to devour.'"

A coded phrase in a coded message.  It makes sense.  Using a simple cipher made it easy to encrypt any messages, but also left it likely those letters, if intercepted, might get decoded.  An extra layer made the details a bit harder to figure. 

The rest of the pages are pretty much the same.  The only consistent bit is they all mention King Crimson.  It's a safe bet those three days are up, or damn close to being.  Something is about to happen if it hasn't already.

Mortimer nudges the cue ball into the eight.  The black ball rolls along a rail until it stops just short of a pocket.  Sighing, Mortimer shakes his head.

He says, "What've you gotten into Rudy?"

I tell him, "Honestly, I don't know."

A gesture from Mortimer, and the cat hands me back the pages. 

Mortimer comes around on the catwalk.  Looking over at me he seems to be considering something.

He says, "You were never really a bad guy Rudy.  Trouble, yeah, but not bad.  Do yourself a favor, okay?  Just disappear."

I say, "Would if I could, but you know the old saying.  'He sees you if you're sleeping,' and such."  A dim bulb brightens, "Of course."

"What is it?" Mortimer asks.

"I gotta go.  Thanks Morty."  Running out I shout back, "I owe you one."

He hollers, "Where're you going?"

"To see King Crimson."

I'm on my way to Big Red's.

​This weekend another BYOT (Bring Your Own Theater) kicks off.  BYOT is a Chicago theater group with a unique take on performances.  Those involved get together on a Friday night.  Writers are given a theme, and twelve hours to write a brief play.  Actors and directors assemble the next day to bring those plays to life.  Essentially, folks compose and perform several short plays in a 24 hours period. 
The other side of this amazing coin is that anyone can participate.  People looking for that first time opportunity, dipping their toe into the theater world, are encouraged to sign up.  There are links below to get on their mailing list, so you too can take part. 
Also below is a link to the BYOT Youtube channel.  There you can sample a variety of their various performances over the years.  Moreover, if you live in the Chicago area, perhaps we'll see you this weekend.
 
https://www.byotproductions.com/
 
https://www.facebook.com/byotproductions/?ref=br_rs
 
https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC5WHbeS4z5rLzo02zH7_qGA
 
 

​Death has a weird way of making people immortal.  The flesh may been six feet under, but the legend is a star in the sky.  People tell tales about Krampus the way they swap bogeyman stories.  The worst part about the stories is that they're all true.  Like the time Krampus forced a candy-maker to eat her own caramel-coated hand. 
 
Still, Krampus died ages ago.  Back in the day he and Big Red ran the whole show.  Then Big Red decided he didn't care to share.  Krampus took two copper rounds to the back of the head.  They say his skull is still up on the wall in Big Red's office. 
 
Standing outside the building with the Krampus mark I can't help admiring the artist.  It's almost a kind of Rorschach striking a primal chord.  A tribal inspired mess of jagged lines clustered into the semblance of a goat skull -- there's an occult quality to it I doubt is by accident.  In a way, it's the perfect street tag:  marking property, and saying go away in one symbol. 
 
The building itself is nothing exceptional.  The Krampus mark is the only thing setting it apart.  Otherwise, I can't see anything other than a brownstone two-flat.
 
A goose in rags shuffles by shaking a tin can, "Help a honker out."
 
I flash a few bucks, and ask, "What do you know about that place?"
 
The goose squints at the money.  Licking his bill he shakes his head, "Horrible spot.  I stay away from there."
 
I deposit a c-note in the cup -- courtesy of Black Jack -- then ask, "Why's that?"
 
Scratching a wing the goose says, "Weird folks go in and out of there all the time.  I don't know who, but I know trouble when I see it."
 
Slipping another bill in I ask, "Anybody in there now?"
 
Shaking his head the goose says, "Nope, and I pay attention.  I'd choke on a stone before talking to any of them."
 
Thanking him I watch the goose waddle away. He pauses at one point to gander at the place before glancing back at me.  Before I can be sure what look he's giving me, he turns away.  The cup rattles, and he calls out, "Help a honker out," though the street is empty. 
 
The building resides on the corner.  Windows on all sides make it unlikely to come at the place without being seen.  However, I remember a few tricks from my youth. 
 
After walking up the block I climb an apartment building's fire escape.  Up on the rooftop -- click, click, click -- I head back towards the Krampus mark.  I used to do this as a kid back when I thought I might be a flier.  Even when those dreams died I kept running along roofs, only then I did it to break in.  Either way, the skills still remained.
 
Back at the Krampus building I find an attic window.  Taking a chance I break the glass.  After waiting a minute there's no sign of anyone coming to investigate, so I go inside. 
 
The only light is a column from the street stabbing in through the window.  At a glance the attic is empty, though I can see a few boxes piled in corners.  It takes a while to find an exit.  The door isn't locked, and I worry I'm wasting my good luck on mediocre wins.
 
The second floor isn't much better than the attic.  The rooms are mostly empty except for one.  A set of mismatched chairs around a scarred table.  Spotting letters on the table I use my lighter to read a few pages.  However, everything is in gibberish.  I'm sure it's a code, but without a key there's no chance of me reading it on my own.  That doesn't stop me from pocketing a page before going downstairs. 
 
The first floor finally looks like someone lives here.  There are rugs, plenty of furniture, and lamps, though I don't dare turn any on.  The street provides enough light down here.  Yet, I don't see anything worth noticing. 
 
Moving towards the back takes me into a kitchen.  The fridge is empty, so are all the drawers.  However, there's a butcher knife in the sink.  Knowing better than to touch it, I flick my lighter to life.  The blade is still bloody. 
 
A low moan drifts through the house.  My blood chills a degree or two, and I snap the lighter shut.  Waiting in the darkness I start regretting not snatching a gun back at Black Jack's.  It's not like the corpses need them anymore.  I consider grabbing the blade.  However, hearing the moan again I realize it isn't something sinister.  Someone is in trouble.
 
Following the noise to a door I open it revealing a wooden staircase.  The steps disappear into a dark basement.  Flipping a light switch beside the door brings an illumination my lighter could beat. 
 
Each step groans and crackles as if it's about to break.  The moaning gets louder the deeper I go.  Finally I reach the bottom.
 
The basement is nothing more than bare brick walls.  The Krampus mark adorns every one.  A few scattered bulbs dangle from wires.  The only furniture is a metal chair, and it's already occupied.  The occupant is a blindfolded elf.  He's tied to it with packaging ribbon.  Stripped to the waist it's easy to see why he's moaning, also how the knife got bloody. 
 
His torso is covered in slashes.  His arms and face aren't doing well either.  The tips of his ears are missing.  Someone's been working him over slowly.  Having been on the verge of this nightmare, I can appreciate the situation. 
 
As I hurry over, he flinches at the sound of my hooves.
 
Shuddering he says, "Please!  No more!"
 
I say, "Don't worry buddy.  I'm not here to hurt you."
 
"Who're you?" he asks in a quivering voice.
 
"Not a fan of this lemme tell ya." 
 
I pull off the blindfold.  He blinks, the dim light blinding. 
 
He says, "We've gotta hurry.  They could be back any minute."
 
Immediately I go to work on the ribbon.  Along the way I ask questions.  He says his name is Elfonso.  He works for urban planning. 
 
"They used to ask me questions about the city.  I told everything I know, but then."  He starts to cry.
 
So I tell him, "Everything's going to be okay."
 
I hate the fact it feels like a lie.
 
Elfonso says, "What's going on?"
 
I say, "Hate to tell ya, but I was hoping you know."
 
He shakes his head.  The ribbons finally give way.  His sigh of relief -- I've heard less joyful orgasms.
 
Elfonso says, "I don't know who these people are, but I'm sure they're insane.  Look what they did to me."
 
Up close the wreckage is even worse.  He's a trail of canyons.  Poor guy is bound to be scarred for life. 
 
Helping him to his feet I have to ask, "Why'd they do it?"
 
"It was like some initiation thing.  The one in the mask would say, 'Prove you're one of us.'  Then they'd give the knife to someone and..." he trails off, but I don't press him.  I can guess the details. 
 
So again I lie, "It's going to be okay.  You're getting out of here."
 
Sure enough that's the cue for the sound of a door closing upstairs.  Elfonso sucks in a breath.  I get the feeling a scream is coming, so slap a hand over his mouth. 
 
The only way out is the stairs.  Worse, it doesn't take a genius to realize there's nowhere to hide down here.  The best of our bad options is to get under the stairs, though I doubt it would take a blind fool long to find us there.  Since it's better than nothing, hand over his mouth, I drag us there.  I can feel Elfonso shivering in my arms, sweat is already pouring out of him. 
 
Footsteps above.  I can't be sure how many, but more than one. 
 
A gravelly voice says, "Basement 's open."
 
Another voice responds, but down here I can't hear it. 
 
Boots thud, and the steps groan.  Elfonso starts to wriggle.  His sweaty body is hard to hold onto.  The boots continue to slowly descend.  Elfonso struggles more.
 
I whisper, "Hold still."
 
The boots reach the bottom of the stairs.  It's a pig dressed in black.  He looks like a walking tank.  His eyes go straight to the empty chair. 
 
Elfonso jerks to one side, and pops out of my arms.  He launches himself forward, snatching a chunk of brick off the floor.  Next thing I know Elfonso is literally screaming through the air, swinging the brick.  The blow strikes the pig in the head.  Elfonso doesn't hesitate, though, he keeps hammering away with that chunk.  The swine goes down, and Elfonso follows him.  Using both hands he pounds way until piggy's head is nothing but a pulpy mess. 
 
Breathing heavily Elfonso grins, "I'm --"
 
Whatever might've come out his mouth gets cut off by a bullet.  His head wipes to one side, while a spray of red and brains splatters the wall.  Elfonso collapses into a heap.  The whole moment lasts the blink of an eye -- so sudden I'm not even aware it happens. 
 
Someone starts coming down the stairs.  The creaking plants a thought in my head.  The plan that forms doesn't inspire a lot of hope.  Yet, I'll take anything. 
 
I wait, hands ready, as whoever it is descends.  When their feet touch the step above me I grab the plank, and pull down as hard as I can.  The wood snaps.  The step bursts apart.  Whoever is above, their webbed foot punches through.  They don't fall through, but trip enough to go tumbling down the stairs. 

The second I hear a body falling I move.  Quick as I can I dart out from under the stairs.  The person hits the bottom just as I'm coming around.  Jumping over their body I go up three steps at a time. 
 
No fool, I go out the nearby backdoor.  I'm three blocks away before my body protests enough for me to slow.  When I stop I realize I've been running in a blind panic. 
 
I don't know what's going on, and I'm definitely in over my head.  

​Kung Fu Karl doesn't waste a lot of time with fists.  He's got other things in mind, delights to satisfy anger ten years brewing.  As such, it isn't long before he sends the other Action Figures to get his "kit."
 
He tells me, "I've had time to practice.  Cheaters, thieves, and the general gutter trash we can't avoid here.  But I was always thinking of you."
 
"I'm flattered."
 
Karl chuckles, "What'd you think was gonna happen when you got here?"
 
Drooling blood, I shrug.  Black Jack's Cooler is the one spot in the whole North Pole, probably the world, where any person can hide from Big Red.  He sees anyone anywhere any time he wants.  This place, though, for reasons no one knows, is off the grid.  The cops also tend to make this the last place they check.  Black Jack pays them to, though whatever crooked deal he's got with Big Red is beyond me. 
 
Kung Fu Karl glances at his watch.  Somehow he looks more sour than usual. 
 
He says, "Where are those idiots with my gear?"
 
I say, "They can take their time."
 
A sound rumbles down the hall.  It sounds familiar, but my brain is too scrambled to make sense of it.  Kung Fu Karl recognizes it straight away.  He pulls out a gun.  The sound comes again.  This time I realize it's a shotgun blast.
 
The door bursts open.  An Action Figure staggers inside covered in blood.  His eyes roll up into his head.  He collapses, but he's dead before he hits the floor, a gaping wound in his back pouring red.
 
Karl hurries out.  The door swings out before him.  The moment it does I hear that shotgun blast.  When the door swings back there's blood all over it. 
 
I can hear footsteps.  The door opens slowly.  Roy Glitterspark marches in carrying a pump action shotgun, and wearing a long trench coat. 
 
I don't know if I've lucked out, or am still in serious trouble.  Using a key Glitterspark unfastens one of my cuffs.
 
He snorts, "I don't see why we need you."
 
"Me neither."
 
He throws the key at my chest.  It lands in my lap.  Then, without another word, Glitterspark vanishes out the door. 
 
Unlocking the other cuff takes longer than I care to admit.  One eye swollen shut, and my brain not exactly firing on all cylinders -- I've rarely felt more successful than grabbing hold of that tiny key.  After popping free I stand, a little too quick. 
 
My body feels like a stick of butter in an oven, slowly softening into a puddle.  It's very tempting to go with that feeling.  Following it leads to a black pool, a place I can float without pain, or worries.  But there's too much to do. 
 
So I push on. 
 
Stumbling into the hall I find Kung Fu Karl.  His head is gone.  Not far off is an Action Figure.  Not far from him is another body.  Following them like macabre breadcrumbs I start wondering if the whole damn casino got massacred. 
 
The trail leads to a basement office.  The fanciness of the room suggests the rumors are true.  Black Jack liked to have two offices in the casino.  The one upstairs allowed him to be seen with those who -- let's say -- elevated his status.  Politicians, celebrities, rich folks, anyone whom it'd be good to be seen with in public.  However, in the casino basement, a second office went into play whenever Black Jack needed to do business with the North Pole's underbelly. 
 
Still, the room is a magnificent setup.  Big Red's got to be the only person with a fancier office.  The only thing marring the scene is Black Jack in his desk chair. 
 
Just like with Collodi, Glitterspark didn't fool around.  There are four holes each about the size of a fist in Black Jack's body.  Coming around the desk I find a gun still in his hand.  I can't help admiring that. 
 
But now's not the time.
 
Quick as I can, which isn't quick enough, I go through Black Jack's desk.  I take everything that seems even vaguely helpful.  That said, might as well be a vacuum sucking up the desk's contents. 
 
Pockets full I make my way out.  Unfortunately, I don't know the underground well enough to risk wandering around.  So against my better judgment I take an elevator to the casino floor. 
 
I'm expecting the door to open, and cops, or Action Figures to be there.  Guns drawn they unload into me, and I don't have to worry about any of this shit anymore.  Too bad my luck holds out.  When the doors open, the casino is carrying on blissfully unaware of the bloodbath below. 
 
Outside someone comes running at me.  My vision is still blurry. 
 
I say, "Sorry, Cari, guess I ain't coming home."
 
The person coming at me says, "S'cuse me, sir?"
 
I blink.  What looked like a hitman in a blue coat turns out to be the parking valet.
 
"Never mind," I say.  Fishing in my pocket, I can't find the ticket to save my life. 
 
"Rough night?" he asks.
 
"What gave it away?"
 
"Maybe just tell me what your car looks like?"
 
"Thanks," I sigh, "It's a motorcycle."
 
"We only got one of those tonight."  Like lightning he's gone.  In a minute my beautiful ride is rumbling in front of me.  Getting on slowly, I wonder how many times the valet's seen this kind of exit.  Probably a lot.
 
The valet says, "Hope things are better tomorrow."
 
"That's always the way ain't it?"
 
#
 
A short while later I'm going into Kaye's diner on Rosemary Boulevard.  A waitress named Vera almost faints when she sees me. 
 
Jutting a thumb at my bike I say, "Don't ever ride one of those."
 
She asks, "Sugar, do you need a doctor?"
 
"Only to get my head examined."  Pointing to the back I ask, "Mind if I sit there?"
 
"Sit anywhere you like."
 
Shuffling my way I'm glad the place is mostly empty.  Still, I worry about whatever glances come my way.  In a weird way Karl and Jack did me a favor.  My face is too messed up for anyone to recognize from the mug shot popping up on TV screens, and newspapers.  Even the trademark red nose is probably getting mistaken for a bloody mess. 
 
By the time I sit Vera is already hovering with a cup of hot chocolate.
 
Setting it down she gently pats me on the shoulder, "Hope you like cocoa."
 
I tell her, "You read my mind." 
 
She smiles, "I put in something with a little extra kick."
 
"I'd wink, but I can't."  The joke makes her look sadder, so quickly I add, "Thanks.  There aren't enough like you in the world."
 
Placing a menu on the table she tells me to take my time.  So I take a few sips.  Whatever she put in the mug definitely kicks.  When the cup's half empty I start feeling pretty good.  Well enough to get down to business.
 
Dumping the contents of my pockets on the table I frown.  A lot of it appears to be nothing more than business papers.  Even the illegal stuff doesn't offer any leads.   
 
In an envelope I find several photos.  Most of them are faces I don't recognize.  However, the few I do tell me this is what I've been looking for.  Vixen is in one of them.  Some show people gathering in out of the way places:  guys in three piece suits meeting with gutter punks; ladies in fancy cars getting dropped off at shady tenements; anxious clusters of folks huddled under a bridge.  The last picture is of some kind of face.  Not an elf, or a toy, it looks like a horned goat with a long tongue. 
 
On the back of the photo someone's written, "If we figure this out first that fat bastard will owe us big."
 
My stomach growls.  I can't remember the last time I ate.  So I wave Vera over. 
 
"What's good?" I ask.
 
"Not much, but what is is the best."
 
"Then bring me the best you got."
 
"Sure thing."
 
While I wait I spread out the photos.  I let my good eye drift.  I keep thinking when I'm not looking that's when I'll see what I need to.  Lost in the search I jump when Vera returns, plates clattering onto the table. 
 
She's quick to say, "Sorry, honey, didn't mean to scare ya."
 
"No worries," I say. 
 
She's brought pancakes, hash browns, and a steaming cup of apple-spice breakfast soup.  There isn't much room with the photos all over, so I sweep them to one side.  However, one catches her eye.
 
Pointing at it she says, "You looking for that building?"
 
It's the photo of the goat face.  Near as I can tell this picture was taken under a bridge.
 
So I ask, "What building?"
 
Vera replies, "There's a building, not far from here.  I pass it on my way to the bus.  It's got that on the side."
 
"What is this?"
 
She shrugs, "Don't know.  Kids call it the Krampus mark."
 
I ask where the building is.  She gives me the address.  Then I dig into the meal.  It's as delicious as she promised, but over too soon.  Afterwards I get the check.  Fortunately, I snagged a fat wad of cash from Black Jack's desk, so I leave Vera a rather generous tip.  It's the least I can do.  Then I head to the building with the Krampus mark. 

​A half hour later I'm checking into the North Light Inn.  It's a crappy room, in a shitty part of town, but it's affordable.  Plus, this is the kind of place folks know to mind their own business.  Most just want to be left alone anyhow.  Whether junkies cooking pixie dust, or doll families hovering over homeless, no one wants a witness to them ever having been here.  Maybe that's why, in my room, all the mirrors are broke. 
 
First thing I do is call Cari.  The sound of her voice is like warm honey.  I can't tell her everything.  She might worry, and if she asks me to come home I'll do it -- no second thoughts.  But I'm finally feeling a thread in my hand.  It'll lead me where, honestly, I'm not sure I want to go.  Still, I tell her everything I can. 
 
She's no fool though.  Cari can sense what I'm leaving out.  There's an outline full of implications in the missing puzzle pieces. 
 
Still she says, "You do what you think is right.  I'll be here waiting for you."
 
"Thanks a chuisle mo chroí."
 
"Come home safe."
 
"I will."
 
It feels like a lie.  Still, there are times the truth does no one any good.  Hanging up the phone I figure on a shower. 
 
Though there isn't enough hot water to rinse off the feeling of this city, I get clean enough afterward to feel fresh.  Stepping out of the steaming bathroom my body is well on the way to shutting down.  Next item on the agenda is definitely a bit of sleep.  Then I spot a note slipped under the door.
 
Getting my gun out of my jacket I go to the door.  Stepping outside I can't see anyone except for a nodded out rabbit on nearby stairs.  Yet, there's a hint of perfume drifting on the air.  Something familiar, sweet and spicy -- baked apples and cinnamon. 
 
"Vixen?"
 
Going back inside I pick up the note.  Sure enough it's her handwriting.
 
The note reads:
 
"Rudy,
They're watching you.  Be careful."
 
A knock causes me to spin round.  I throw open the door hoping it's Vixen.  The stupidity of my reckless is made plain when I see Glitterspark. 
 
Before I can react he thumps me over the head with a lead sap.  I fall backwards into darkness.  All I see is black dotted by twinkling Christmas lights.  In the distance I can almost hear Vixen say, "I'm sorry," but I figure it's just part of a pleasant dream in an unpleasant moment.
 
When I eventually come to my skull feels cracked.  The door to my room is shut, and I can't make sense of what happened until it dawns on me my hands are empty.  My gun is gone. 
 
However long I've been unconscious is too long.  Dressing quick as I can I hurry to the parking lot.  Sirens are screaming in the night, and I've got a feeling anyone could be on the way for me.  Whatever's going on, Glitterspark is holding a coffin nail sure to seal me in. 
 
Getting on my bike I roar out of the motel parking lot unsure where I should go.  The obvious choice is out of town. 
 
Then I hear a jack-in-the-box springing out shouting, "Extra!  Extra!  Read all about it!"
 
It doesn't take eagle eyes to spy an old mug shot of mine on the front page.  Trouble this deep, there's only one place to go.  The problem is I know I'm not welcome there either.  Still, it's not like that's ever stopped me before.  So I head for Black Jack's Cooler.
 
#
 
At first glance it seems like a glacier.  Then the neon adorning the outside comes to life.  A tsunami of colors flood forth filling any eye that happens by.  There's no way not to look. 
 
What a person learns, though, is that all those lights are distractions.  Strobe bursts pull attention away from the sad bastards slumped over slot machines.  Poor puppets looking ready to feed the slots blood for one more shot at gold.  Over at the blackjack table several glum faces are ignored in favor of TVs flashing sexy plushies foretelling fabulous fortune while they dance on dice.  A craps table is ringed by sweaty faces too desperate to dwell on anything but hope.  Meanwhile, the neon's a rainbow blindfold hiding the truth. 
 
For every single smiling winner there a thousand losers who risked their last penny betting with galactic odds against them.  In fact, the only cheery toys are the ones already rich.  It doesn't mean a thing dropping a hundred bucks here and there -- pocket change to them.  They can burn dollars for fun.  No, the sad truth is Black Jack's Cooler doesn't live off them.  It thrives on the desperate hoping to hit 21, roll seven, catch a full house on the river; the people most likely to leave penniless after chancing everything to win... does it really matter what they're after if they've lost?  The house knows every sad story, and ignored them all.
 
Walking into the joint my first thought is how long before they know I'm here.  Eyes are watching from a hundred spots, half of which I can't even guess at.  Action Figures acting as security patrol the casino floor.  However, it's been almost a decade.  Perhaps things have changed.
 
Tossing down a small stack I slip into a poker game, and wait.  Things are going well, to the point I actually feel like a winner.  Sure enough that's when the hammer comes down. 
 
I feel a heavy hand land on my shoulder. 
 
I say, "Let go you wanna keep the hand."
 
The grip tightens.  I sigh.  Today is not the day to test me. 
 
Jerking my head back I ram my antler into the Action Figure's stomach.  It jabs him back, and before he can recover I'm turned around cracking his chin with an uppercut.  Obviously he's not alone.  Folks who brag about fighting jabber on about style this, and all kinds of kung fu bullshit.  The guard closest I kick in the balls, while the other, I toss a handful of chips in his face then throat punch; he's on the ground. 
 
It isn't more than a second until a fresh crop of Action Figures are charging my way.  However, I've made my point.  So I put my hands up. 
 
Surrounded I say, "I told him to get his hand off me."
 
A slow round of solitary clapping sounds behind a row of burly Action Figures.  The column parts revealing the elf himself, Black Jack Frost, in an ice blue suit.  Shaking his head he can't seem to help a sardonic grin. 
 
Pointing at me he says, "It's good to know you haven't changed."
 
"Why's that?" I ask.
 
"Because I won't feel bad about what happens next."
 
I see his eyes move, glancing over my shoulder.  I turn in time to see Kung Fu Karl coming up from behind.  There's no time to dodge.  I get a cattle prod in the side, and for the second time in as many hours I'm laid out.  Though not unconscious, I'm out of action. 
 
Action Figures scoop me up, and drag me to somewhere in the bowels of the casino.  They cuff me to a chair in a room that smells like piss, blood, and shit.  I can't help thinking I've made a tremendous error coming here.
 
Not long after, Black Jack walks in with Kung Fu Karl beside him.  Two of the grimmest gangsters in the North Pole, they look oddly pleased to see me.
 
Black Jack says, "Been a long time."
 
"Not long enough," I say.
 
He nods, "Yet, apparently, you missed us.  Why else would you be here?"
 
"Haven't you seen the news?"
 
Black Jack shrugs, "I've heard what's been said, but that don't make it true.  Unless you're here to settle old scores."
 
"If I was, you think I'd walk in the front door?"
 
He smirks, "Depends.  Maybe you got an attack of conscience, and came here to pay what you owe."
 
"I don't owe you shit."
 
Kung Fu Karl growls.
 
Black Jack says, "Don't owe shit, huh?  For what you did to Karl -- he can't do his kung fu chop no more.  Think about that."
 
"Maybe if you weren't running a crooked casino, I wouldn't've had to bust the place up."  Snorting I add, "Hell, you could've given me the money back.  Save us all the trouble."
 
Approaching me Black Jack says, "First off."  -- he throws a vicious combo battering my face -- "My joint ain't crooked."
 
Spitting blood I ask, "Second?"
 
No words this time.  He just goes into the beating.  There's a heft to his punches almost like waiting ten years made his fists heavier.  Maybe it's just a decade of experience.  Either way, it isn't pleasant, and the whole while I can half see Karl in the background, itching for his turn. 
 
After a seemingly endless barrage Black Jack steps away.  Snapping his fingers commands an Action Figure to bring him a chair.  Taking a seat nearby, Black Jack mops his forehead with a handkerchief. 
 
Chuckling he says, "I'm gettin' old."
 
"I can take over," Kung Fu Karl says.
 
Black Jack waves him off, "Not yet."
 
"When?"  Karl growls.
 
"Soon."  Eying me Black Jack says, "I gotta know why you came back, Rudy."
 
Deep breath then I say, "I'm wondering the same thing."
 
I've made worse decisions in my life.  Still, there's no doubt this'll rank in the top ten.  Truth is I've never been much of a planner.  That requires thinking about tomorrow.  I'm more of a doer which is not always a good thing.  I react to situations, going with the first thought that pops into my head.  If that means ripping an Action Figure's arm out the socket in order to beat my money out of his gangster boss's pockets, I'll flip the goddamn poker table over, and go nuts. 
 
Vixen used to say, "You always do the right thing for the wrong reason."
 
I'd reply, "Better than the wrong thing for the right reason," thinking I was clever.
 
She'd just smile in that strained way you see on a person who loves you, but is disappointed.  She wanted me to consider what comes next.  That would mean thinking tomorrow is worth anything.  I could never do that, at least not while living in this city.  So I left, and she stayed with her eyes hooked on a brighter future I couldn't see. 
 
Considering the future I tell Black Jack, "You hear how some folks think things are about to change?"
 
"There are rumors."
 
"That change is coming, and I don't think it's coming clean."
 
Getting to his feet Black Jack straightens his suit.  Shaking his head he steps towards the door.  Passing Karl, a nod is all it takes.  Looking like a delighted hyena Kung Fu Karl comes at me. 
 
As he lays into me I hear Black Jack saying, "If change is coming that's tomorrow, and Rudy, you don't need to worry about tomorrow."

​Back in the day there used to be a joint called the Nutcracker Suite.  If half the rumors of what went on there are true it's no wonder that little match girl set herself on fire, and ran inside to burn the place down.  Like most places, though, enough of the right people enjoy a horror show, well, not much is ever going to get done about it.  Still, an example needed to be made, so Big Red tossed someone to the wolves, so to speak.  I knew him as Felix von Baum, but the rest of the North Pole called him Dancer.
 
In a rundown tenement, in a part of the city the rats won't go to die, I stomp through the halls looking for a sign.  If this town taught me anything it's that citizens love to torment their misfits.  A pariah, practically a state sanctioned scapegoat, that's even better.  It gives them all kinds of excuses to be as ugly as they want, and not hate the face in the mirror.  Sure enough, on the third floor I see one door covered in graffiti, and what I hope is fudge. 
 
It doesn't smell like fudge.  The graffiti, well, I try not to notice it.  If any of its true I might shoot him myself.
 
Knocking on the door I shout, "Felix, you in there?"
 
Through the door I hear drunken singing,
 
"Flossy and glossy
You racer out pacer
Fearless and peerless
So ready and steady
Though some may seem feckless
Yet reckless
They fly along speckless
It's Santa's own reindeer
We cheer!"
 
Knocking harder I call louder, "Felix.  Open up, it's Rudy."
 
The song ends abruptly, a muffled series of swears follows.  Footsteps sound from inside.  I brace for any of an assortment of greetings, ready for anything except the reception I get. 
 
The door flies open.  Felix stands there glowering, swaying, then his eyes sparkle. 
 
He hollers, "Look what jumped out the jack-in-the-box!"
 
A crooked grin spreads, and he throws his arms around me, sagging as he hugs me tight.
 
Shouting in my ear, "Rudy!  Dah fuck are ya?"
 
I feel him convulse.  The sound of sludge gurgling in his throat tells me all I need to know.  I push him back in time to see him straining to hold his mouth shut.  Gesturing for me to give him a second he chokes down the rising flood of vomit.  He manages to swallow most of it, and what wouldn't relent he spits in a thick stream into the hall. 
 
Waving me into the apartment he says, "Come in, come in."
 
I follow him into a tiny apartment.  The walls stained by various fluids, none of which I want to identify.  Root beer bottles litter the floor along with dirty clothes, and an array of fast food containers.  A shredded recliner sits in front of a static shrouded television, but I see no other furniture, not even a mattress. 
 
Standing over the sink Felix cracks open a bottle, swishes some sarsaparilla around before spitting into the basin.  He grabs another bottle, tossing it my way without a care.  I lunge to catch it, barely grabbing it before it hits the wall. 
 
I watch him mumble and stagger to the recliner.  Back in the day Felix used to be this slender figure that moved smooth and quick.  It was no wonder he earned the call sign Dancer.  That's what it looked like when he moved.  Now he didn't seem to have the coordination to fall down.  Eventually he flops into the recliner. 
 
Setting the bottle on his massive root beer belly he smiles, "I always thought I'd see you then I didn't, so I never thought I would."
 
"What made you expect me?"
 
"Kick a motherfucker when he's down."  He chugs a portion of his beer, "Not like I don't deserve it."  He nods, "Yep... though I never screwed with you as bad as Blitzen."
 
I say, "That's true."
 
"Sometimes I think I dove into beating on you because it made sure no one paid attention to me.  Ya know?  So they wouldn't notice any which way I was weird."
 
"Is that what you think?"
 
"Well, alls I got is time to think."  Laughing he whips the half empty bottle at the wall.  It shatters, spraying glass and root beer everywhere.  Shaking his head Felix says, "You got something to say you say it.  You can't make me feel worse than I do."
 
I say, "I'm wondering if you could tell me about someone."
 
"I don't know nobody worth knowing no more."
 
"Roy Glitterspark."
 
His eyes narrow.  Grinding his teeth Felix starts looking nine kinds of uncomfortable.  Wriggling out of the recliner he says, "What you wanna know about him?"
 
Keeping my distance -- sensing a cornered animal -- I watch him go to the fridge. 
 
I say, "Tell me about him."
 
While rummaging through the shelves he says, "If you don't have to, don't screw with him."  Emerging from the refrigerator Felix cracks open a fresh beer.  Regarding the bottle a minute he murmurs, "Yeah," agreeing with some thought before drowning it in suds. 
 
Setting my bottle on the TV I ask, "I take it he fell from grace too."
 
Felix snorts, "He didn't fall.  He leapt.  That boy does what he's told."  Sighing he adds, "One time Comet and Donner told him to cut off a finger.  He did it.  Didn't even think twice.  That's why she asked for him."
 
"Who asked for him?"  I fire the question though I know the answer.
 
"Vixen.  She didn't like the way he got treated, so she requested him as her guard."
 
Following a train of thought out a dark tunnel I ask, "You say he leapt.  How do you know?"
 
Shrugging Felix leans against the sink.  I can hear the counter creaking, straining under his bulk.  He used to walk on snow, barely leaving a print. 
 
He says, "When they kicked my ass out the only people wanted anything to do with me were a bunch of blackmailing motherfuckers.  I held out till I got desperate.  Then I sold every secret I got.  Grapevine still gives me bits... I hear things... things I sell now and again." 
 
"I heard about that."
 
Waving an arm he chuckles, "Well, behold the luxury it affords."
 
Tucking my hands in my pockets I ask if he knows where to find Glitterspark.  The answer is a big fat no. 
 
Reaching for my wallet I say, "Here's something for the..."
 
He cuts me off, "Forget it.  Consider it a debt I owed.  Repaid."  A silence begins stretching out, getting longer and increasingly awkward.  It doesn't last more than a few seconds, but it feels eternal.  Thankfully he breaks it by gruffly saying, "You know where the door is."
 
"Thanks Felix."
 
"Whatever Red Rudy."
 
Walking out I hear him pinball his way back to the recliner.  He sings, though I can't make sense of the drunken slurring.  The thud of him dropping into the recliner elicits a banging from the apartment below.  I hear him stomp his foot, and yell, "Fuck you,  I'm Dancer bitch!"
 
Out the hall I sigh.  It's such a relief to be out of there.  Knowing Felix could never leave, I almost feel sorry for him.  

​"Matty's Bliss"
 
Matty don't know that her sister
Is queen of the cocaine slobs,
Married to a broken transistor,
Fellow by the name of Bob.
 
When the morning comes
Matty runs
Looking for a sign of the time,
And the sunrise
Gets in her eyes
Blinding her on way to the wise.
 
Cuz Matty don't know of her brother
A king of shovel fightin'.
He went, and killed their own mother.
Some day he'll ride the lightnin'.
 
As evening shines
Matty's of a mind
To find a dumpster shrine
To a family tree
She'll never see
Decaying in ways ugly.
 
Hiding from a dumpster fire
Drinking bramble in the brier
Matty loves to be the liar
Saying, "Nothing could be so dire."
No care her blood's a nightmare.
Matty wears bones in her hair.
Dancing never mind who'll stare.
She's blissfully unaware.
 
Oh, Matty only knows
Whatever she chose
To ensure a smile grows
A pretty thorny rose.

Hello, friends.  This is me performing at the Coffee and Whiskey Holiday Variety show last December.  It was a blast, and I recently got the video of it uploaded.  It's a weird little Christmas story, especially towards the end, so stick around for that.  

Coffee and Whiskey is currently doing fundraising to finance their 2019 season.  If you're interested in helping out -- a dollar, a simple share of the IndieGogo link -- anything is appreciated.  

​https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/support-coffee-whiskey-productions-in-2019?fbclid=IwAR3pPU_c1FkFrN-9SWnqPnm4JglyBgqL3LD_pnVOuy5Fw_5LlB0xV7EqMrA#/

​Familiar is often comforting.  Unless familiar is the inside of an interrogation room.  Four grey walls with faded stains more than hinting of faces smashed into concrete.  Granted, I'm no saint, but it's not just the devils getting hammered in this room.  And on this occasion, there's no reason for me to be here which is what's got me worried.  Nothing frustrates a cop like a dead end, and they'll use whatever head is in their hands to beat through that brick wall. 
 
Still, I'm stewing at least an hour before Elfberg and Milkshake enter the room.  Without a word Elfberg sits across from me, while the snowman circles the room.  My only real worry is if they've been searching my bike.  I managed to stash my gun before heading inside, but a blind fool pawing around eventually would find it. 
 
Tossing photos on the table Elfberg says, "Recognize any old friends?"
 
Black and white pics of dead reindeer clutter the table.  Calling them friends wouldn't be near the truth, but they are recognizable.  Every one is a reindeer I grew up with.  Each of them ended up a flier:  Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen.  They won't be flying anymore.
 
Calm as I can I go through the pictures, hiding my relief at not finding any of Vixen.  Something odd about each photo catches my eye.  The crime scenes look clean, suggesting whoever shot these fliers must've been able to walk right up to them without raising an alarm.  However, why they're showing me these photos doesn't sink in until Milkshake talks. 
 
He asks, "What've you been up to Red?"
 
Nodding, I connect the dots, "Not what you're thinking." 
 
"You got into town around 7.  Right?"  Elfberg says, eying a notepad. 
 
I fold my arms across my chest, "Close enough.  That's when we were in that diner together."
 
Milkshake taps a photo, "And not a half hour later poor Cupid here, got her brains splattered all over a bookshelf."
 
I chuckle.
 
Milkshake slams both fists on the table.  Growling, "You think that's funny."
 
I say, "I think it's funny you figurin' I rocketed outta that diner shooting clear across town.  I mean, my bike's fast, but she ain't that fast."
 
"Not impossible though," Elfberg says taking notes.
 
I can't help cocking an eyebrow.  At the very least, it's not outside probable. 
 
He adds, "And sounds like you know where Cupid lives."
 
Chewing my tongue I feel like an amateur -- walked right into that trap.  Granted, it's no secret most of the fliers live in the better part of the city.  Vixen's the only one who straddled the line.  She always planned to, said it'd keep her grounded, close to her roots and such. 
 
I say, "What about these others?"
 
Elfberg tells me a shotgun cut Blitzen in half.  I'm not sorry to hear it.  Though, judging by the photos, he didn't die right away.  It looks like he tried to drag himself across the floor before the curtain closed. 
 
Milkshake says, "He died around ten." 
 
At first I perk up.  However, I catch my own tongue.  I've got an alibi, however, that would mean admitting being on the scene when Collodi was getting shot.  I'm not about to put myself in that hot water.
 
So I say, "What about the others?"
 
Comet got his throat slit sometime around nine.  Donner took three to the chest shortly after midnight. 
 
Seeing an out I say, "I was at Sugar Plumbs 'round midnight.  You know this."
 
"So what?" Milkshake smacks me across the back of the head, "Ever heard of the word accomplice?"
 
"That would mean a friend of some kind."
 
"Right-o Red."  Milkshake slaps me hard on the back, "Right-o."
 
"I don't exactly have a lotta friends."  Me and Elfberg lock eyes, "Plus, you know I like to do my own dirty work."
 
Sometimes a record isn't a bad thing.  It establishes a pattern of behavior.  Knowing that fact causes Elfberg to frown, a sure sign he believes me. 
 
Jotting a note he says, "Time of death isn't an exact science."
 
Shaking my head I say, "So what's the thought then, huh?  I leave town for now on close to ten years, only to come back out of the blue with bloody revenge on my mind?  Tell me how that makes sense."
 
Milkshake says, "We don't need it to make sense if it's what happened."
 
I say, "I'm not even touching the stupid on that." 
 
Sure enough that gets me another slap to the side of my head.  Hard one too, suggesting I may have to make time for Detective Milkshake Snickerdoodle, so he can learn a thing, or two about whom to fuck with. 
 
Elfberg says, "Lot of things changed after the Shortage, Rudy.  Lotta people changed too.  You weren't here, so --"
 
"Wasn't exactly easy on the Outskirts."
 
Setting his notepad aside Elfberg says, "I don't doubt that.  Still, over a third of this city starved to death.  We arrested some folks for literally eating one another." 
 
"Who's fault is that?" I ask pointedly.
 
"Depends on who you ask," Elfberg replies. 
 
No one says anything, though I'm thinking Big Red.  Yet only a complete idiot would say that out loud, let alone in a police station.  Talk enough shit about the jolly fat man, well... he knows if you've been bad, and that's not good.  That said, Elfberg's reply plants a seed in my head.
 
He and Milkshake share a furtive glance.  I brace for the old song and dance to begin -- screaming and fists blast beating a confession.  However, the familiar tune doesn't start.  Instead Milkshake nods, and Elfberg pulls a small photo out of his notepad.
 
Passing it over he asks, "Recognize him?"
 
At risk of sounding racist, nutcrackers often look the same to me.  That is until I notice a wood-burn etched into this one's wrist.
 
I say, "Seems familiar."
 
"Name's Glitterspark.  Roy Glitterspark.  His parents starved during the Shortage, but he lucked out."
 
"Were they cunts?" I ask.
 
Milkshake says, "Nope, but Big Red adopted young Glitterspark.  Raised him with a whole slew of nutcrackers, conveniently orphaned by the Shortage."
 
Looking at the picture I say, "Lemme guess, raised to guard fliers."
 
Elfberg taps the side of his nose.  Sounds like Big Red raised his own legion of loyal guards, every one faithful and dedicated to their duty.  I'm starting to think I'm not in the fire, though the frying pan is still uncomfortably hot. 
 
"Okay," I say, "You don't have to believe me for this to be true..." and I lay it out for them, how I saw Glitterspark unload an Uzi into Collodi.  The unsettling thing is both cops seem to believe me. 
 
Though Milkshake still grumbles, "What's his motive?"
 
I shrug, "Fuck should I know?  The odd thing is Collodi acted like Glitterspark was on his pay."
 
Furrowing his brow Elfberg says, "That makes no sense.  A flier guard wouldn't be assigned to watch over someone like Collodi, and they can't be bought."
 
Milkshake chimes in, "That lot are true believers."
 
"Unless he fell from grace," I say then something dawns on me, though I keep it to myself.  Glancing across the table I catch Elfberg's eye.  Whatever crossed my mind, a hint of it may've flashed on my face.  Gathering up the photos he gets to his feet. 
 
Elfberg pulls open the door saying, "We got nothing to hold you on..."
 
"For now," Milkshake jabs.
 
"But we're keeping an eye on you."  Elfberg gestures for me to leave. 
 
Walking out I can feel eyes all over the station watching me leave.  Word is getting around.  Fliers are dying, and rumor has it I'm the lead suspect.  I'm not sure letting me go is in my best interest.  However, that seed Elfberg planted, whether he meant to, or not, I've got an idea where to go next.