Geppetto's is a trashy club on the Southside.  It's where all the puppets hang out.  By the time I get there night is in full swing.  Marionettes are hanging from the roof dancing on air.  Ventriloquist dummies are signing to each other, debating whether to buy time with misfit toys pedaling ass across the street, and hand puppets are well on the way to raging brawls about nothing. 
 
"Fuck you Judy!"
 
"That's what I want.  Fuck me Punch, or I'll beat you with this stick."
 
"That's a dildo."
 
"It can be two things!"
 
Neon Jumpin' Jacks flank the entrance, and as I try to step inside a glance from them sends a giant chocolate éclair into my path.
 
"We're full," he says.
 
Looking up at the towering figure I say, "One for a short bit.  Can't hurt."
 
He folds his arms across his chest. 
 
Throwing my hands up I saunter off.  Sometimes a subtle approach is necessary.  Trouble out front might send who I'm looking for out the back.  So the second I'm out of sight I double back.  Sneaking around I find the backdoor locked.  Fortunately a busboy happens to step outside to get cinnamon toasted.  Promising not to rat him out gets him to hold the door, and I'm in. 
 
Geppetto's is a place full of glitz, but not enough to hide there's zero glamour.  It's the kind of spot folks go to pretend they aren't bottom feeders sucking the dirt for gold. 
 
Grabbing a waitress by the string I gently pull her over to ask, "Where's Collodi?"
 
She points to the bar.  Surrounded by a swarm of sycophants, the prince of puppets stands basking in their admiration.  Head designer in Big Red's workshop, Collodi is the elf to see if someone wants refurbishing, a second chance to go out in the world.  When it comes to toys what stays here is often the overstock.  Promised a good life -- tomorrow, always tomorrow -- like teenage orphans they soon find nobody wants them.  It's all about the new shit.  The best they can hope for is a dead end job so they can buy a fistful of butterscotch barbiturates that let's 'em die in their sleep. 
 
Closing in on Collodi I overhear him say, "Sure baby, I can remake you.  It's a simple procedure, you'll be the latest doll, but what are you going to do for me beautiful?"
 
I say, "She'll tell you there's something big 'n' creepy lurking behind you."
 
Collodi slowly turns.  Swallowing hard he puts on a smile that isn't fooling anyone.
 
Throwing his arms wide he says, "Rudy!  When did you get to town?"
 
"We need to talk."
 
He nods, "Okay.  In private though."  Turning to the puppet he says, "I'll be right back."
 
Something about that doesn't make me feel good.  Fortunately, I've got the gun in my pocket.  I just hope he can tell by my face tonight is not the night to screw around.
 
Collodi leads the way to a private booth.  Once inside I pull the curtain shut, while Collodi slides to the other end of a crescent seat.  I watch his hands, half expecting him to reach for a gun underneath, but he keeps them in plain view. 
 
Sitting across from him I get right to it, "You know about Vixen?"
 
He smirks, "Do you?"
 
"What the fuck does that mean?"
 
He shrugs.  I pull out the gun.  The cherry goes out of his cheeks. 
 
Milk white he says, "Take it easy Rudy.  You don't want to do anything stupid."
 
"Then tell me something smart."
 
He says, "Okay, but you might not like what you hear."
 
"So sugar coat it."
 
"Vixen..."  Before he says anymore the curtain flaps open.  In steps two nutcrackers sporting red and green Uzis. 
 
I say, "Make a move, and he's dead."
 
Collodi frowns, "Where the fuck've you been?"
 
One nutcracker says, "Making a phone call."
 
"Phone call?  Do what you're paid for."
 
"Yes, sir," the nutcracker replies.  Next thing I know the cracker is emptying his clip into Collodi.  It catches me off guard, though no one's as surprised as Collodi.  As the nutcracker fires I notice a wood-burn etching on his wrist.  Before I fully recognize it, he tosses me the empty Uzi, and like an idiot I catch the damn thing.
 
The other nutcracker throws open the curtain, and shouts, "He's got a gun!"
 
The whole nightclub goes into a panic.  Seems they were all hesitating, hoping the gunfire somehow might've been part of the music -- EDM is like that.  The nutcracker's holler, that's all anyone needs to stampede.  Puppets are pulling themselves into the rafters, or charging for the door.  Meanwhile, the nutcrackers are riding the flood to a nearby exit.
 
Dropping the Uzi I look at Collodi.  His eyes are rolling, but he isn't dead.  Taking a chance I go over to him.
 
Quick as I can I search his pockets.  I find a book of matches, but not much else.
 
Suddenly Collodi grabs me by the wrist.  Eyes staring vacantly he says, "I's s'pposed to see her change... everything."
 
Then he died, blood glistening on his lips.  Turning I see the éclair pushing his way through the surging mob.  Pocketing my gun I exit.  Bursting out the back door I hoof it to my bike faster than I've ever run.  I'm roaring away from Geppetto's thinking none of this makes sense.  Then I remember the matches. 
 
Glancing at them is a hint.  Purple cursive on a black background reads Sugar Plums.  No other options I head there.
 
#
 
The giant clock at the center of town is tolling midnight when I arrive.  Sugar Plums is a gingerbread brothel in a part of the city I could get arrested just for being in.  It's the kind of place the rich like to have close at hand, though they always pretend it isn't there.  A fountain out front of the joint is bubbling with lemonade, orangeade, orgeat, and currant syrup.  The cobblestone driveway is made of hard candy, and the whole building smells freshly baked.  I can hear a celesta playing within alongside the sound of rowdy laughter. 
 
An elf valet sneers at my motorcycle as I roll up. 
 
Parking I say, "Don't touch it."
 
"Wouldn't dream of it," he says, "Filthy."
 
I can't really be sure if he means me, or the bike, but I take it as a compliment either way.
 
Marching through the entrance it's immediately clear I don't belong here.  Everyone is wearing some kind of evening get-up, except for the hookers.  Fairies in lingerie escort teddy bears in tuxedos through ribbon candy curtains to private areas.  A plush doll in nothing but a thong sashays by a leering group of rabbits in top hats.  It isn't long, however, until eyes are coming my way.  Something about the reindeer in a leather jacket, his blood red nose, and ripped jeans doesn't fit.  Their obvious discomfort makes me smile. 
 
I feel an arm gently coil around mine, and a luscious voice whispers in my ear, "This is not your scene."
 
"No shit."  Glancing over I see a fairy in a red dress, the edges trimmed in white fur.
 
A gentle pull suggests I let her take the lead.  There's an authority to her, subtle but tangible.  Not wanting to cause a scene, not yet anyway, I follow her.  Making our way through the mansion we chat softly.
 
"What brings you here?" she asks.
 
Taking a stab in the dark I say, "Vixen sent me."
 
Smiling and waving to customers she says, "I doubt that."
 
"Why?"
 
"Because she knows better than to send someone like you here.  No offense."
 
I nod, "None taken.  This isn't my usual hang out."
 
"Then let's not play games," she says.
 
"I've never been one for games."
 
We go through a chocolate door into a cozy little office.  She takes a seat behind a large desk.  She blinks, and the softness is gone from her eyes. 
 
She says, "I'm Ostergren, and you must be Rudolph."
 
Tapping my nose I say, "What gave it away?"
 
Setting a cigarette in a long filter Ostergren says, "So why are you here?  Really."
 
I get a feeling lying to her is a waste of time, so I lay everything bare.  From start to finish I give her the whole story.  Along the way I recall that wood-burn, though I keep it to myself.  Some cards need to be kept secret.  Still, by the time her cigarette is finished she knows most everything I do. 
 
At the end I ask, "Do you know what Collodi meant?"
 
Nodding Ostergren says, "I'm afraid I do, though I don't know if I should tell you.  How should I put this?  You see, I don't like to take sides unless I'm sure who's going to win.  Do you follow?"
 
I say, "I think so.  Vixen got mixed up in something.  Whatever it is, folks expect it to change things.  Those same people probably asked if you'd go with 'em down whatever rabbit hole they're planning for."
 
Ostergren softly claps, "Bravo.  The only question left is who those folks are."
 
"I don't suppose you want to tell me."
 
She raises an eyebrow, "You already know one."
 
I frown, "If you mean Vixen, I got a bad feeling she's dead."
 
"If I've learned one thing running this place it's that looks can be deceiving."  Rising she says, "Now, if you please, a fellow like you makes my customers uncomfortable."
 
I smirk, "And when they're uncomfortable they don't..."
 
"Spend," she cuts in.  Coming around the desk her wings flutter letting loose a shower of purple sparks.  The glittery rain fades as it sinks to the floor.  For a moment I think she's cruising in for a kill, but then in a blink the softness is back in her eyes.  Still, that doesn't mean I'm safe.  So when she smiles warmly, gesturing at the door, I take the hint and leave. 
 
Getting on my bike, however, I keep thinking about that wood-burn.  The nutcracker owned an etching of a reindeer.  Maybe if he hadn't been unloading a clip into Collodi I'd've recognized it right off the bat.  It's a design usually sported by flier guards. 
 
Flier protection is a high level position.  Some nutcrackers spend their whole lives aspiring to get it, and only those in the detail sport that etching.  If he got reassigned to watching over a puppet maker that can only mean a demotion -- fallen from grace. 
 
Glancing back I can see the fairy madam watching me from a window.  I nod, she waves, and with that I'm off.  Motoring along I figure there's one person who might know about a disgraced nutcracker. 
 
I'm not out of the driveway five seconds before lights are flashing behind me.  The old familiar flare of red and blue.  Just for spite I take my time pulling over. 
 
Looking over my shoulder I don't know why I'm surprised to see Elfberg and Milkshake.  Detective Elfberg emerges from the passenger side. 
 
As he saunters over I ask, "Something I can help you with detective?"
 
He replies, "If you'd be so kind, Rudy.  We got a few question we'd like to ask."
 
"Down at the station?" It's practically a rhetorical question.  The answer's yes, but I need to stall, time to figure what to do with my gun. 
 
"It won't take more than an hour, or two.  Tops." 
 
"You promise?"
 
He spreads a smile full of butter yellow teeth.  I've seen it before.  Nothing good is coming, but unless I want a legion of cops chasing me all over the city there's only one choice.
 
Revving my engine I ask where to go.  He says to simply follow them.  So I do, and sooner than I want we arrive at the station.

​There's a gingerbread man in an alley off Lollipop Lane giving out suck jobs for a candy cane.  Lit on sugar stick, poor bastard's got his eyes on the oven.  He wants to go back in.  Came out too early the first time; came out soft.  Now he wants to stay inside until he's good and crisp, maybe even burnt up.  Woe to the next Jelly Donut Jon who crosses him.  That fool's gonna get cut open, strawberry filling spilling out everywhere.  The Calico Pimp prancing around in boots, she won't be happy about it, but she'll let it slide.  She'd rather a donut died than her golden throat disappeared.  A lot of coins go down that gullet flowing to her pocket on a river of cream.
 
Seeing that, not back in town five minutes, I realize I don't want to be here, but I heard from Vixen.  She needs me.  I promised I'd come if she ever called. 
 
I notice a car creeping behind me.  It could be any of a dozen rotten eggs I don't care to see.  Still, I pull my motorcycle into a diner on Butter Cream Boulevard.  By doing so I'm practically inviting an unpleasant conversation.  My only hope is they let me have a cup of hot cocoa before things get real. 
 
Sitting at the counter I wave to the waitress.  When she comes over she can't take her eyes off my nose.  Most folks can't, whether they know what it means, or not.  I can't get used to it.  It's like they never seen red before.
 
Snapping my fingers I say, "Hey, cup-a cocoa.  Extra marshmallows."
 
"I'll have that right up."  She hops to it.  Blink of an eye there's a steaming mug in front of me.  I get one delicious sip before a badge sits next to me.
 
Glancing over I recognize the copper, "Detective Lorenzo Elfberg, what a pleasure to see you again."
 
"Cut the shit Rudy.  What the fuck are you doing back in town?"  Lorenzo is from the old school, back when questioning a suspect meant beating a confession out of someone with a frozen hose.  I know.  He's asked me a few questions. 
 
I shrug, "No reason I can't be."
 
"I bet I could find something."  Sliding into the vacancy beside me is a snowman. 
 
I ask, "Who's this Frosty?"
 
Next thing I know the snowman slams my head into the counter.  A few patrons look over, but as soon as Lorenzo flashes a badge they look away.
 
Snowman growls, "The name's Milkshake.  Milkshake Snickerdoodle, and you don't use that word around me, got it punk?"
 
Sitting up I straighten my leather jacket.  Now isn't the time to get weird.  However, I've been around.  I know a fishing expedition when I see one.
 
So I say, "Didn't mean nothing by it.  Heard it in a snowballer song.  Figured y'all call yourself that now, taking it back as it were."
 
Milkshake snorts, "Whatever ya backwoods whitetail trash."
 
"Now who's being insensitive?" I say, and take a sip, "You boys ought to have some of this.  It's damn fine.  Might even calm you down."
 
Lorenzo plucks a marshmallow off my coaster.  He says, "Whatcha been doing with yourself?"
 
"Not that it's any of your business, I've been on the outskirts settled in with my girlfriend, Cari Bou.  Told her I had business in the city.  Only just rode in a half hour ago."
 
"She a good woman?" Milkshake asks.
 
"The best," I say.  Never meant it before, not even with Vixen, though once upon a time I thought I did.
 
Milkshake says, "Then I bet you're in a hurry to get back to her."
 
I am, but won't admit it.  Watching the cops leave I can't help thinking a strong shove this early -- something is definitely stirring.  A smart person would take those threats seriously, and make no mistake when a cop says leave town there's always a threat in there, but I'm not smart enough to do what's best for me. 

After finishing my cocoa I get back on my bike.  The engine growls, and I almost miss the sound of jingling bells, the shimmer of chimes.  Eyes to the sky I see Big Red's sleigh shooting across the heavens.  A practice flight every night on the week before Christmas -- some things never change.  Then I notice something isn't right.  The silhouette of the sleigh suggests a reindeer is missing.  I can't be sure which, but it puts a cold unpleasantness in my belly.
 
So I speed my ass over to Vixen's house.  When I left she lived in a nice part of town, one of the perks of being a flier.  Of course, she isn't the original Vixen.  That'd make her centuries old, but she qualified back in the day, got to assume the call sign when the time came.  So it's a bit of a shock to see her jelly dot bungalow is a cracked, half melted mess.
 
Parking my ride I notice a group of teddy bears loitering on the corner.  They seem to be watching the place.  Discretely getting a gun out of my saddle bag I stash it in a jacket pocket before heading up to Vixen's. 
 
Knocking on the door causes it to open.  That's not a good sign.  Going inside I find the place isn't just torn apart, worse, there's blood on everything.  Something vicious happened here, but I doubt I've got time to stick around.  Still, there's seconds enough to notice one oddity.
 
On a wall there's a poster hanging that says, "Re-elect Papa Nash!"  He's the mayor of this icy burg.  If he gets re-elected that'll mean a fifth term, adding up somewhere near 22 years.  However, anyone with half a brain, not living in denial, knows Papa Nash doesn't run shit.  Big Red is the only one with any political power.  Vixen knew that, hell, she taught it to me.  So why the poster? 
 
She used to say, "Things have to change, Rudy, but sometimes I doubt they will.  Not with a vote anyhow."

I hear sirens in the distance.  Sensing a frame up is in the works I don't waste time.  Hurrying outside I see the teddy bears have converged on my bike. 
 
As I approach my ride the largest teddy bear says, "Where you think yer goin'?"
 
Instead of chit-chatting I fire a few rounds into the bear's foot.  The rest scatter allowing me to hop on my bike, and ride.  I know where I need to go, but I don't know if there's time.

​Being more of a text message person, to me the phone ringing is always a bad sign.  It implies bad news, Chinese telemarketers, and calamities that must be dealt with immediately.  Glancing at the screen, I saw Home on the caller id.  Normally that provided warning enough, yet I made the mistake of saying, "Hello?"  After all, there's no telling when Home might deliver good news.  Perhaps one of our more racist relatives had finally died. 
 
The gruff voice of my father spoke, "Hey.  Come to the house Thursday.  2, or 3 in the afternoon."
 
"I thought we weren't doing National Christmas Kick-off this year."
 
"We're not.  Gutters need cleaning."
 
Due to a botched knee replacement my father could no longer venture onto the roof to clean the gutters.  Given my brother recently pushing the scale closer to four hundred pounds, and Mom's poor health, the task fell to me.  So, despite my concerns about a guerilla holiday dinner, I went to my parents' house on Thursday.
 
While I maneuvered along the dangerously slanted roof, Pops stood in the yard below.  A beer in one hand he hollered up instructions as if the act of scooping leaves from the gutter required a Ph.D., and several years of on the job experience.  Flinging fistfuls of leaves I spied a rusty minivan pulling into the driveway.  When my brother emerged, his swarm of children orbiting him like comets caught by a planetoid -- I began to suspect we might be having Thanksgiving dinner after all.
 
I shouted down, "So no dinner."
 
Pops shrugged, "No Thanksgiving dinner.  What?  We can't get together as a family?"
 
A deer would be less suspicious of a hunter with a floodlight and a shotgun.  Granted, I'd been avoiding family gatherings all year.  Mainly this stemmed from a very specific game we play.  It's similar, I suppose, to chicken.  We sit around the dining room table, and the first person to speak loses.  By arriving late I often bypass this opening event, preferring instead to show up two beers and three shots deep after the first salvos have been fired.  Better to let some hapless cousin get torn apart than risk my own sanity.
 
"Pick up the pace," Pops shouted, "It's getting dark."
 
I felt tempted to feign sluggishness.  It might be possible to kill a few hours hunkered on the roof, staring out at the neighborhood.  Growing up I never used to mind roof chores because it afforded the clearest view of Mary Carpenter's bedroom window.  She always fascinated me. 
 
Situated across the street, she used to sit for hours in her window smoking cigarettes, wearing only her underwear, then putting out said cigarettes on her body.  However, any time I saw her outside her house she looked like central casting sent the girl next door.  Although ten at the time, it made me realize people are composed of all kinds of secrets.  Thinking about her made me realize Pops tricked me for reasons he didn't feel like sharing. 
 
A blunt man with a my-way-or-the-highway disposition, deceptive manipulation never really factored into his interactions.  Subtle as a tractor rolling over kittens, at least my father could be counted on to be obvious with his demands.  So curiosity peaked, I finished the gutters, and descended to join the family below.
 
My brother sat on the living room couch.  Though it easily seated three, he dominated the space.  He wore a t-shirt featuring a man in a business suit firing an assault rifle, while the American flag waved in the background, and a woman in a Confederate flag bikini clung to the shooter's leg.  Occasionally my brother ordered one of his kids to fetch him another bowl of pretzels, though mostly he let them stare dead eyed at the television screen. 
 
I asked, "How's the wife?"
 
He sighed, "Sick with something, and she's being a bitch, not to be all redundant, I mean she is a woman."
 
I said, "Yes, I'm aware the mother of your children is a woman.  That's usually how it works.  I'm gonna check on Mom, see if she needs help in the kitchen."
 
On my way to the kitchen I passed Pops.  Mentioning my destination prompted him to grab my arm. 
 
He said, "She ain't in there."
 
I couldn't quite grasp that statement.  At risk of sounding inadvertently sexist, my Mom not being in the kitchen is like saying god isn't in the Tabernacle, or Santa isn't at the North Pole.  She loved to cook, so one could always expect to find her in the kitchen.  It provided her all kinds of joy.  Like the time she read Animal Farm, then gained a grim view of pigs that resulted in the year we only ate pork.  That said, Mom managed to make every dish unique. 
 
"What do you mean?" I asked.
 
Pops said, "She's in the bedroom.  Not doing well."
 
"Can I see her?" I asked, suddenly aware how long it'd been since my last visit.
 
Pops nodded.
 
So I went upstairs.  A year ago the news came down that cancer set its sights on Mom.  Over the years I always assumed, worst comes to worst, she'd end up accidentally overdosing on some combination of pills, a handful of Clozapine and Percocet washed down with a strawberry margarita.  She'd fall asleep on the couch peacefully watching TV static, and never wake up.  Thing is I doubt anybody dies the way they expect to.  Even with the truck bearing down on you, whatever you imagine when it hits is something else entirely.
 
Knocking softly on my parents' bedroom door I remembered this place being a sanctum sanctorum of sorts.  If nothing else, this is where my parents came to be human; where a flinty, cold man could expose his heart to the woman he loved, and she could simmer in the depths of her worst delusions until finding a grip on reality again.  Even as an adult I found it hard to just go inside.  But each knock pushed the door a bit.
 
"Come in," a bright voice called.
 
I stepped inside.  On the bed she sat propped up by a mound of pillows.  Always thin, she now resembled a living stick figure.  Yet she smiled, and her eyes shone bright. 
 
"Hey Ma, how ya doing?" I said. 
 
She blinked slowly, "I'd be doing better if I wasn't dying."  She shrugged, "But who isn't?"
 
We chatted for a bit.  She didn't sound like someone on the way out.  She talked effusively about a call from Uncle Jordan relating the latest news about his Real Doll girlfriend.  They're apparently visiting all fifty states.  Mom mentioned Aunt Judy popping by to brag about her recent divorce from Uncle Steve, which is odd given that Uncle Steve is a blood relative, and Aunt Judy is just a meth-head he met at a Chinese buffet.  However, despite the shimmer in her voice, Mom's body language told a different story.  She barely moved the whole time, needed two hands to hold a small glass, and a fit of coughing seemed like it could've shattered her entirely.  Yet her smile never diminished to less than a smirk.
 
At one point she said, "I bet someday they'll have a cure for cancer then people will get cancer on purpose to lose weight."
 
"People are stupid," I said.
 
She sighed, "People aren't stupid.  They're desperately afraid of everything they shouldn't be.  So they'll do anything, even ignore the octopi in the sky."  She whispered, "They're everywhere."
 
"I know," I said.
 
Looking out the window she said, "I'm tired."
 
"Then I'll let you get some sleep."  I gave her a hug, and a kiss then left. 
 
Back downstairs I found my brother and Pops yelling at the TV.  The football game was not being played the way they thought it should.  I went to the kitchen to get a beer.
 
In the fridge I found a four pound turkey breast.
 
Returning to the living room I asked my Pops, "You want me to make that turkey breast?"
 
Without looking at me he said, "If you think it's a good idea."
 
I nodded, "It is Thanksgiving."
 
It would take two hours to cook, but that gave us time to get the ball rolling on some sides.  None of it turned out as well as it could've.  Still, none of us expected it to be perfect.  How could it be?  But it did show us some kind of new normal might be on the horizon, for better or worse.