“Sorry kid, I don’t play fair.” Satan then flicked the switch; in a matter of seconds Danny’s soul was sucked up. He emptied the soul into his black bag.
Danny crumbled into dust and the Devil vacuumed up the dust. He then grabbed his black bag and crawled back up the chimney. It was a Hell of a Christmas after all.
THE CHRISTMAS BANE, by S. Clayton Rhodes
Lefty Bohach lay on his back staring at the empty bunk above him, wishing for a smoke.
The only thing breaking the silence was the scuff of footsteps coming down the short hallway.
“How ya doin’, Myron?” Beyond the cream-painted bars Carbon Hill’s Chief of Police, Dalton Strecker, pulled up a chair. The grate of wooden legs on tile was like nails on a chalkboard.
“Name’s Lefty,” Bohach corrected.
“Oh, yeah. Lefty. Tough guy like you, course you gotta have a good, strong name.”
“’S’right,” Lefty agreed, hoping the cop was finished but somehow knowing he wasn’t.
Strecker leaned forward. “Tell me something, Bohach, you ever consider another line of work?”
Sensing this wasn’t going to end any time soon, Lefty sat up and gulped from the mostly cold cup of coffee from the sink edge.
“See, I been lookin’ at your record. Printed out your whole life story.” Strecker snapped the manila file with the back of one hand. “Every convenience store you knocked over, every car you heisted, all the times you were picked up for possession, it’s all here.”
“I’m sure there’s a point to this.”
“Sure. The point is sewer water always runs deep.” The cop let loose a laugh every bit as grating as the scraping chair legs had been a moment before. “Seriously, though, this file...it paints a picture. It says, ‘Strecker, this here’s one hapless crook who couldn’t do worse if he tried.’”
An understatement if ever there was one, Lefty had to admit. He’d been passing through town this morning and what should happen but they stopped him for a busted brake-light, of all things. When the patrolman called in, dispatch ran a routine check and learned Lefty was wanted for a whole slew of misdemeanors. These were in addition, of course, to the two counts of armed robbery. He was promptly put on ice until he could be transferred after the holiday.
“If it’s any consolation,” Strecker went on, “they’da nabbed you sooner or later if not here. Guys like you always trip up.”
Lefty pretended to inspect a hangnail. Maybe if he continued acting bored, Strecker would eventually get the hint. No such luck. The cop kept yakking until Lefty finally lost it and told him to piss off.
“Easy, tiger. Just making conversation. Still, I do hafta wonder...with all the times you’ve been caught, jailed, and let back out, did it ever cross your mind there could be an easier way to make a buck?”
In addition to getting under Lefty’s skin, the cop had an uncanny talent for zeroing in on the sore spots. “I, I don’t know how to do anything.” Lefty instantly hated himself for showing any sign of weakness.
Strecker laughed again—that rattling, gut-busting laughter. “Well, isn’t that the saddest thing? You can’t learn to push a mop, so you fall into a life of crime.
Chowtime’s in twenty, slick. Have any special requests for your Christmas Eve dinner, seeing as how it may be your last?”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. I’ll bring you something nice.”
* * * *
The “something nice” turned out to be a two-piece meal from KFC. The chicken was stringy, the biscuit dry. Lefty flushed the potatoes, which were as tasty as wallpaper paste, down the toilet.
Later, a little after ten o’clock, based on the bonging of the courthouse tower clock, Strecker returned. He snapped on the corridor lights and brought the chair close again.
Lefty squinted his eyes against the fluorescent glare. “What, are you bored or something, Chief? Why you keep pestering me?”
Strecker grinned. “Okay, I admit I mighta been a little hard on you earlier, but my point remains. Consider redeeming yourself, Bohach. Turn yourself around before it’s too late.”
“I’ll agree to anything. Just lemme get some sleep, willya?”
Strecker ignored the comment, instead saying, “Ever hear of a fella by the name of Krampus?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“Thought as much.” The manila file with Lefty’s rap sheet Strecker had held before had been replaced by a worn leather book, which the police chief slid through the bars. “Have yourself a looksee.”
It was a scrapbook, and the spine cracked when Lefty opened it. Inside was a real treat. Beneath the protective sheeting were pages of postcards yellowed with age, colored prints, and sketches. And every image contained some form of devilish creature.
“That fella there,” Strecker continued once Lefty had his initial glance, “is Krampus. Sometimes called Black Peter, Black Rupert, and a slew of other names.”
Lefty continued leafing through. The cards were clearly Christmas in nature but in each one the hairy demon was present. The interpretations varied, but on a few details all the artists were consistent. He had the hindquarters of a goat, a long tail, curving horns, and eyes shining like lamps. In most cases, he was threatening children or brandishing switches.
Strecker scratched a slack jaw then attempted an explanation. “I’ve been researching this guy for a while now. Not a lot to be found out, either. What I have gathered is that Christmas is a constantly evolving holiday. And more has been forgotten than has been kept. It began as a pagan celebration—this was before the church got involved. To get the unwashed masses on board with the idea of organized religion, the Church says, ‘Okay, y’all can keep your winter solstice, so long as when you celebrate you honor the birthday of our Lord and Savior.’ The Roman Catholics set it for December sixth, the day the real St. Nicholas died—the one who lived in Turkey, not the one shaking bells for The Salvation Army. The Protestants eventually moved things to the twenty-fifth. As for Krampus, some European traditions say he was St. Nicholas’ dark servant, while others suggest they’re flip sides of the same coin.”
Lefty cleared his throat and said, “Look, Strecker, don’t you have some place to be Christmas Eve?”
Again Strecker’s face broke into a grin. “Kid, you may think this is some kinda funny, but I’m doing you a favor. Remember I said I was here about your redemption? We’ll see if you have the brains to do the right thing once I’m done.”
An ice storm had moved in an hour or so before, and sleet chattered at the thick glass and heavy-gauge mesh within the window overhead. Having seen enough of the book, Lefty passed it back through the bars.
Strecker flipped through the album, stopping at one particular page and turning it around for Lefty to see. “Look here. A perfect example of Krampus’
