Krampus

(Dedicated with love & wonderment to my dear friend, Andrew.)

On this night, this Christmas night,
I walk his saintly wake,
following ropes of chimney smoke
and stolen left to bake.

Tura lura lura lie,
I spied the bedside glow,
of Gordon Goss the bully boss
of school bus one-four-oh.

Now Master Claus said bully boss
had been a naughty sprite.
He bore no gifts nor fancy things
to leave for him tonight.

Await, I did within the mouth
of the ancient farmyard well,
while keeping patience occupied
with ditties spun in hell.

Wither, dither, chortle, sput.
My singing filled the hole
with vulgar tunes of hungry things
a-prowling for a soul.

The wind, it whipped and snapped the night,
his “Ho Ho Hoʻs” rejoiced.
I marked my time with brimstone rhymes
in a hellish, monstrous voice.

Tura, lura, lura lie,
I heard the deer alert.
My talons grasped the icy stone
encased in frozen dirt.

His sleigh had lifted him aloft
and well into the night.
So then tʻwas time I bore my fangs
to set the bully boss right.

In leaps and lopes I covered ground
and rose upon the roof.
And proudly, loudly sounded my coming
with every heavy hoof.

Down, down, down the chimney,
warmed with Clausʻs cloak,
I filled the dark with amber glow.
The air with sulfry smoke.

“Oh, Gordon Goss, you bully boss…
into your dreams I go.
To weave a nightmare full of things
rose up from down below.”

I heard the whimper. I heard the gasp.
The crying out to follow.
The terrorizing shadow things
that hunt for fear to swallow.

“Oh, Gordon Goss, you bully boss…
of school bus one-four-oh.
The bane of innocents and waifs
whoʻll wake soon, donʻt you know?”

“Tʻis the realm of Father Christmas,
the lord of peace and joy,
that granted me the warrant right
to claim you, wretched boy!”

So into his room I took to the bed,
to claim the childling prize.
In a flash and a gash I cut out his tongue
and tore out his tear-filled eyes.

“No crying nor lying the damage is done.
Your sins have bought you no grace.
Youʻre Gordon Goss, the bully boss.
Iʻve come now to collect your face!”

“My cave is adorned with faces
of children both naughty and wrong.
Each Christmas night I thrive on fright
and dance to the penitence song.”

The sobs were filled with crimson.
Eye sockets, bloody tears.
But precious now the legend grows
of Yuletideʻs greatest fears.

When autumn leaves are falling
and Winter winds offend.
Tʻis Nicholas the Saint you love
and cherish to the end.

But lest you harm or wrong the weak
or rise against the pure.
Tʻis Krampus who shall visit last
with death upon your door.

Click here for more on Krampus.

Last Night – Chapter Nine

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The bubbling and crackling was starting to get a little embarrassing. The sound was pretty loud and made the whole iHop smell like pancakes and spit. Andrew and I shared a booth across from Robi as he tackled his sixth stack of buttermilk pancakes with coconut syrup.  His food-choked ramblings sounded like a cross between a Coney Island boardwalk vendor and a Dutch pimp. English was in there somewhere. I was sure the demon that borrowed his body somewhere in the Veneer left behind a good amount of extra matter not of this plane. You donʻt play Motel 6 to a Demon without picking up a little sumpin sumpin, if you get my drift. Did I mention the part about this little culinary event being two steps to the right of embarrassing? The eating wouldnʻt be so bad if it werenʻt for the giggling. The run-on chortles were pretty good indications that this wasnʻt the good-ole buddy that Iʻd come to know and love. Ok, for starters…he was throwing off some major heat. He already opted to dine sans clothing. Oh, Andrew and I tried to get him to wear a few threads. We sort of succeeded with his agreeing to put on an oversized pair of board shorts, but he made it quite clear, “IʻM TOO FUCKIN HOT!”

So there we sat. Robi was drinking quarts of water straight from the pitcher and palming handfuls of pancake in a steady bear-in-yer-guts fashion. The small plate of butter pats in front of him was shaking slightly from the heat. The individually wrapped pats were swelling and sanpping like little party poppers. Butter was splattering everything – us included – in a seven-foot radius. I gave up on my omelet after his first three bites. Andrewʻs head bobbed between his barely-picked-at french toast and keeping a sharp analytical eye on his partner. Trouble was brewing. I’m just glad I got Jesse safely back to the house resting with a re-souled Dakota snuggling at his side. Andrew put a protective seal on the place even Merlin would have struggled with. Besides, the team of Covenant operatives swarming around our street would keep all attention to a minimum. But Robi?
Andrew and I agreed that whatever occupied Robi in the Veneer was powerful enough to not only heal his physical form, but smart enough to leave some kind of connection in tact. What we refused to admit was the harsh possibility that the Robi that sat across from us in a batter-storm of pancake was not Robi at all. There was a strong and frightening possibility that the Robi at that iHop table was a new entity formed of whatever was left behind of our friend. I was certain of it, but chose to keep my mouth shut until Andrew was ready to talk about it. I mean, for him…this was going to be a monumental decision. To live with this new version of his lover and life partner, or slay him. Either way, I would stand by his decision. Not that either choice would be a walk in the park.

I looked an Andrew as Robi killed off his sixth plate of cakes. The syrup dripped off his mouth like it does when a vampireʻs making a mess.

“Hey! Why you guys not sverisczik frkūm?! Come on! EAT SOMETHING! (gulp) I LIKE MY MEN CHUBBY!!”

He babbled something about fornication, then his rambling switched to something more akin to ranting drunken elvish. I nudged Andrew under the table.

“So. Robi. You still hungry?”

“UMTH!”

His grunt was pretty affirmative. He wanted plate number seven.

“WAITRESTH! PANCKSTHVENTH NOW PWEEZE!!!”

I could see the poor girl hiding behind a pillar by the kitchen door. She’d been crying for the last twenty minutes. The other waitresses offered her no support, going about their own business. And then…the security guards.

A gaggle of three local boys in white shirts and tactical belts stood outside the mall entrance to the restaurant. From their body language I could tell they were at a loss for ideas. How do you approach a half-naked, syrup-covered, gluttonous lunatic with a demon complex?  Andrew spotted them too. I could tell he was a little worried about all the attention.

“Robi. Why donʻt you let me order you a few dozen pancakes to go? Brettʻs worried about Jesse and we should head home.”

“NO!”

Oh shit.

“Yeah. Hey, Robi…letʻs get the hell outta here. Besides, I got a six of cold ones in the fridge. What better to wash down all those carbs?”

“NO!!!!”

The foil on the butter pats was starting to melt and the plastic water pitcher was collapsing into slag. It was getting hot in there. Andrew got up and stood next to Robi.

“Come on, babe. I want to leave. Now.”

Robi abruptly stopped shoveling and spat an obscene wad of mashed pancake phlegm onto the floor. The guards started puffing up and swaggered over to our table.

“Excuse me. You folks are gonna have to leave.”

Andrew moved to intervene before they got to our table.

“We were just leav…”

Robi stood up and moved with wicked speed in front of his partner.

“Actually occifers…I was thinking of ordering another plate of pancakes. ITʻS ALL-YOU-CAN-EAT TODAY YOU KNOW!?!”

His board shorts were sticking out in front, betraying an obvious erection. Oh damn. That was usually a sign of trouble. The lead guard – an Asian boy in his early twenties stepped up to Robi.

“Sir. You need to leave, now.”

Robiʻs hand was on the guardʻs throat in nanosecond. I heard a snap as the guardʻs head fell back at an ugly angle. His body dropped to the ground like a badly made rag doll. One of the other guards pissed himself as his partner started run. Robi stared down the frightened young man as he moved in closely. He was Polynesian with dark brown skin, but the blood poured drained from his face as Robi whispered something into his ear. Robi smiled and coked ihs head to the side as the poor kid started to cry.

Andrew was chanting something under his breath. I scanned the mall around the entrance expecting to see reinforcements. I could hear sirens out in the parking lot, so I knew I had to take control of the situation; Ryan Robidart was out for trouble.

The boy started walking away as Robi started laughing. As he reached the corner by the escalator, he smacked the fire alarm with his tonfa stick. The alarms screamed in a high-pitched wail as the sprinkler system kicked in. The spray of water rained down on the crowds of people running toward the exits. But the water was behaving badly and Iʻm sure Robi had a lot to do with it. He had to. Because everyone knows that water is not supposed to burst into flames.

My Secret Place

I’m gonna take you to my special place.
It’s a place that you, like no one else I know might appreciate.
I don’t go there with anyone but you’re a special case for my special place.

Joni spoke to me one night. I was waiting on the whim of the cool and slick when I was feeling the fool and sick. But I just had to get out and speak the words of magic and we would giggle and scream and eat cheese and mustard. And we had fish and shared a car and bills were little monsters that we kicked to the curb with a crack and a crunch. Ice was for sliding on, whether in your van or your sneakers. Axes were hard to come by, but chef’s knives were not. We played in dungeons and on starships with frisbees of blood and plus-five swords of bill collector slaying. The Renaissance was on the other side of the lake and Little John had KY in his tent. Saint Anthony had no head and Jesus was dead ’til we stuck him in the little ceramic cradle right before the parties began. California was easy when you got the wheel in your hand. You just whistle when you get home so ya know it’s not a ghost – or a cat under the tub. Pack the Christmas tree with wrapped soul tickles regardless of who owes who. It matters not. Fuck my twat. Course and abrasive and nasty and funny and irreverent and unholy and sweet and loving and true and honest and never, never, never, NEVER is your pain worse than mine. Hear me?! HEAR ME?!?

He does. And he knows just how much space he takes up in my heart. He knows that nothing will ever change. A little distance. A little space. A little this and that and grey hair and bigger bellies and time and people and hay rides that just aren’t the same anymore. I will still be standing on that rock hammer jacking a hole big enough for a sword or a show or the only Merlin or maybe – just maybe…these memories. Oh there are so many more. But you know what I mean. Whistle. Whistle. Whistle.

That’s not Barnabas.

I miss you, boy.

Sticken with the Gout

So…I got the blood test back and the doctor uttered a mouthful of words I didn’t want to hear. “You have gout and a positive reading for rheumatoid arthritis. Ok. So, what does that mean? Old men get gout. Rich old men like Thurston Howell on “Gilligan’s Island” and Ebenezer Scrooge. I’m not a kid anymore, but I’m not THAT old! Right? Ok, let’s look at the positive. I’m on good meds with a good doctor. I have a cool cane, giving me more the gate of TV’s Dr. House than any old storybook codger. And we caught it early. With dietary change, medication and exercise I can kick (oops) or rather, gently nudge this disease. But what about the arthritis? I say, bring it on! I can take it. I’ve almost died twice and have been through more pain than most guys my age. Like Nietzsche said, “That which doesn’t kill me…” Well, you get the idea.

Good-bye shellfish, liver and turkey. Hello yummy pineapple, coffee and tofu! Veggies, veggies, fruit fruit fruit….

Dear Facebook

Our relationship has proven difficult at times. You’re self-centered and insensitive. You are inconsiderate of my privacy and always prattling on about the minutia in other peoples’ lives. I need my space. I need some peace and you’re not ready to listen to my feelings. When you’re near me, I feel agitated and overwhelmed. And above all…you just don’t care, FB. Your pokes, your “like” this and “like” that…all your friends. It means nothing, does it? Good-bye, FB. We had some fun…

Singularity – by Brett Botbyl

SCENE 1

FOUCETTE

(As lights come up from black) Mission log. Backward encryption grade Alpha six. Authorization AF2900 – G. Space Station Praemos. Alann Foucette – Command Marshal. Day 17 (beat) I, think.

I’m not sure how much longer I can hold on. I feel so sick. My crew? They’re all… The station is quiet. Too quiet. Too fucking…quiet.

(long pause)

I was trapped inside the Singularity Chamber when a catastrophic grid breach triggered a lock down. The shielding of the S3 cell is too dense for the radiation to penetrate. Great little safety feature.

(bitter chuckle)

Seasons

Aloha all…

This is a posting an online acquaintance made on his blog this past Thanksgiving. It moved me more than anything I’ve ever read in all the social network kind of sites combined. Simple truths, my friends…

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Thursday, November 26, 2009

A Different Kind of Thanksgiving

This is not the pilgrims and the Indians, this is not the large family surrounding the table filled with freshly baked turkey and gravy. Today is just me and mom…and dad….sort of.

Dad is dying. There really is no way around this. He is confined to a hospital bed in the front room and is barely responding. Mom and I have adjusted his position to keep him comfortable. He opens his eyes, but can’t speak. He is a frail, wilted skeleton of the man that was my father. We were never close as I was growing up. Over the years, he has mellowed and I’ve come to appreciate his love for me. Now, though, there is really nothing left. My dad has always had a dry sense of humor, but I could always make him laugh. Try as I may, he isn’t laughing anymore, or even smiling. His chest rattles as his lungs fill with fluid….again. Mom and I have spent the day talking about what we’re gonna do….after. We’ve got to get a funeral home here, and then we’ll need to get dad’s ashes home (his real home, Cape Cod) for a scattering at sea. There will be a memorial service at some point there and probably one here in FL as well. So much to do, and he’s not even dead yet.

Star Trek 001 – Klingons on Ice

“You’re late.”

Martin looked up at the Klingon towering a half-meter above him. Shaktaar stood next to a noticeably trembling Ensign. Martin nodded at the other officer.

“Your partner on this exercise, Ensign Tarluk beat you here by about forty-five seconds. So much for Klingon punctuality. Unfortunate.”

“Apologies, sir.” Shaktaar handed the lieutenant his PADD.

“But you’re only half-Klingon, isn’t that right?” Martin smiled as he noticed the brown stain on Ensign Shaktaar’s uniform. “You finished almost all of your coffee, Ensign?”  Martin grinned.

“Aye, sir”,  Shaktaar grunted with a mixture of embarrassment and anger.

“Don’t worry about it, Ensign. You’ll need something a little warmer when you get in there.” The lieutenant gestured slightly toward the holodeck doors. “Shall we?”  Lieutenant Martin approached the holodeck console. “Computer. Holodeck training simulation Zeta Five-001.2.”

The two large Ensigns stood at attention while Martin briefed them on the particulars of the simulation. Two technicians moved to meet them with a cart stacked with heavy parkas, boots and equipment. After assessing the supplies, both men dressed for cold weather and hastily equipped themselves.

Star Trek 001: On Deck

With the hiss of the Admiral’s closing door, Shaktaar made a mental notch on the back wall of his brain.  “One down…”.  He walked briskly to the turbo lift which would send him toward Holodeck 7.

As Shaktaar rounded the corner just before the lift his nose caught the inviting aroma of freshly brewed coffee. His Klingon ancestors were kind enough to include a keen sense of smell in his genetic package.  Against the wall, near the restroom doors, waited an old fashioned, non-replicator refreshment cart – the kind afforded by high ranking
officers and civilians with far too much disposable income. He stared at the chronometer near the lift, then quickly back at the unattended cart.  With barely a second’s debate, the half-Klingon invaded the cart.

“Real coffee. I can’t pass this up.”

Shaktaar waited for the lift with his back against the wall, watching the restroom door with a trace of anxiety. He smiled, swirling the last luscious gulp of Terran Java in the Starfleet-branded cup. As the lift opened, he raised the still-swirling brew to his lips, and…..

“DAMN!” A rogue drop of coffee jumped the brim of the cup and crash-landed about 7.5 centimeters from his Starfleet comm-badge.  “No!” Shaktaar spun and regarded the chronometer. He’d already lagged far too long. He was sure the Admiral’s office alerted Holodeck 7. Lieutenant Martin was sure to notice the time lag.

Star Trek 001: Reporting for Training

SD: 90530.0830

Shaktaar was ushered out of the reception area and into a large, fairly impressive office dominated by a massive antique desk. Seated behind it was a stern red-haired woman in full dress uniform.  She smiled slightly as Shaktaar entered and stood at full attention.

“Ensign Shaktaar reporting for duty, sir!”

Vice Admiral McGeehon nodded, accepting the PADD the young Klingon officer handed her. This was the second Klingon to pass through her office that day.  “At ease,” she instructed. She scanned over the small screen as the details of the Ensign’s record scrolled past.

“I am not surprised ensign, that the bulk of your training prepares you for tactical and security duty. You must make your father proud.”

Shaktaar subtly bit into his lower lip. “Yes, sir. I…would imagine.”

The Vice Admiral betrayed a slight grin. “Though I am disappointed by your disciplinary record. I trust we’ve seen the end of your…wilder days.”

Shaktaar bit harder into his lip – the taste of blood beginning to flow into his mouth. “Yes, sir.”

McGeehon nodded and handed the PADD back to Shaktaar. “Well, Ensign, everything looks to be in order. I’m going to assign you to Holodeck 7.  Lieutenant Martin will be your instructor.  Report to him right away. Any questions?”

Shaktaar nodded. “None, sir.”

“Very well. Dismissed.”

The ensign turned sharply and exited.