​"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.  

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.