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Ducky had survived a lot of shit jobs when the street didn’t provide, but this seasonal work was going to finally whack him out. He’d endured fifty years of bloody mob wars, restaurant massacres and even a prosecutor with a raging hard-on, but never had the old wiseguy faced the shit waiting for him at the Philadelphia Macys in December. He wouldn’t have taken the job if he’d realized the horror, but he had no choice now. So he sighed, took a Leuprolide with a half-a-glass of Puni to wrench shut his leaky pipes then put on the ridiculous disguise. The damn thing reeked of wet dog and pot, but he suffered the indignity, checked the sack to ensure easy access, then made the sign of the cross before exiting his dressing room into a plastic crap winter wonderland.
A wall of holiday lights blinded him, and he tripped over the clunky boots, nearly crashing into the faux Victorian cottages of the Dickens Village. Spoiled kids howled. The entitled adults bickered. And the cranky seasonal staff who worked twenty-hour days for chicken shit tried to prevent a riot—everyone just going through the motions year after year even though it made them miserable. “Dead Santa walking,” one of the seasonals yelled then guided him over to his throne on the bright red stage. The first little shit jumped on Santa’s lap hard enough to break a hip, and the seasonal stiffs ushered the parents in front of a cardboard candy forest where they’d try to upsell them a family photo for sixty bucks. A concealed monitor built into the podium of a train set displayed the kid’s registration information—an address in Chestnut Hill. He shook his head. Townhouses there went for ten million easy. “You’re not from the North Pole.” “I’m from South Street, you little . . .” Ducky muttered and scratched the rash from the scraggily beard glued to his fucking rosy cheeks. “And what is your holiday wish?” he read off the monitor. “New water skis cause we’re spending Christmas at our house in Key West. You’re probably spending it in jail being someone’s old bitch.” “How egg-noggy exciting!” he recited, keeping his cool, then adlibbed. “Going to be there for winter vacation?” “For a whole month, even longer than that loser Billy Watson’s family.” “A whole month! San-tacular! Does daddy press numbers by the door when you go away? Santa needs to know these things so he can deliver presents and crap.” “What’s in the sack?” “Your ass if you touch it,” Ducky said, pulling the sack close. At noon, they stopped for lunch, and Ducky comforted himself with another Gino’s cheese steak—sorely missed in Florida—and considered quitting. He’d been counting on this holiday insanity—people going through the motions and reenacting banal childhood traditions that never made them happy—but he didn’t think he could handle it for another three weeks. After twenty years of failing his own family, he’d given up trying to celebrate, and since retiring from the life, he sailed every Christmas day on his Bertram 31, fishing for tuna and sipping from a jug of eggnog and rum. You had to make this shit your own. Another miserable crowd waited, and Ducky was about to rip off his beard when, after five days of playing Santa, he spotted Joey Domino Jr. with his son, Little Luke, at the back of the line. Junior was still going through the motions, following the same tradition his father, Joey Sr., had done with him every year back in the eighties. Ducky’s hunch had paid off. This shit was ingrained, and you passed the damage onto the next generation. Joey Jr. had probably made it part of his deal with the feds that they let him out of whatever shithole hick town where they stashed him before trial so he could enact this fond family tradition. And there they were: he made two U.S. Marshals with the telling bulges under their arms over at the toy department counter. Ducky took the next kid and the next and the next, playing the role with new enthusiasm. All the while, the toy train kept spinning ‘round and ‘round, never arriving anywhere. “Santa and his elves have been working really hard making toys and shit and candy canes for you little jerks . . .” Finally, Little Luke sat on his lap while Luke's clueless father stood in front of the candy forest. No one ever suspected Santa Claus. “And what is your Christmas wish?” “For my dad to drop dead so he’ll stop making me do this shit.” Ducky cracked up and pissed his suit a little—damn prostate. “I’m almost ten here. Fucking embarrassing.” “Santa loves granting wishes,” Ducky said, then he slid the kid off his lap, grabbed the .38 from his red velvet sack and put a bullet through Joey Jr.’s throat. The capo grabbed at his neck, fumbling at the gushing blood then collapsed into a gumdrop tree just as the Dance of the Sugarplum Fairies reached its last crescendo. Parents screamed. Staff fled. And Little Luke laughed at his dad’s body then grabbed his wallet and ran to the toy department. What a great kid, Ducky thought, then ran out through a staff door before the marshals could get through the crowd. He descended the private stairs and left through the staff entrance—an entrance that lacked any metal detectors—and shed his costume, dropping it onto Market Street in front of the Christmas tree rising in front of City Hall. PPD cruisers pulled up to Macys, but he danced down the cement stairs to the MFL to catch the subway to the airport, whistling the Nutcracker all the way to the platform. “Happy holidays!” he wished a rotund Septa technician with a limp coming off the train. “Make this holiday shit your own!” Ducky had to do this again next year. About the author: T. Fox Dunham lives in Lancaster, Pennsylvania with his wife, Allison. He’s a cancer survivor, disabled author, modern bard, herbalist, baker and historian. His first book, The Street Martyr in production by Throughline Films. He’s a well-published crime, horror and Sci-fi author and an active member of the Horror Writers Association. Fox is proud to have also contributed to official Stargate canon with a story published in the Stargate Anthology Points of Origin from Fandemonium Books, telling the last story of the Asgard. More information at tfoxdunham.com.
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I tipped the glass and downed the last swallow. Ice brushed my lips. A splash of bourbon laced with cherry hit the back of my throat like hot oil. The floral tang of the bitters lingered.
I caught the bartender's eye and clinked my wedding ring on the rim of the lowball. "Another." He nodded. The bar was a shithole steeped in backwoods charm. The lights were dimmed, and sawdust spattered the floor like buckshot. The jukebox blasted new country. The smell of fried beer-batter permeated the air. Off in the corner, behind me, sat a cowboy with arms like legs. He wore a Stetson. Seriously. A Stetson. He was arguing with a hot blonde. Either his wife or a girlfriend, I couldn’t tell which. What I could tell was that she needed help. The purple scar under her left eye, caked in makeup, screamed abuse. I had ached for a drink, so I stopped. Dalton’s Place. I should’ve filled up the tank and kept driving. The last thing I needed was trouble. Or to play the hero. Even over the din of the music, their words filtered through to me. “Let go,” said Hot Blonde, pulling her arm away. “I thought you liked it rough,” said Stetson. Her eyes narrowed. She stood to leave. He pulled her back without much effort. “You’re such an ass,” she said. “One more drink.” “I wanna go!” I shook my head and turned back towards the bar. “Enjoying the show?” asked the bartender. He placed my fresh drink in front of me. I pulled the brim of my ball-cap down. “Are they a regular attraction?” “Unfortunately.” “What’s their story?” “Locals. Married. They go at it all the time.” “She’s taking a beating.” He nodded. “And then some.” “You should report it.” He laughed. “Welcome to Freemont. Our little slice of Texas heaven.” And with that, he made his way to the end of the bar. The place was crowded. Several couples line-danced by the jukebox. A group of old-timers played darts. Two oversized flatscreens aired a rodeo competition. Apparently, there wasn’t much to do on a Friday night except drink. And maybe cause mischief. I took a swig of the old fashioned and contemplated the latter. I glanced over my shoulder again. Stetson and Hot Blonde were headed for the exit. He held her arm like a vise as he navigated her out the door. I slammed back my drink, dropped a twenty on the bar and followed them. In the parking lot, my rusted Mustang was an island in a sea of Ford F150s. It looked like a dealership. I spotted Stetson forcing Hot Blonde into his vehicle as I slid into mine. Twenty minutes later, I sat parked less than a hundred feet from their driveway. I doused the lights and shut off the engine. After a few moments, the place lit up like a kid’s fun house, their silhouettes darting back and forth across the shades. No doubt, they were at it again. Apparently, they never stopped. I opened the glove box and pulled out the Glock. I’d run into domestic violence before. Too often. First with my parents, then during my ten years on the force in New Hampshire. Live Free or Die, right? The truth was that people were shit. A disappointment. Violence and betrayal were their default modes. At some point, you had to stop the pattern of abuse—or you’d wind up dead. At some point, you had to say, “I won’t be a victim anymore.” By the time I reached their doublewide, a hard drizzle had started. I jimmied the back door and slipped into the kitchen. In the living room, Hot Blonde lay knocked out on a loveseat, her chest heaving with each breath. Crimson trickled from her nose. From the sound of it, Stetson was down the hall. I found him singing on the shitter. I kicked in the door. He was a beast. Six foot four and over two hundred pounds of naked flesh. But size didn’t matter. It didn’t even come into play. Hell, he was still seated when five bullets ripped through his chest. His body plastered itself against the upright of the tank. He’d never hurt anyone again. Numb with violence, I blew out of there fast. But not before I tossed the place and emptied their wallets. I also took some cheap jewelry off the dresser and the Mossberg shotgun I found stashed under their bed. With Hot Blonde out cold, and Stetson out for good, the scene depicted a home invasion gone bad. Hopefully, the local police agreed. If not, I’d done all I could to set things right. Who knows? Maybe Hot Blonde would have a promising future after all. Maybe she’d even get married again. Be happy. Who was I kidding? Hope was for dreamers and the innocent. Not the lost and the fallen. Three hours from Freemont, my cell phone buzzed. A text. I slowed the car and pulled off the highway to read it. Click link below. I did. A headline from the Concord Herald popped open. A follow-up to one from two weeks prior: Manhunt for Jilted Police Officer Continues: Prime Suspect in Murders of Wife & Lover I closed the link and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. I’d have to ditch it and the guns before crossing into Mexico. I rubbed my cheek with the back of my hand. The scruff was thick as thatch. Soon, I’d be unrecognizable. I turned up the radio. Johnny Cash crooned “Down in the Valley.” A ballad in three-quarter time. My finger tapped out the beat on the edge of the steering wheel. His soulful voice burrowed deep into my shattered heart. In a few more hours, it would be sun-up. A new day. I pulled onto the dark, lonely road and headed for the horizon. About the author: James Patrick Focarile resides in the Northwest. He holds an undergraduate degree from Rutgers University and an M.F.A. from Brooklyn College. His literary work has appeared in the following: Mystery Tribune, Shotgun Honey, Close To The Bone, Kings River Life, Pulp Modern Flash and more. |
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