This story was first first published in The Review on Dec. 26, 2007. Artwork by B. Terry Hatcher.
“There’s a world outside your window and it’s a world of dread and fear. Where the only water flowing is the bitter sting of tears and the Christmas bells that ring there are the clanging chimes of doom…”
-Band Aid, “Do they know it’s Christmas?”
It was just before the impact that broke his nose; Jake realized Christmas was more of a hassle than a holiday. For Jake, it was a simple get in-wait in an incredibly long and winding line-get out maneuver that everyone experiences when shopping at the last minute.
Jake had not counted on fisticuffs with an apparently desperate housefrau and her bowling ball bag.
“Gahwah!” was the only thing Jake could say at impact.
This year’s popular craze was these life-like dolls called Wannabes. They were the absolute rage. These dolls were highly detailed (in every respect) and only available in limited editions. Also, every doll wore a piece of jewelry with the same red-green crystal. The leadership of the great upscale collectable maker, Lennox, was stumped as to how something so meticulously made could be so affordable for the holiday.
Jake was only home from University for a few weeks and this is how had he had ended up within a few short hours of coming home. Like a whirlwind, Jake had dropped his stuff off, briefly spoke with his family and then was of into the early evening to, at that time metaphorically, battle against the tide of last minute holiday shoppers. Jake blinked, then looked down at himself. Blood had started to dribble from his swollen nose.
“Here, my dear boy, I think you are in need of this,” said a man.
He was holding out a white handkerchief to him. There was something in the man’s kindly expression that made Jake accept the offering.
“I saw the whole thing,” the man continued as Jake worked to staunch the bleeding, “I say, you look like a hacked up Marty McFly, what a tragedy.”
Jake felt a little dizzy. The man reached out to steady him.
“Hold on, let’s get you looked at,” said the man.
The man drove Jake to the emergency room at Roxborough Memorial Hospital. There ws not much in the way of conversation in the man’s car, unless one counted the repeated orders of “Keep your head tilted!” “Keep the pressure on!” and “Don’t worry about bleeding on my car seat!”
The man kept silent while waiting at the hospital. His face would return to a brooding expression after looking around the ER waiting room. There were a number of cases that evening. The man looked up when the nurse called Jake’s name. He followed along with the nurse having a few words. The two conspired like old friends; the nurse looked over a Jake and chuckled.
“Oh my, that injury won’t be hidden by any amount of make-up,” said the nurse, looking at Jake’s swollen proboscis. “This way, sir. Everything has been taken care of by your gentleman friend.”
Jake turned as the mysterious Samaritan was making his way out of the hospital.
“Who are you,” asked Jake, slightly dizzy.
“Oh, dig deep enough and you’ll find out,” said the man. “Until tomorrow, then.”
The man left twirling his walking stick. Jake reach into his pocket for his cell phone and felt an object that wasn’t there earlier. It was a business card that read:
Roxborough-Manayunk Guardian-Sentinel, Sebastian Collins, editor and business address a few blocks from the hospital.
Jake walked out into the early evening. Since it was after business hours, there was no use in going to the office listed on the card and Jake was not ready to go home. He did the only thing a college senior could do: he went to a bar.
The next morning, Jake’s head, naturally, throbbed mercilessly.
“At least, it’s my head and not my nose,” muttered Jake to himself.
At that moment, Jake’s nasal region decided to join the pain in his head, necessitating the need for Jake to pop a few aspirin before facing his folks.
Through the haze, Jake remembered the sympathy shots that the cute bartender poured for him last night. Jake received a shot every time he came up with an original reason his nose was busted. As a journalism major and staff writer at his college newspaper, he was pretty adept at tall tales. The reasons, of course, got more outrageous as the night wore on.
“My heaven’s, what happened to you last night,” gasped Jake’s mom.
“Santa Claus winged me in his sleigh,” said Jake.
Parents are not as clueless as their children think they are. More often then not, like Jake’s mom, are just prone to jump to conclusions.
“You were in a bar fight weren’t you,” said Jake’s mom, looking at Jake’s dad. “I knew you’d get into trouble one of these days. I bet you, dear, it was one of those Dooley children causing trouble again.”
Jake’s dad looked at his son with mild amusement, thinking of his own wild youth.
“So what happened,” asked Jake’s dad.
Jake told his parents about the incident at the store about how a suburban mother tried to decapitate him in the traditional Christmas spirit. He, of course, left out his jaunt to his hideaway watering hole.
“I hope that woman has a very horrible holiday,” said Jake’s mom.
“So now, what I am going to get Jesse for Christmas,” said Jake. “The chances of finding a Wannabe for her now are practically nil.”
‘Slim, but not nil,” said Jake’s dad; from behind the copy of the Sentinel he was reading. “It says here that that guy who manufactures these dolls will be handing out some samples at Gorgas Park this afternoon. Could be good opportunity to grab one.”
Despite the cold and wind, people flocked en masse to the park’s stage that afternoon. Parents came with a single purpose: to appease their whining children. Children came on their day off hoping to get something for nothing. The people were six deep from the barricade around the stage. Security could barely contain the crowd. Jake knew it would be hopeless to get a doll from the company owner, Firestone Stamper. A known recluse, Stamper was about to make an unprecedented public appearance.
People cheered and threw confetti in the air when Stamper arrived on stage. Stamper was a tall, somewhat lanky fellow with long arms and legs. He wore a long red cape with white fur trimming.
Friends, parents, hungry shoppers…,” said Stamper, thrusting out his arms theatrically. On one of his fingers was a large ring with the same red-green jewel as his popular products. Stamper paused as though he had forgotten what he had to say. Then a twinkle returned to his eye.
“Merry Christmas,” shouted Stamper. The crowd went on cheering slowly rising in its hysteria.
Jake thought Stamper’s head was shaped like a guitar pick. His straight white hair was slicked back making his pointed ears more noticeable. Stamper wore no facial hair to soften his sharpish chin.
“Thanks to all your efforts in making ‘Wannabes’ the number one item to buy this holiday,” Stamper said, then smiled very widely.
Jake also noted that Stamper’s eyes were narrow and shifty and his smile seemed to be too large for his face. His theatrics seemed over-rehearsed.
“How very seasonal of Mr. Stamper’s choice of attire,” said a familiar voice behind Jake.
“Yes, like Father Christmas’ lesser known brother,” said Jake to Mr. Sebastian Collins of The Tribune. “Thank you for what you did for me last night, sir.”
Collins looked mildly surprised at the show of appreciation. Behind them, Stamper went on with his platitudes.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Collins. “After being a pillar of the community so long, people owe me a favor or 20. I don’t think you would be a fan of these currently popular items - you must be here to get one for someone special, I gather.”
“Yes, one for my sister, don’t know what else to get her, sir” said Jake.
“How about Jewelry? In my experience, women are often fond of jewelry,” said Collins.
Jake pulled out the pockets of his jeans in the almost-universal sign of lacking funds. Collins sniffed and wrinkled his nose. He looked very much like Sir Winston Churchill’s bewhiskered cousin. Collins wore an open long black topcoat; beneath his coat was a black, pinstripe suit. On his head, Collins wore a black homburg. In his gloved hand, Collins was holding a monopod on top of which sat a small digital camera.
“And I see, sir, you are here on assignment,” said Jake.
“Very astute of you, yes, it isn’t often I cover something of this magnitude. I often assign it to some younger, starry-eyed cub; give them a thrill; but there is something about this Mr. Firestone Stamper, something I don’t like” said Collins. “And stop calling me, sir. I am not knighted as far as I know. Call me Mr. Collins or Major, no one else does.”
“Major?” asked Jake.
“You’re right,” Collins said, and then sniffed. “Too old-fashioned, Mr. Collins will be fine.”
While Jake and Collins talked, Stamper’s speech was approaching a fever pitch. He had engrossed the crowd with facts and figures. He extolled the meaning of Christmas and the importance of gift giving. All the while, the people grew wilder waiting for their prize.
“And everyone here will get a free Wannabe on me,” said Stamper.
Stamper did not even attempt to hush the crowd as it exploded in enthusiasm. Jake noticed Collins was uneasy as he took photographs. Collins kept looking around him as if searching of someone or, Jake thought, being followed. Jake looked around and noticed the crowd had grown quite large since he arrived. An aide handed a stack of cards to Stamper.
“A holder of one of these cards is guaranteed a Wannabe doll,” said Stamper. “And there is one for everyone.”
“Time to leave,” said Collins, grabbing Jake by his arm.
“What? I need one of those cards,” said Jake.
“The price you pay of one of those will be worse than that,” said Collins, pointing at Jake’s nose. Collins was already using his monopod to prod people out of his way. Collins had already barked a few shins already. Jake was taken a few steps away when he looked back and saw why he had to move.
“Merry Christmas to all and to all a good NIGHT,” Stamper shouted as he threw the cards into the air to drift over the crowd.
“Run,” shouted Collins.
It would be a long day before Collins let his readers forget about the Gorgas Park Gift Riots. Peace on Earth and Goodwill toward men were distinctly lacking in moments when Jake followed closely behind Collins.
“This way,” Collins shouted over the chaos. They headed toward the road where a number of limousines were parked. When they got away from the seething crowd, Collins headed toward the car to which Stamper was headed. Before they could get to Stamper, a tall, beefy gentleman stood in their path.
“Hello, Sebastian Collins, Guardian-Sentinel, the local paper. We’d like a quick word with Mr. Stamper,” said Collins.
“No one sees Mr. Stamper,” said the imposing man.
“Why not?” Jake protested.
“Mr. Stamper only sees who he wants to see,” said the security man.
Jake looked over at Collins who was snapping away with his camera as if he had permission. The Security man turned at least four shades of red so far that Jake counted. The man threw Collins down like a rag doll. Taking the camera on the monopod, the security man smashed the camera on the nearest tree making sure the memory card was unusable. Collins seated on the ground looked up at the man.
“The next time won’t be so easy,” Collins said to the security man.
The man smirked and stalked toward Stamper who smiled politely as his security man returned to him. Collins stood up and dusted himself off.
“How can he do that?” asked Jake.
“Never mind that brainless thug, who is that with Stamper,” said Collins, pointing toward the limos.
Next to Stamper was a man shabbily dressed in old army surplus, longish ragged hair poking from beneath a maroon wooly cap, olive drab overcoat, frayed gloves. Jake briefly saw the man’s bearded and unwashed face. Jake and Collins watched as Stamper helped the man into the waiting limo.
“That’s Joey Cziznec,” said Jake.
“Know him?” asked Collins.
“We went to school together as kids,” said Jake. “He hasn’t been the same since coming home from the war. Doesn’t see many people.”
“Well, he apparently travels in strange and high circles now,” said Collins.
As the limousines pulled away, the sounds of sirens grew louder and flashing lights brighter. Jake and Collins walked along the road away from the sirens and people. People with beaten and bruised bodies holding multiple tickets ran past them. Other people, with beaten and bruised bodies, gave chase.
“How very deliberate of Stamper,” murmured Collins as he strolled along in the afternoon sun.
“Huh?” Jake grunted.
“Stamper meant for this little incident to happen,” said Collins. “I wonder why?”
“Perhaps he got carried away. From what little I’ve read and heard he doesn’t go out much,” said Jake.
“Everything he did was deliberate and I want to know why,” said Collins, forcefully.
After walking a block from the park, Collins stopped and walked up to the front door of a Victorian brownstone. It was the Guardian-Sentinel offices.
“In here,” said Collins.
“I should be getting home,” said Jake.
“Aren’t you just the least bit curious about this Stamper fellow?” asked Collins. “And why his dolls are so popular?”
Jake admitted that he was and followed as Collins unlocked the front door. They walked up to the second floor into Collins office. The Collins’ corner office was like a Victorian museum. Very steampunk, Jake thought to himself. A phonograph sat in one corner. On a wall, there was a framed sketch of Picasso’s Don Quixote. A Remington typewriter was used as a doorstop. On Collin’s massive wooden desk sat an antique tickertape machine. Collins flat screen computer monitor was a sharp contrast in technology.
“One thing I did think was strange,” Jake finally said. “For as tall as he is, Stamper cast a very small shadow.”
“I wondered when you would pick up on that,” said Collins
Collins looked intently at the computer screen for a moment before shaking his head as if suddenly remember Jake was in the same room.
“I’m sorry, can I get you something to drink,” said Collins, reaching into his desk. “Rum? Whiskey? Gin?”
“No thank you,” Jake said, remembering the night before.
“Cigar?” asked Collins, lifting door on the top of the desk and removing a dark, short cigar.
“No, thank you,” said Jake.
“Quite right, must stay healthy,” said Collins, putting the cigar into his mouth but not lighting it. “When you have lived as long as I have, you begin to believe your invincible. Now to business.”
Collins dropped a file folder on his desk. The folder was thin. Jake picked it up and looked inside. Many of the papers were architectural drawings and renderings of the Wannabe factory. According to the file, the development was built in an obscenely small amount of time. It had made potential rivals green with envy. Some competitors and development opponents were found conveniently found dead in that envious color at home. Their cases still remained unsolved. There was also a chart chronicling the number of missing persons cases. The dots indicating disappearances rippled out from the factory location.
“We must find out what Stamper’s secret is,” said Collins.
“We?” inquired Jake.
“Of course, I am only one man. I can really use your help,” said Collins. “I need someone with sharp eyes and quick reflexes to take a gander around that factory.”
“But it’s Christmas Eve,” said Jake. “I got to get back home to my folks.”
“I can compensate you for your trouble,” said Collins, leaning back in his chair. “I can take care of those pesky student loans you’ll have to pay back soon after graduation.”
“You can do that?” exclaimed Jake.
“I can do that and more,” said Collins. “It’s the privilege of being independently wealthy.”
“So what will you be doing while I am in the factory risking my neck,” asked Jake.
“Oh this and that,” said Collins, “I need to look a little harder into this Stamper’s past and besides I need to download these photos.”
Collins held in his hand a camera memory card identical to the one the security man destroyed earlier.
“I switched it before that thug destroyed by equipment,” said Collins. “Anyway, after your little investigation report to me here.”
Collins wrote on a scrape of paper and handed it to Jake. It was one of the houses on the Lyceum Boulevard. Jake used to play basketball in the lot behind the house.
Collins reached into a drawer of his desk and pulled a small, gray, metal canister with a pin on the top. A yellow band ringed its lower edge.
“Here, take this in case you need to make a quick escape,” said Collins. “Smoke grenade, one never knows when you may have to cover your tracks.”
Jake went over the file Collins gave him before having dinner with his family. On the television, there was a story about how some people may be disappointed this Christmas because of the shortage of Wannabe dolls, despite Company assurances. Another about the increase in violence attributed to obtaining Wannabes followed that news story.
A brief wind snapped Jake from his reverie. The night chill bit at Jake threw his fleece pullover. Even at his age, he was surprised how quickly night fell. He was dressed in dark clothing including an old military surplus knit cap. Jake even went so far as to blacken his face after he left his house. Jake was headed toward the Flat Rock Bridge, mindful to stick to the shadows.
According to the file, many residents complained about strange lights and noises coming from the factory. Jake looked at the Gothic-inspired structure and gave a shudder. The darkness and silence only added to the factory’s creepiness. Jake looked up as the factory spires created a black silhouette against the lightly pink overcast sky. The forecast had called for snow. It may look like a white Christmas after all, Jake thought to himself.
Jake noticed there was an extra spire in the center of the factory that was not mentioned in the file. The outer spires seem to almost bow toward this central tower.
Jake walked through the open parking lot quickly and cautiously. He was thankful that the lights were not on. Through the gloom, Jake made out that one of the loading doors was not completely closed.
“How careless of them,” Jake whispered to nobody.
Jake heard the whirring noise of an electric motor headed in his direction. Jake quickly scrambled through the open gap, rolled around and held his breath.
The noise of the motor steadily passed by Jake location and continued onward. Jake let out his breathe slowly. Jake reached into his pocket for his mini flashlight. He also felt for the grenade to boost his confidence.
All around Jake were palates piled high with boxes. As Jake slowly wandered around he noted their destinations; places like Hamburg, Oslo, Helsinki, Ottawa, Aberdeen.
Today, Philadelphia; tomorrow, the World, Jake thought to himself. Jake heard something shifting ahead of him and turned off his light. It had grown noticeably brighter in this part of the warehouse. Looking around, Jake noticed he was headed to the heart of the complex; to the spire not found on his map.
Jake saw through a gap in some palettes into the center of the warehouse; there must be the manufacturing facilities. Jake meandered his way toward the facilities. He saw what seemed to him a doublewide walk through metal detector. Thick cables were attached to its frame. These cables were attached to what Jake assumed to be some sort of power coupling. Jake noticed how the equipment looked cobbled together despite its sophistication. The focal point of the room was a large contraption that reminded Jake of some six-legged spider-like monstrosity. Almost every computer bank and piece of equipment seemed plugged into its bulbous middle. Two large crystal prongs pointed up toward the multi-mirrored inside of the central spire. At the lower end of the suspended powerhouse was another crystal; this one was focused at a gurney located on the ground.
Jake saw that someone was strapped to it.
It took Jake almost a minute to recognize Joe Cziznec. The man who he had only seen hours ago looked completely transformed. Cziznec was clean-shaven showing his square jaw that was only emphasized by flat top hair cut. Cziznec was wearing what seemed to Jake a military dress uniform consisting of a mandarin-collared blue tunic, belted at the waist and red trousers with a gold stripe down outside.
“Joey, is that you,” asked Jake.
Cziznec did not stir. Jake whispered a little louder. Cziznec fluttered his eyes them opened them. They were glazed over as if drunk. Cziznec tried to focus on Jake.
“Jake?” Cziznec asked, his voice slightly slurred. “I didn’t know you signed up for this special service.”
“What service, Joey?” said Jake.
“That’s Captain Cziznec, Sir to you, Jakey boy,” replied Cziznec with a drunken smile.
“Ok, Cap’n,” asked Jake. “How did you get to here?”
“The Stamping Man said he was from Guv’ement,” slurred Cziznec. “Said he had special job for me. Make me a man again.”
“What special job?” asked Jake
At this point, Cziznec started softly singing old military hymns to himself. Jake heard something slam some distance behind him; then footsteps headed his way.
“I’ll come back, Joey, I promise,” said Jake.
“Okay, Dokey, “ came the slurred singsong reply.
Jake dashed behind the nearest palette. From his lookout, Jake could see a tall shadow approaching the gurney where Cziznec lay. When the figure entered into the light, Jake immediately recognized Firestone Stamper. Stamper was still wearing his red, fur-line clock earlier that day. Stamper intensely looked at the veteran strapped to the gurney. Jake could also hear Stamper muttering to himself.
“Little Toy Soldier, little Toy Soldier,” Stamper seemed to sing quietly to himself, “Brave, little toy solider.”
This was not the polished orator Jake heard earlier in the park. This was the voice of someone who was clearly not normal. Soon, Cziznec was humming along with his overseer.
Stamper looked at the man in the gurney; his smile growing wider. Stamper walked over to a nearby control panel. The panel seemed set down too low to accommodate him. Stamper looked at the gurney again then started laughing. Stamper’s laugh grew slightly higher in pitch. Jake was thinking how evil the laughter sounder when Stamper did something completely unexpected; Stamper changed his body.
Before Jake’s eyes, Stamper morphed from a tall, lanky fellow with a head shaped like a guitar pick to a squat, hunched over lump with an even bigger guitar pick shaped head. The cloak that Stamper wore was now too big. Stamper removed his cloak to reveal his clothing beneath. In Jake’s eyes, Stamper now looked like some grotesquely twisted nightmare version of a Christmas elf. Stamper put on a pair of dark goggles then pressed a few controls.
Jake barely registered the sound of Cziznec’s surprise when a large flash of light enveloped him. Then Jake heard a scream suddenly cut short. When the spots faded from Jake’s eyes, Jake realized what the secret of the Wannabe dolls were.
Jake backed off from his lookout and bumped into a palette behind him. Jake stifled a yelp when something clanged on the floor.
“Whose there,” Stamper said. “I smell someone there.”
Jake tried to control his fear as he tiptoed his way to the exit. He could hear Stamper scuttle quickly toward him. Jake reached in his pocket for the smoked grenade. He pulled the pin and dropped it. Jake then ran.
As he narrowed the gap to the door, Jake heard footfalls at his heels. He looked over his shoulder and saw a elf-shaped figure then a small flash. Jake felt a hot wind at his other shoulder then a sharp sting. Jake ran toward to door and was now mildly surprised to find a large hole melted through the rippled metal. Jake jumped to the ground and into the night. As he ran across the open parking lot, Jake heard Stamper’s evil laugh peel thorough the night. It chilled him more than the cold ever could.
After sprinting a few blocks, Jake slowed down to a jog. He kept to highly lighted areas. Jake reasoned that if anyone did see him, they would take him for a late-night jogger. Motivated by fear, Jake jogged uphill without rest despite cold and cramp. Jake reached Collins’ address without further incident. Jake pulled on the chain next to the front door. Jake heard a gong sound and footsteps approached. Collins answered the door wearing a hunter green velvet smoking jacket.
“I am sorry but we’re all full of coal,” said Collins. Jake was not amused; he was exhausted and angry.
“Wannabes doll aren’t for people; they are people,” Jake said.
Collins looked at Jake. His eyes wondered to his singed shoulder. His amused expression was immediately replaced with a more business-like manner.
“Please, come in,” said Collins, motioning Jake to his home. “Let’s get you bandaged up, then tell me everything.”
Before Jake could explain himself, Collins immediately began fussing about Jake’s shoulder and showed him to a spare room. After Collins laid out clothing, a dark navy, three piece corduroy suit, then showed Jake to a grand bathroom and told him after Jake felt up to it then to meet him in the drawing room. The clothes were not an exact match to Jake’s size but would require little tailoring.
Jake waited in the drawing room. A pair of winged back chairs faced a large brick fireplace. A side table placed between them. Jake sat in one of the chairs and looked around the room. A number of portraits ringed the room. The large portrait of two people was centered above the mantle piece. Like heroes of the Victorian age, the couple together looked off into an unknown distance. The man was dressed in Scottish garb. His hair cut short and moustache neatly styled; but it was to the woman whom the eye was drawn. Her dress was more understated than her companion, but she was no less regal. Her red hair was put up. Around her neck was a diamond necklace with an emerald that complemented her eyes. Her button nose held a few dainty freckles. Her mouth upturned in the most serene smile.
Jake glanced back at the man and struggled to remember who the fellow reminded him of when Collins came into the room carrying a tray with two smoking goblets. A white cat with a red and a green eye flowed at his heels.
“The evening calls for some Smoking Bishop,” Collins’ cheery air had returned. “It comes from an old family recipe from old Charlie boy himself. I mean Dickens of course.”
Jake half-listened to Collins. His attention was drawn back to the painting. Where had he seen that man before?
“She’s was a very beautiful woman,” Collins said after he noticed Jake’s attention. “They loved each other very much.”
“How do you know,” asked Jake.
“I am something of a family historian,” Collins looked at the painting. For a split second, Jake noticed Collins looked a bit wistful. Collins looked down at the cat that returned the gaze with a sympathetic look. Collins quickly returned to joviality.
“Here, drink up,” said Collins holding out a smoking goblet. “Your health this Christmas.”
The brew smelled pleasant enough. Jake took a sip. It tasted of pure Christmas spirit; it truly was an invigorating potion.
“Now that we are sitting comfortably, let’s begin,” said Collins.
Collins sat down into the other chair and sipped at his goblet. The cat jumped up into his lap and curled up. Collins stroked its belly with his free hand; he stared into the fire. Jake began telling Collins about the extra spire on the factory. He told Collins how Stamper had physically changed. Jake described the giant suspended array and the doublewide detector. Jake finished his story with what happened to Cziznec on the gurney.
“Matter-Tissue Compression, very nasty,” muttered Collins, who continued to stare into the fire. “Definitely, not from this world. That kind of technology hasn’t been invented yet.”
The cat stared a Jake as if wanting more to his story.
“What,” said Jake.
“Nothing,” replied Collins. “You just confirmed my worst suspicions.”
The cat mewed. Collins looked at it then stroked its head.
“What? That Stamper is some creepy troll making a buck on the gullibility of the American holiday shopper,” Jake asked. Then Collins explained.
“Stamper is an elf from a parallel earth that overthrew an oppressive regime. He has made it his personal mission to exterminate populations that he feels have turned their back on the holiday. These Wannabes were just bait. Now that so many people have bought them, the crystals will start a chain reaction that will turn this planet to cinders. The focusing array must be that factory. My photos lead to the truth and you have smoked out his lair. It was quite careless of him to putt all his presents in a row.”
“Elves, revolution, extermination, parallel worlds,” Jake said. “You must be crazy.”
Collins picked up the cat and whispered in its ear. Collins put the cat down on the floor facing the fair place.
“Ok, Heidiger, time to go home,” said Collins to the cat.
Heidiger the cat looked up at Collins mewed and slowly walked toward the fireplace fading from sight.
Jake was flummoxed. He could not find words to express his thoughts.
“You took a big risk tonight, thank you,” said Collins, looking at Jake with a conserned expression. “I can’t ask you to risk your life again, it wouldn’t be fair to you or your family. So I understand if want to go home now.”
“What after what that thing…Stamper…did to Joey and all those other people,” Jake sputtered.
“I am just as angry,” said Collins, his face showing no trace of any emotion. “He started with the people least likely to be missed. But he really as bold getting those people to riot in the park and in those stores.”
“So what are we going to do,” asked Jake.
“We are going to stop him,” said Collins.
“With what?” asked Jake. “I didn’t see an armory anywhere.”
“Who needs an armory when we all have the greatest tool provided to us,” said Collins.
Jake must not have been following his thought because he needed to point to his head and say, “Our brains! Dear boy, oh do try to keep up.”
Somehow the night seemed darker when Jake and Collins stood in the parking lot of the Wannabe factory later that evening. Here I am on Christmas Eve, Jake to himself, about to fight something that should really be around on Halloween. It is a nearly Christmas Day and I barely escaped my last time here. The night air was positively biting now. Jake was thankful Collins forced him to wear a topcoat over his suit. Despite his warmth, Jake shivered when he looked at the hole in the door. It seemed to call out the pair.
“Ready, lad,” Collins said.
“As I’ll ever be,” said Jake.
“Let’s get a move on,” said Collins.
There was a change in the warehouse since Jake was there are few short hours ago. It was now empty. Where did all the boxes go? Jake wondered. Jake looked at Collins who seemed to have expected this event. With a long cigar in his mouth, Collins looked downright Churchillian now.
Between them and the six-legged monstrosity that Collins called an Ion Array, were two men; Jake recognized the lead figure as the security man they met in Gorgas Park.
“Hold this,” Collins said, handing Jake his cigar.
Collins walked toward the security man. The beefy thug held a club and was slapping his palm menacingly. Collins showed no emotion. The security man lunged at Collins raising his club. With almost supernatural speed, Collins struck his opponent at six points on his body. The security man barely registered the shock of the impact when he dropped to his knees. He let go of his club. A trickle of red dribbled from the side of his scowl. Collins walked to the man and whispered in his ear. The security man’s eyes rolled back into his head.
“Gawh,” said the security man, who then shuddered and fell face forward.
“Was that really necessary,” asked Jake.
“The only one truly innocent here is probably you,” said Collins, taking back his cigar.
“What did you say to him before he fell,” asked Jake.
“I told him, ‘See, not so easy was it?’” said Collins, who turned and stared intently at the second man.
The second security man turned and fled toward the detector gateway. But ten yards before reaching his destination; a bolt of pink lightning struck the man. The only traces of his existence were a pair of smoking shoes and shadow on the floor.
“That was totally unnecessary,” Collins said.
“It’s so hard to find loyal henchman…ahh, the knight eternal and his newest pawn,” said a high, squeaky voice, which then giggled.
“I am sure the pay is good but the health benefits are lacking, Mr. Stamper,” said Collins.
On the far side of the Ion Array, the squat lump of Firestone Stamper walked out of the shadows. Stamper carried a pack on his back. The pack was connected to a rifle-like device. At the barrel tip was a large red-green crystal. Collins called these gems: Dreamstone. Collins had also joked these gems also could cause nightmares. Neither Jake nor Collins was laughing now.
“Enough,” said Stamper. “The time has come to end this world.”
“Let me guess, set the controls on automatic and make an escape through your dimensional gate,” said Collins. “How cliché.”
“So is this the point where we make speeches then you fail to stop me,” said the elf-Stamper.
“No speeches, I stopped making those when I retired from all politics. Let’s fast forward to just the action,” said Collins. “Jake, find cover.”
Jake jogged behind a computer bank. From his pocket, Collins pulled out a handled mirror. He’s going to get himself killed thought Jake. Stamper fired his Dreamstone disintegrator. Collins swung his mirror toward the bolt, which was redirected to a far sidewall. Jake was watching the most surreal tennis game of his life…and on Christmas Eve.
“I’ve been getting a little rusty since I won the Championship at Wimbledon,” said Collins.
Stamper fired again. Collins redirected the bolt to computer bank which then exploded.
“Fifteen, love,” said Collins. Stamper made a noise of aggravation and fired again. This bolt hit and melted one of the legs holding the array. The structure made a metallic scraping-groaning sound.
“Thirty, love,” said Collins.
Stamper fired again. His returned bolt landed beside him knocking him down.
“Double Match point,” Collins said.
“Shut up,” shrieked Stamper, who aimed high and fired again.
This bolt must have caught on the piece of handle. Collins let go, clutching one hand with his other. The mirror arced high then shattered as it hit the ground. Stamper scuttled toward a control panel and pressed a few buttons.
“That was fun but playtime is over,” said Stamper. ‘A few minutes and zap, all gone and speaking of zap”
Stamper set some controls on his disintegrator. He pointed his weapon at Collins who had crouched down, holding his burnt hand. Collins looked up at Stamper in anguish then he smiled. Stamper pulled the firing stud. In the blink of an eye, Collins took off his hat and opened it out to Stamper like a baseball catcher. The massive bolt of energy bounced backed directly at Stamper. Stamper tried the turn away from the bolt. A massive pink charge hit his backpack. Stamper was soon inside a ball of pink lightning. Stamper screamed and like burned celluloid melted from the inside out. The backpack exploded taking out the control panel.
Jake ran out to Collins who was lying on the floor. His mirrored hat smoldered nearby. When Jake reached him the man was convulsing. Collins turned toward Jake; he had been crying.
“What a waste of talent,” said Collins.
After quickly gathering himself together, Collins took stock of the damage. He had discarded his hat. The Ion array had started to make a pulsing noise. Jake saw the two crystals on top start to glow in their interior.
“It says here that we have 10 minutes left,” said Jake from a nearby monitor.
Jake pecked at a few keys. There was no response.
“Oh, I should think we are locked out of the system,” said Collins, said looking around. “Ah, ha”
Collins walked toward to the low panel that Stamper had used to shrink Cziznec and countless others. Collins studied it intently. The pulsing noise grew quicker and louder.
“Since we can not stop the countdown, we can misdirect the beam rendering it useless for its original purpose and extremely useful for ours,” said Collins.
“How can we do that, shoot out the legs of the array and with what our spit,” asked Jake.
“We ‘re not lock out of the Matter-Tissue Compressor functions,” said Collins.
Within minutes, Collins had the Ion Array suspended above them noticeably listing to the left. Collins explained the he was sure enough to direct the beam on the array itself causing a large enough explosion to destroy the factory and everything left in it. Jake looked at a monitor and gasped. The pulsing noise was very quick now.
“Two minutes,” shouted Jake.
“Time to leave,” said Collins, who strolled toward the exit. Jake sprinted past him and out into the night for a second time.
Behind them, the factory was glowing was pulsing pink light. When Collins thought he was safely away, he dropped to the ground face first. Jake dropped in the same fashion immediately. There was a roar of noise then a concussive force pushed him further into the ground. Jake blacked out for a brief second.
Jake blinked his eyes. He was lying on his back. He looked into the sky. It was that light shade of pink that only cities can have. It was the reflection of the city lights. It had begun to snow.
“Merry Christmas!” Jake heard Collins’ voice.
“And the horse it rode in on,” Jake mumbled, feeling sore.
“Oh, don’t be like that, Jakey boy, we have kept the world safe for the Holidays,” said Collins.
“Someone should really be told about Stamper,” said Jake. “But who would believe it.”
“It would make a great story,” said Collins. “Perhaps you should write it.”
“Well, who would accept such a unbelievable story,” said Jake.
“I am sure I could find some space,” said Collins. Jake got up and dusted himself off. The two walked in silence together. Along the way, Collins stopped in front of a old church; Jake recognized it as St. David’s Episcopal. There was singing going on inside.
“This is my stop,” said Collins, reaching into his pockets. “Here you are.”
Collins handed him a pocket watch. Jake took it. On the face was a coat of arms, Jake vaguely recognized. Jake opened it. Inside was an inscription, it read, “To James MacIntyre, for services above and beyond the call of duty. From Maj. Sebastian Collins, D.S.O.”
Jake stood flabbergasted. The coat of was of the MacIntyre clan. His mind raced on how Collins found his real name and got acquired this engraved watch so quickly.
“Keep the clothes as well and have them fitted take them here, tell Joe to put it on my account,” said Collins, handing him the card of his tailor. “Oh, I almost forgot.”
Collins pulled out a jewelry case from his pocket. He handed it to Jake. Jake opened it. It was a diamond necklace with an emerald. Jake recognized the necklace, and then recognized the man in the painting. Jake looked at Collins. Despite the warmth and energy, Jake could also see the age behind Collins’ eyes.
“For your sister,” said Collins.
“I don’t know what to say,” said Jake.
“Say Thank You,” said Collins.
“Thank you,” said Jake, a lump rising in his throat.
“You are most sincerely welcome,” said Collins. “Merry Christmas and a happy new year.”
There was a pause. Jake burned to ask the question and finally worked up the nerve.
“Who are you really, Mr. Collins,” asked Jake.
Collins considered his answered and then smiled.
“I am Guardian and Sentinel just out to keep God’s Children safe from evil,” said Collins with a wink and a smile. “And have a good time while I am at it.”
“But…” Jake protested.
“Shhh…”Collins said putting his finger to his lips. “Now go home. Remember that necklace is for your sister. Not the cute bartender you have an eye for.”
Collins turned away and walked into the Church. Jake walked home alone, tears blurring his vision.
Jake let himself in to his parents’ house. It was late. Everyone had gone to bed. Jake heard a rustling at the Christmas tree. Not everyone stayed in bed. Jake caught his little sister, Jessie, rattling her gifts to find out what they were.
“Here, open mine,” Jake whispered to her. Jake handed his sister the jewelry case; she opened it and squealed.
“It’s beautiful, Jakey” said Jessie. “I was afraid you were going to get me one of those wretched Wannabe Dolls.”
“Oh,” Jake replied.
“Katie said that Fran said that Gigi said that her brother broke hers and all these guts and stuff fell out,” said Jessie. “Gross.”
Jake giggled softly to himself. “Nope, no wannabe dolls.”
“Here, Jakey open mine for you,” said Jessie handing him a gift. Jake unwrapped the gift. It was MacIntyre tartan scarf. Jake was very happy. It was this moment that made all his pain from his bashed noise to the battle with that horrible elf worth it.
“Merry Christmas, Jessie,” said Jake.
“Merry Christmas, Jakey,” his sister replied.
The siblings could here movement upstairs. Someone was not happy.
“Jake and Jessie you better be not opening any gifts down there, you hear me,” said Jake and Jessie’s mom from the top of the stairs.
“No, mom,” said the sibling pair, who then looked at each other and said out loud to their parental unit.
“Merry Christmas!”
FIN
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