Category: Fiction Factor

“Bertha … I’m home.”

Krampus hung his chains and bells on the hook by the front door, eased off his tattered, scarlet-colored cloak – unceremoniously tossing it on the small chair by the closet – and clopped over to his plush brown recliner in the den. He plunked down with enough force to make the floor shake.

“Man,” he whined. “My hooves are killing me and my tail’s been itching all day. I’m getting a bit long in the fang for this crap.”

Bertha walked into the room with a cup of coffee in one hand and a Yoo-hoo in  the other.

“Figured you had a long day and night, so I didn’t know which one you wanted,” she said. “I’m good with either one, so you pick.”

Krampus smiled and reached for the Yoo-hoo.

“Thanks, Pookie,” he said, giving her a wink. “Nothing hits the spot like watery chocolate.”

Another Krampusnacht was in the books, which means yet another year he had to play the adversarial role in his and St. Nicholas’ “good cop/bad cop” routine.

“Man, times have changed,” he said. “I remember back in the day chasing those little ruffians through the streets with my sticks and watching them run and scream, trying to get away. Then I’d give them coal … which came in pretty handy during cold winter nights – people tend to forget that. Nowadays I just download Mariah Carey’s All I Want For Christmas to their phones and my work is mostly done. Plus, half of them don’t even know I’m Krampus – they see my tongue and think I’m Gene Simmons.

“It gets frustrating, but that’s the job, and that’s what they expect.”

The ”job” had started centuries earlier, when – each December 5 – St. Nick would treat all the “good kids” to nuts and fruits while Krampus denied bad boys and girls tasty treats and, instead, threatened them with branches.

Yet like most stories which had been told over and over throughout the ages, truth and myth had become intertwined.

In reality, Krampus and St. Nicholas were actually friends and helped each other out during the holidays. Long before St. Nick had gone global with his business and hired an all-elf workforce, Krampus assisted in building and delivering toys.

In turn, St. Nick would occasionally make appearances as Krampus when his buddy needed a day off for dental procedures.

One thing that never changed? St. Nick was always the hero and Krampus, the villain.

“Hey Bertha, do you remember back when people claimed I’d grab kids, put ‘em in a sack, and then carry ‘em off so I could eat ‘em?” he said. “Those were some sick puppies, man. I mean, I’d never eat a kid, but even if I wanted to, I have no idea how you’d cook one.”

Bertha nodded.

“You bet I remember,” she said. “What was it … the 1880s, 1890s? You got called into HR because that man in Liechtenstein said he saw you roasting a kid on a spit.”

Krampus bleated.

“What a dumbass,” he said, shaking his head. “Dude was drunk, saw me sitting by a fire cooking apples, and then jumped to one helluva conclusion. What kinda world do we live in where a half-demon, half-goat can’t just go camping in peace? I’ll never understand humanoids.”

Bertha moved closer and gave him a kiss on his left horn.

“You have a tough job, K,” she said. “It’s like being a heel wrestler. Every time you step into the ring against a babyface, people are gonna start booing. Believe me, I know.”

Now a professional wrestler working independent circuits throughout the Alps, Bertha – aka Frau Perchta (her given name) and Candy Crone (her grappling moniker) – started a consulting business shortly after she began dating Krampus. Frau Perchta’s profession involved making sure homes were kept in order and up to code during the holiday season, and all was well until one of her clients filed a police report after claiming she stole a loom and threatened to stab her.

It was all a lie, but before Bertha could get ahead of the story, she was branded a “Terrifying Christmas Witch” and forced to monitor low budget hotels from late December through early January.

“One day you’re issuing citations in the suburbs,” she would say, “and the next you’re accused of disemboweling homeowners and replacing their guts with pebbles and straw.”

Still, Krampus and Bertha had forged a happy life together, despite all the misconceptions about who they were and what they did.

He had to work less than a month out of each year, allowing him to spend plenty of time filing his teeth, trimming his hooves and eating tin cans, which was his passion.

Bertha’s wrestling duties were more extensive, but she enjoyed the work and reveled in the notoriety. Her glowing eyes and long, beaked nose intimidated opponents and referees alike, and her diving double axe handle maneuver always electrified the crowd, especially during pay-per-view events.

Still, during the festive season, both Krampus and Frau Perchta had appearances to keep up. And since it was December 6, the ol’ Bovidae Devil had one more task ahead of him.

“It’s the Feast of St. Nicholas, so I’m gonna catch a few winks and then head over to Nick’s place,” Krampus said. “I told him I’d make some deviled eggs and help him set up the badminton net. You should join me.”

Bertha patted Krampus on his knee and headed back toward the kitchen.

“Nah, I can’t,” she said. “I’ve got a match against Darlene the Destroyer tonight – it’s the main event, and I need to get to the arena early so we can rehearse. But if you think about it, bring me back a piece of cake.”

Krampus finished off the rest of his Yoo-hoo, leaned back, and belched.

“Will do, hon,” he said. “If I see anybody trying to get that last piece I’ll just threaten ‘em with All I Want For Christmas.

“I gotta be honest, though … I kinda like that song.”

The jeep rumbled and bounced as it traversed the property, churning up dust as the two passengers in the back surveyed their surroundings.

There were three zebras, what appeared to be a very young giraffe, and enough desert-like flora to give them the illusion they were in Africa instead of the Chihuahuan Desert of west Texas. That was the whole idea behind Briscoe’s Trophy Hunt Adventure, run by its namesake – Emery Briscoe.

“What do you boys think?” shouted Briscoe, looking back and smiling at his guests. “I guaran-damn-tee you two are gonna get your money’s worth. Guaran-damn-tee it.”

Ah, yes, money.

Trophy hunts weren’t cheap, and Briscoe’s Trophy Hunt Adventure was quite specialized. It was so specialized, in fact, that it was not just extremely expensive  for those willing to pay enough, but also extremely illegal. While “game ranches” – places where animals are held captive – had sprouted up all over the United States, this one provided some off-the-books action. But what’s a little malfeasance among the rich?

And the gentlemen on this particular trip had money to burn and were hunting for an endangered Javan rhino – one of less than 80 in the world.

Briscoe abruptly stopped the jeep after spying it just a few hundred feet away.

“I could tell you how I got that bull – that’s what they call the males – but then I’d have to kill you,” he said with a laugh. “Ain’t too many of ‘em left, so I paid a pretty penny to bring him over from Indonesia. And thanks to your generosity, you’ll be able to have a nice rhino head for your living room, and I can get something special for the next big-game hunters that come my way.

“I’ve been trying for years to get one of them Tapanuli orangutans. Be a lot easier to bring down that a rhino, I can tell you that much.”

As the three men walked closer to the rhino, it was obvious that the animal had been drugged. It was laying on the ground with its head lilting to the left.

“Now, in a normal situation,” Briscoe explained, “you wouldn’t be able to get anywhere near this close to a rhinoceros. But we made sure to … well … let’s just say we made him real calm for you. Thanks to several shots with a tranquilizer gun, we’ve done a lot of the work for you. Now which one of you wants to take the first shot? Or, I guess you can both shoot him at the same time.

“Don’t make a bit of difference to me.”

The men jumped off the jeep and swiftly moved toward the rhino. The first pulled out what appeared to be a large laser pointer and carefully traced the silhouette of the creature with it.

The second had something that looked to be more of a high-tech bazooka than an automatic rifle.

“You’ll blow him to bits with that thing,” Briscoe said. “But however you wanna get your jollies is fine by me.”

The man took aim and fired at the rhino, but instead of a bullet there was a pulse of white light that engulfed the animal.

Seconds later, it had completely disappeared.

“What the hell happened?” Briscoe asked. “What did you just do? Are ya’ll some kind of magicians, or what?”

The “shooter” looked at Briscoe with disdain.

“We teleported the Rhinocerotidae being to our home, Gliese 667Cc,” he said. “In your world we would be called conservationists. Humans like you are not only incapable of protecting these life forms, you are actively destroying them. We’re seizing them for their protection – as well as well as their salvation.

“Before the day is done, all of the animals here will be transported. In fact, most of the animals on this doomed planet will be transported.”

Briscoe’s eyes widened.

“Wait a minute … so you two are trying to tell me you’re do-gooders from outer space, huh,” he said, chuckling nervously. “At least that’s what you expect me believe. Ain’t that a kick in the head. Don’t matter to me, though. You paid up front. And long after you’re done havin’ your fun here, I’ll still be in business.

“As long as there are trophies, there’ll be people hunting for trophies. Doomed planet, my ass …”

The travelers from Gliese 667Cc looked at each other, with one drawing a circle on the ground with his laser. They stepped inside and just as had happened with the rhino, they disappeared in a flash of white light.

Briscoe climbed into his jeep, cranked it up, and headed back toward the lodge – rattled and unsure if what had just happened was real or some fever dream.

Yet, as he glanced around and peered through the dust, he noticed that all the animals in the preserve were, indeed, gone.

He couldn’t say for certain what had happened to them, but they were no longer part of Briscoe’s Trophy Hunt Adventure. Most important of all, they were safe from the extinction-level asteroid hurtling toward Earth.

Micah and Sherri sat across from the coffee table – as they always did this time of year – and peered into the bowl.

Inside it were five small, folded pieces of paper.

Sherri held a quarter.

“OK,’ she said. “You call it in the air.”

She launched the coin with her thumb, and as it fluttered end-over-end Micha shouted, “Heads!”

The quarter landed on top of Sherri’s left hand, she covered it, and then took a peek.

“Heads it is,” she said. “You get to pick.”

Micah carefully eyed the bowl, stirred the paper slightly with his right index finger, pulled out a piece, and then unfolded it.

He let out a long sigh.

“Show it to me,” Sherri said, smiling.

He handed it over and revealed the word scribbled in pen, “illness.”

Sherri shrugged.

“What’s wrong with that?” she asked. “That’s perfect, actually.”

Micah rolled his eyes.

“That’s the one we used last year,” he said. “I told my family I had food poisoning, and you told yours you had the flu. It’d be a little too convenient if we did that again.”

Sherri disagreed.

“Not at all,” she said. “It is the cold and flu season – November is always the cold and flu season. And food poisoning? It can happen any time, any place. Ever heard of gas station sushi? Really, this is the best excuse of all of them. It’s sure as heck better than the one I drew two years ago.”

It was 2021 when Sherri won the toss and picked a piece of paper with the word “car trouble.”

“We could’ve made the car trouble excuse work,” she said. “But somebody screwed that up royally, didn’t they?”

Micah grimaced.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah … I should’ve said we had car trouble in North Dakota or some place like that,” he said. “I never thought Uncle Lou would drive over and pick us up.”

“Oh, but he did,” Sherri said, wagging her finger at Micah. “And the man always smells like roasted broccoli. I used to love roasted broccoli until I got a whiff of your uncle.”

Micah chuckled.

“I think you’re being kind,” he said. “There’s the smell of roasted broccoli, and then there’s the smell of the flatulence that follows the consumption of roasted broccoli. I’m pretty sure Uncle Lou had let a few rip before he picked us up.

“The best part, though, was sitting in the corner of the kitchen and watching Aunt Eunice toss back those deviled eggs. It was gross, but in an artful kind of way.”

The couple called their annual ritual the “Introvert Society Thanksgiving Day Charade.” Knowing they would be invited to several different holiday gatherings – and knowing they were both painfully shy and got nervous in large crowds – they would draw from the “Excuse Bowl” to come up with a ruse.

They loved their families and treasured their friends, and it’s not that they wanted to lie – it’s just they’d rather lie than leave the house and dive into a sea of humanity.

They had done the paper draw for more than 10 years, and the five excuses were “illness,” “work,” “argument,” “car trouble” and “Federal Witness Protection Program.”

The last one was a joke.

Maybe.

“I can’t believe that over an entire decade we’ve never picked WITSEC,” Sherri mused. “That would be awesome. New names, new jobs … new lives in a new location. Of course, after a while we’d probably make new friends, and they’d invite us over for the holidays.

“The wheels on the bus go round and round, I suppose.”

Micah reached for his cellphone.

“So, why don’t I call my family and tell them I have the flu, and you can call yours and say you have food poisoning,” Micah said. “No, wait … maybe mix it up and say you have strep throat.”

Sheri walked over to Micah and gave him a big hug.

“I love you,” she said. “You, me, our three cats, one goldfish, in the den, eating a pizza from the freezer and watching Planes, Trains and Automobiles – just like every year. “It’s my favorite Thanksgiving tradition.”