Category: Fiction Factor

Teddy Dobrota knew all about monsters.

Every day – without fail – he’d tap his animation pod and watch Commander Chasley Carmichael round up man-eating creatures, cage them, and keep humanity safe from the forces of evil.

No matter the size or savvy of the beasts, CCC always got the best of them. Sometimes he’d subdue them with his stun gun, as he did the Martian Marsupial, and other times he’d wrestle them into submission using his own incredible strength, as was the case with the Swamp Hog.

And when he wasn’t watching CCC, Teddy was controlling him with his Commander Chasley Carmichael Interactive Hologram Game. He loved to see CCC fire up his jet pack, fly above a predator, and then drop a weighted chain net over it.

His favorite part was always opening the cage door, making CCC give a swift kick to the monster that forced it inside, then slamming the door shut.

On this particular Saturday, however, Teddy was going to see the real hero and the monsters he had subdued.

The Commander Chasley Carmichael Touring Detainment Center was finally making a stop in Harbor City, and Teddy’s father, Burt, had secured two VIP tickets to the event.

Not only would he have an opportunity to meet CCC and shake his hand, he would get to walk with him as he passed the cages holding the monsters.

“Teddy, you ready to hop on the tube and head to the show?”

Already wearing his green CCC jacket and black CCC Junior Commander’s Club arm band, Teddy didn’t have to be asked twice.

“Yessir!” he shouted. “I can’t wait!”

The transit tube trip took less than five minutes, and father and son arrived at check-in with tickets in hand. A dozen or so other kids – along with their guardians – had also secured VIP passes, and were quickly placed in the queue to enter the center.

Teddy could feel his heart racing, and he was so nervous his mouth was bone dry. As much as he enjoyed seeing CCC and the monsters in cartoon form and manipulating them when playing the game, the 10-year-old was actually about to come face to face with the real hero and some of the most dangerous life forms in the solar system.

The doors to the center opened and a robotic voice greeted the visitors.

“Welcome to the Commander Chasley Carmichael Touring Detainment Center. Each ticket holder will be allowed to ask one question. When the red light in the center of your pass starts flashing, you have 30 seconds to ask your question. Otherwise, do not speak. Do not touch the cages. Do not touch Commander Carmichael unless he extends his hand. Please enjoy your tour.”

Teddy and Burt were six rows back as the line began moving forward, and all eyes turned toward CCC, who was perched on a landing that encircled the cages.

In animated form, the hero had long, shiny red hair and his black, form-fitting uniform seemed to be molded over his muscles.

In person, CCC had close-cropped, reddish gray hair and his build was … lumpy. And instead of the booming voice associated with the animated CCC, the man himself sounded hoarse.

“I’m Captain Carmichael,” he said in a tone that clearly lacked enthusiasm. “I’ve traveled all across the globe and through the vastness of space to ensure human beings are spared the horrifying fate of a monster attack. What you’ll see is just a small sample of what I’ve done during my 30-plus year career of cleaning up scum.”

The first cage housed “Snowball,” a Yeti-like creature CCC had captured on Kepler-186f. Teddy expected to see a hulking abominable snowman with long, yellow teeth, razor-sharp claws and glowing orange eyes.

Instead, Snowball was slumped in a corner – its left hand shaking uncontrollably  and an open wound on its right shoulder. The  creature was wet, dirty and appeared to be scared.

A kid standing just to the left of Teddy held the ticket that produced the first blinking light.

“Commander Carmichael,” the young man asked, “Is Snowball sick?”

CCC gave a quick glance in the beast’s direction.

“I don’t know … maybe,” he said. “They might’ve just drugged him to keep him calm. The important thing is that it’s in there and we’re out here, so it can’t hurt us.”

As the tour continued Teddy noticed that the monsters were nothing like they appeared in the cartoons. Instead of being frightening, they merely looked frightened.

And each time a red light blinked, the question asked was answered with a flippant response:

“How many people has the Martian Marsupial killed?

“I’m not sure it killed anybody, but it won’t kill anybody now, will it?

“Do you ever feel sorry for the monsters?”

“No. Why should I?”

“What made you decide to be a monster hunter?”

“Money.”

Teddy’s light flashed just as the line had reached Swamp Hog’s cage. It wasn’t the giant boar with monstrous tusks he envisioned, but an underfed, brown pig-like animal whose teeth had been pulled.

“Commander,” Teddy asked. “Why is Swamp Hog so thin?”

CCC shrugged.

“Maybe he’s on a diet, kid,” he said, disdainfully. “Look – I just track ‘em down and bring ‘em in. I don’t really care what happens to ‘em afterward. Neither should you.”

Once the tour ended, Teddy and Burt walked quietly toward the transit tube. The child was obviously upset – never even bothering to shake CCC’s hand – and his dad figured he had gotten his feelings hurt by the Commander’s snarky response to his question.

They didn’t talk on the short ride home, and Teddy went straight to his room after they arrived.

A couple of hours passed before Burt knocked on the door – balancing a sandwich on top of a glass of water – and nudged it open.

“You need to eat something, bud,” his father said.

Teddy was playing the Commander Chasley Carmichael Interactive Hologram Game.

“I’ll eat in a minute, dad,” he said. “I’m almost finished.”

Burt looked down to see the Snowball character locking CCC in a cage – after delivering a swift kick to the Commander’s backside.

“That’s a bit of a twist, isn’t it, son?”

Teddy looked up at his father, his eyes welling with tears.

“Not really,” he said. “Monsters belong in cages, don’t they?”

Charlie Mitty walked to his pickup truck – cleats slung over his left shoulder and weighted down by a bag full of pads and equipment – opened the door, and flung the cargo onto the passenger seat.

It was a Saturday in December, and just as he had done most Saturdays since the arrival of fall, he donned a green jersey with the number 99 ironed on the front and back, and squeezed into a pair of grass-stained football pants.

He’d then load up his vehicle, pull out of the parking lot and drive away.

There was nothing particularly odd about any of that – at least not on the surface. It was still football season, and football games weren’t the sole domain of college and professional athletes.

Thing is, Charlie was well into his 60s, and most of the residents at the Serenity Valley retirement community he called home didn’t quite know what to make of him.

Oh, he was friendly enough; he smiled and waved at everyone. But he had a reputation for telling tall tales about his gridiron exploits, and that would usually put a quick end to any potentially lengthy conversations.

Ex-athletes often talked about their glory days – it’s a default setting for some – but Charlie would have you believe he was still living his glory days.

Those who maintained their version of an active lifestyle at Serenity Valley played pickleball or golf, and some would make use of the faded shuffleboard in the back of the complex – once a vibrant green but now more of a mint color thanks to frequent beatings from the sun.

“Hey, Charlie,” Vester Taylor would ask from time to time, “You, uh … you planning on playing football again today?”

Charlie would give him the thumbs-up sign.

“Yessir,” he’d answer. “I’ve got to practice my kicking. Still can’t quite hit a 50-yarder yet, but I’ll get there … I’ll get there. Made a 35-yarder last week against the Dolphins. We lost, and I missed an extra point, but you gotta put it behind you.

“Like they say, the biggest game is the next one.”

Vester and his wife, Sandra, lived in the complex across the street from Charlie. They had followed his “ballplayer activity,” as Sandra called it, for several months.

At first, they noticed him wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt and carrying a football under his arm. Since September, however, the sweats had been replaced by a uniform.

“I think something must be wrong with Charlie,” she’d say to her husband. “We’re getting on in years, and people our age don’t go around wearing ballplayer outfits.”

Vester would laugh.

“Ah, I don’t suppose he’s hurting anybody. And if you look at him, he seems fine. Drives fine … shoot, he’s got a lot more spring in his step than I do.

“Nah, I imagine he’s just a little off. When you get down to it, we’re all a little off. If he wants to think he’s in the NFL, I say we should just let him think that.”

Still, Vester and Sandra would often amuse themselves by wondering where Charlie went each Saturday – and what kind of attention he attracted.

They’d envision him going to the playground down the road, putting on his helmet and pads, and running around in circles while parents hurriedly snatched up their kids to shield them for the “strange old man.”

When they’d see him arrive home several hours later, he did, in fact, look like a man who spent an afternoon doing something other than sitting on a bench.

On this particular Saturday, Vester was taking out the garbage when Charlie pulled up and hopped out of his truck – still wearing his cleats.

“I shouldn’t be driving in these things,” he said with a chuckle. “But I’m too sore to bend over. They had me punting today, and that worked on some muscles I hadn’t used in a while.

“But get this … I kicked a 45-yard field goal that won the game for us. Kicked it on the last dang play, can you believe that? Jets 10, Giants 8. I don’t like to brag, but this time I will. Still haven’t kicked a 50-yarder, but 45 was all the yards I needed today.”

Vester offered up a polite smile, then shook his head after Charlie walked away.

Once Vester got inside, he eyed Sandra with a concerned look.

“I think poor Charlie has finally gone around the bend,” he said. “Talking nonsense about the Jets beating the Giants and him kicking the winning field goal. I wish I knew if he had any kids or relatives we could talk to. They need to know he’s not right.”

Sandra winced.

“That’s sad,” she said. “You know, seems like I remember seeing some younger people over there a few times. Maybe they’re his grandkids. Let’s keep an eye out, and next time we see one of them …”

Sandra was interrupted by a knock on the door.

“I’ll get it,” Vester said. “Probably something we ordered.”

Charlie opened the door and was surprised to see a twentysomething young man wearing a green jersey – and holding a football.

“I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but I’m a little turned around,” he said. “I’m looking for Pops, uh, Mr. Mitty … Charlie Mitty. These buildings look alike, and I can’t remember exactly where he lives.”

Vester opened the door, stepped on the porch and pointed toward Charlie’s dwelling.

“He’s right across the way,” he said. “Let me ask you something, son … are you related to Charlie, or maybe know some friends of his?”

The young man grinned.

“I am one of his friends,” he said. “Actually, I’m also his teammate on the Jets … we’re a semi-pro team – well, mostly amateur, really –  that plays over at the high school field. When he asked to try out back in August, I thought it was a joke, but Pops is amazing, and a really great guy. He’s my grandpa’s age but man, can he ever kick a football.

“Anyway, I just came by to give him the game ball because he made the winning field goal for us today.”

“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.”