Category: Fiction Factor

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 Since September, however, the sweats had been replaced by a uniform.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.”

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.