Part 2 (1/2)

James eyed him from the couch. ”What do you want?” he asked.

”Anything of value, of course. Consider it a donation to my Financial Recovery Plan. I experienced a rather stunning and swift downsizing of my repertoire earlier today, so I'm paying that misfortune forward.”

”We have nothing of value.”

”Lies, of course. Your tree is nearly bare beneath it. Your boy thinks Santa is real, but we both know better. Where are the rest of the presents? Your wife's jewelry, your wallet, those i-thingies? Time to give up the goods, tubby.”

Jimmy returned from the kitchen, a plate of cookies in his right hand, tall gla.s.s of milk in his left.

Lucky salivated at the sight. His stomach seemed to spin itself in circles like an excited dog. Aside from the one cookie he had earlier, he hadn't eaten since breakfast.

”Milk and cookies,” Jimmy announced, setting them on the table before Lucky. ”Just like mom liked them.”

There was a chipper tone to his voice, and Lucky didn't like it. He watched the boy, who now sat silently on the chair across from his father. Was that a smile he was struggling to hold back? Lucky hadn't seen a phone in the kitchen, but could he have missed it?

”Did you call the police?” he asked, pointing the knife at Jimmy's face.

Jimmy looked at him blankly. ”There's no phone in the kitchen.”

”You could have used a cell phone.”

”I don't have one. Dad says I'm too young.”

”He's telling the truth,” fat-naked-hairy James said. ”And my cell phone is on the nightstand upstairs.”

”You better hope so. If I hear or see the cops, body parts fly. Capiche?” He bit into a cookie, then drained half the gla.s.s of milk. Delicious. ”Now hand me that string of Christmas lights, Jimmy.”

Jimmy moved to the fireplace, slowly pulling away the single string of lights that was draped over the brick mantel.

”Any day now, partner.”

After unplugging it from the wall, Jimmy crossed the room and handed the string of lights to Lucky, who was now on his third cookie.

”Thanks,” Lucky said. ”These cookies are wonderful, by the way.” He wiped away the crumbs from his lips and took another swig of milk.

”Turn around,” he said to Jimmy.

”What for?”

”Now that's the Jimmy I remember. Jimmy the wise-a.s.s. But you don't ask the questions around here. Now shut up and turn around.”

Jimmy complied, and Lucky commenced to tying his wrists together with the Christmas lights. Only it wasn't as easy as it should have been.

Lucky knew knots. He'd been a Cub Scout and a Boy Scout as a child, and he'd also been Den Leader as a young adult. He knew his G.o.dd.a.m.n knots. His fingers were strong and nimble. He was a master at making balloon animals, the delicate twisting and turning, a skill that had come to him naturally, thanks to his years of knot-tying as a young boy. But now he struggled with a simple overhand knot.

James leaned forward and said, ”You don't look well, mister. The milk will do you good.”

Milk, Lucky thought. Milk milk milk. Something about that word. But he couldn't focus.

His hands shook, and it felt as if the air around him were solidifying and pressing close, pulsing. His armpits tingled as sweat began to form on his skin. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d must have cranked the heat. That's it. Milk, indeed. Cold cold milk. He took another long swig, draining the gla.s.s, and wiped his mouth on his smooth velvet sleeve.

”You turned the heat up,” Lucky said, the words coming out slower than he had intended and with a drunken slur that lacked the joy of actually being drunk. ”You sub of a nitch.”

Jimmy spun away, and Lucky stood. ”Now you stop-whoa.” The room began to rock back and forth-or Lucky did, he wasn't sure. His legs quivered. Jimmy and his absurdly fat and hairy and naked father watched him. They were both smiling, laughing like those f.u.c.king kids with their mashed potatoes. He'd teach them. No one laughs at Lucky the Clown. He looked down at the knife sitting on the table, stumbled forward and lunged for it.

The table hit him in the face so hard Lucky had a sudden appreciation for the soft, comparatively loving nature of mashed potatoes. He heard the table crack-along with a few of his ribs, if the pain lacing across his chest was any indication-and buckle beneath him. The table canted, and Lucky rolled off and flopped to the floor like a dead fish.

Father and son loomed over him. Jimmy reached into the front pocket of pajamas and pulled out a bottle of pills. He shook it and smiled. ”Nembutal,” he said. ”My mother also had trouble sleeping.”

James clapped his son on the back, the gesture of a proud father. He leaned down and picked up two things: the horn...and the butcher knife.

The last thing Lucky saw was an arching streamer of glinting silver and an enormous fat man, naked and hairier than a gathering of apes, smiling down at him.

And as the world went cold and black, Lucky heard the soothing song of his world-famous horn-hee-honk hee-honk hee-honk hee-honk...

K. Allen Wood's fiction has appeared in 52 St.i.tches, Vol. 2, The Zombie Feed, Vol. 1, Epitaphs, a New England Horror Writers anthology, and is forthcoming in The Gate 2: 13 Tales of Isolation and Despair. He lives and plots in Ma.s.sachusetts.

For more info, visit his website at .

What is your best, funniest, or darkest holiday-season memory?

GRAB BAG.

Corncob holders. That says Christmas to me.

You may be wondering how that works exactly. In order for you to really understand, you have to realize that mine is not a family of traditions. We do not all gather together for Thanksgiving dinner, we don't have family reunions, there are some family members I'm lucky to see once a year.

But there is one tradition we have that I never miss: Christmas Eve at my Grandmother's house. I don't have to travel over a river or through any woods to get there, but it is an event I look forward to each year.

We usually meet up at my Grandmother's house around 5:30 in the evening, do some catching up since often many of us haven't seen each other since the last Christmas Eve dinner, then we sit down to eat. The food is always delicious and we stuff ourselves. Following that comes present-giving time. Wrapping paper goes flying, to be tossed into the fire. There is much laughter and chatter.

All of that is well and good, but that's not the main event, that's not what makes Christmas Eve at Grandmother's house so special. No, the best is saved for last...

The grab bag.

I am not sure how this tradition started, but I don't ever recall a Christmas Eve without it. Basically my Grandmother takes a large plastic bag and fills it with all the unwanted junk she finds in drawers and closets. Items like half-burnt candles, wooden-bead jewelry, used pens, and yes, of course the holy grail of the grab bag, the corncob holders.

I am aware of just how silly the grab bag is; most of the items never get used, after all. And yet the experience has its own kind of magic. Everyone has a good time, displaying the half-empty bottle of hand lotion he or she got, laughing over each other's prizes, sometimes even making deals to swap. The cheap, tacky gifts in Grandmother's grab bag...that is Christmas to me.

Without it, the holiday wouldn't feel complete.

-Mark Allan Gunnells.

What is your best, funniest, or darkest holiday-season memory?

I think I was somewhere between eight and ten years old when the Shogun Warriors G.o.dzilla action-figure was released. It was the only thing I wanted that year for Christmas, and my parents not only bought it for me, but also a giant robot from the series named Mazinga.