Still December

It began on one of those still December nights when the whole world is quiet and unhooked, and nothing seems to move save the impenetrable whispers of the breeze and time itself, impassively drumming out the beat of ever. A night where a downtown street thug paused and let some wonder of the purpose of things float into his mind. A night where the local vicar had found himself leaving his marital bed and venturing out to a poker game some streets away, never sure why, but with godly guilt left suspended. A night where wolves and sheep danced noiselessly, and blended into a myriad.

It was also a night where Shybur was crouched atop a church spire, licking his dagger from handle to point and staring without eyes at the moonlit horizon. Awake. Awake. In his other hand the flickering oscillation of a compass needle told him why he was here again. He was not the only one. The pace of Shybur’s dagger-licks increased so that years of dirt were quickly removed revealing the weapon’s name, glowing in faint green lettering, Arkadas.

In another part of town, an inordinately fat man in a red and golden robe was bursting ridiculously out of the door of a bar and onto the cobbled streets, his rich chocolate laugh echoing loudly into the cool night air, absent the warmth that usually accompanies humour. A local pick-pocket noticed him.

“Nice dress fatty!” he guffawed.

The night stayed still and held its breath.

“I said NICE DRESS FATTY. You deaf as well as massive?”

8 miles away, Shybur silently mouthed no, and leapt with terrifying speed from the church spire.

The fat man was chuckling – an oddly high-pitched sound.

“Well, quite.” He muttered, his voice dropping suddenly to a rumble. “I would expect so.”

The pick-pocket suddenly felt his throat run dry, and his thoughts turned to his mother for the first time in many years. He mustered some bravado and managed to almost entirely conceal the shake in his voice. “I was being sarcastic, you fuckin’ mug. You look like a post-op Dawn French who got battered by a travellin’ circus.”

No, no, no Shybur breathed as the city raced beneath him and the wind cracked at his twisted physique.

The fat man turned to face the boy, slow and thoughtful. Jimmy the pick-pocket took an involuntary step backwards and his mind fell blank and cold.

“Would you like to know how I got it, Jimmy?”

“Whuh, wha, how’d you know my name??” Jimmy exclaimed. Why was there no one else coming from the bar. Surely there were more people at the bar for fuck’s sake. Oh god. Oh god someone help. I only nick to pay for food someone fuckin' help. Please. Please.

“How… how d’ya know my name? HOW DO YOU KNOW MY FUCKI-”

Jimmy fell silent as he noticed the bloodied corpse of the bartender lying in the doorway of the bar.

And then there was nothing but his heart. Pounding. Pounding. Pounding.

“Well Jimmy… that’s a long story.”