Post by Grimm on Dec 22, 2014 9:38:51 GMT -5
There had been a wild hog in yonder woods. And somebody, we won’t say who, followed the bones of a thousand men through the oak and thorn until he found it. And now a mammoth pig carcass roasted on a spit, grease dripping and sizzling in the flames. Its yellow eyes glared, still reflecting the shock and shame of its death. An apple, popping in the heat, was wedged in the hog’s jaws and added to the insult.
The few still lingering about raised mugs of ale, mugs of wassail, mugs of what-have-you-got, in toast to the great beast.
“God bless us, every one!” Bottoms up, down the hatch, and back for refills. Repeat. They felt the furnace blast of the bonfire on their faces. The fire in the field still smoldered. There’d nearly been a beard singed off by a mouthful of flame. Fire, fire, everywhere, and not a drop to drink. Or something like that. But it wasn’t true, however it went. They returned to the punch bowl for Flaming Bishop time and again, and watched the snow fall at the limits of the firelight. Meanwhile, the ox and lamb observed the festivities from the barn.
Phinehas Dillinger stood in his Christmas best, a little lower than the angels, and brushed dirt off himself.
“You soiled my suspenders, you ignorant wretch.”
His brother Billy wavered beside him. Foam flecked his beard like some artificial spray can snow. He took another drink and smiled.
“Come on, Phin. It’s only once a year. Try to be a little more holly jolly, for the day’s sake.”
“I’ll do it for the day, but not for you.”
“How ‘bout for the Black Hand?”
“I’ll show you Black Hand.” Phinehas stooped and picked up a handful of ashes and soot from the scorched earth and gave Billy a slap worthy of welcoming in the new year. Billy spun on his heels and his mug sloshed all around. Once he regained his bearings he looked down in horror.
“Look what you made me do.”
“It’s not my fault you can’t hold your liquor. Hey, I know. How about you go down into the cellar and see what you can find?”
“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
They stood, fuming, lights flickering off the bruises and cuts decorating their faces. Their upcoming Street Fight at the Icey Awards Show was no doubt on their minds, no matter how inebriated those minds might be. It had been some time since the two of them had faced off one-on-one, and truth be told they looked forward to it. No titles on the line. Not even a contendership. Nothing to gain, nothing to lose, only bragging rights along the streets of Hangtown.
And the fact that afterwards they would be able to point out, hey, if we’re willing to do this sort of thing (“Oh, the humanity!”) to one another for absolutely no reason whatsoever…just imagine what we’ll do to you.
Phinehas leaned in and whispered over the shifting of the logs. “I’m this close to tossing you into that fire.”
Billy snorted. “I’m going to straight up murder you.”
Their breath plumed up in the frosty air and drifted towards the river. And they both smiled into the bonfire.
The insults continued, growing more elaborate, more personal, more, shall we say, inappropriate, as they floated up into the winter air. All in all, it was another successful good ol’ fashioned Dillinger Family Christmas.
The few still lingering about raised mugs of ale, mugs of wassail, mugs of what-have-you-got, in toast to the great beast.
“God bless us, every one!” Bottoms up, down the hatch, and back for refills. Repeat. They felt the furnace blast of the bonfire on their faces. The fire in the field still smoldered. There’d nearly been a beard singed off by a mouthful of flame. Fire, fire, everywhere, and not a drop to drink. Or something like that. But it wasn’t true, however it went. They returned to the punch bowl for Flaming Bishop time and again, and watched the snow fall at the limits of the firelight. Meanwhile, the ox and lamb observed the festivities from the barn.
Phinehas Dillinger stood in his Christmas best, a little lower than the angels, and brushed dirt off himself.
“You soiled my suspenders, you ignorant wretch.”
His brother Billy wavered beside him. Foam flecked his beard like some artificial spray can snow. He took another drink and smiled.
“Come on, Phin. It’s only once a year. Try to be a little more holly jolly, for the day’s sake.”
“I’ll do it for the day, but not for you.”
“How ‘bout for the Black Hand?”
“I’ll show you Black Hand.” Phinehas stooped and picked up a handful of ashes and soot from the scorched earth and gave Billy a slap worthy of welcoming in the new year. Billy spun on his heels and his mug sloshed all around. Once he regained his bearings he looked down in horror.
“Look what you made me do.”
“It’s not my fault you can’t hold your liquor. Hey, I know. How about you go down into the cellar and see what you can find?”
“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
They stood, fuming, lights flickering off the bruises and cuts decorating their faces. Their upcoming Street Fight at the Icey Awards Show was no doubt on their minds, no matter how inebriated those minds might be. It had been some time since the two of them had faced off one-on-one, and truth be told they looked forward to it. No titles on the line. Not even a contendership. Nothing to gain, nothing to lose, only bragging rights along the streets of Hangtown.
And the fact that afterwards they would be able to point out, hey, if we’re willing to do this sort of thing (“Oh, the humanity!”) to one another for absolutely no reason whatsoever…just imagine what we’ll do to you.
Phinehas leaned in and whispered over the shifting of the logs. “I’m this close to tossing you into that fire.”
Billy snorted. “I’m going to straight up murder you.”
Their breath plumed up in the frosty air and drifted towards the river. And they both smiled into the bonfire.
The insults continued, growing more elaborate, more personal, more, shall we say, inappropriate, as they floated up into the winter air. All in all, it was another successful good ol’ fashioned Dillinger Family Christmas.
