001

Frank Farrell woke up in the middle of a drug deal, coming to in that delicate moment just before any money had changed hands but just after he had pulled out his dick.

He rose from the depths of his blackout like surfacing in a pool, one he didn’t remember jumping into. But that’s what a fifth of vodka and two percs will get you. Oblivion. For a little while at least.

But now his senses returned to him, slowly and one at a time.

Sight first: he saw that he was standing on a street corner, Seventh and Avenue A. Night had settled over the city, and all around him rose shadow-haunted tenements.

Sensation next: he felt his coat clinging to his body, wet and heavy from falling snow.

Sound last: he heard the unmistakable click of a cocked pistol, heard also a voice full of menace.

“This some kinda joke?” The drug dealer was tall and fat and – if Frank’s drunken eyes were to be believed – dressed like Santa Claus. Pointed hat. Beard. The whole kit. “I’m gonna teach you not to joke with me. Teach you with this gun, bitch.”

Bitch is what finally called Frank, in totality, back from oblivion. The word hit like a thrown brick. Later, after he had survived the Mutatorium Divinatus and learned the nature of the Allflesh, after he had taken the head of the Rat Lord, he would learn the existence of words of power. But in that moment, on a cold Manhattan street corner, he was ignorant of such things. Imposing your will at a distance seemed to him then, as it did to all the uninitiated, like pure magic.

“We gonna do business or what, pal?” Frank slurred. “Used to be, you could cop a little coke in this town, no problemo. But I guess this place is going to the goddamn dogs nowadays.”

“Your piece is out.”

“What?”

“Your dick is in your motherfucking hand.”

“What are you –” He felt it then, as the last of his dulled nerves, down to the tips of his fingers, came online. His left hand was filled with a wad of crumpled bills, his right hand with his soft, cold member. “Look, I can explain.”

“You better put that thing away if you want to keep it.”

“You ever blacked out?” Frank tucked himself back into his pants.

“About a million times,” Santa said. “But I never waved my dick on the corner like a hot dog man selling the city’s dirtiest dirty water dog.”

“I was trying to prove I wasn’t a cop.”

“I. Didn’t. Ask.”

Dick waving wasn’t his kink. This was all strictly business. The Lower East Side, despite its reputation for lawlessness, was still crawling with narcs. A smart customer knew you had to prove you weren’t the police in these kinds of transactions. So, he used a trick an old junkie taught him.

Flash your dick.

Even an undercover cop wouldn’t pull a move like that, not in public. But something must have gotten lost in translation because now he was negotiating at gunpoint.

“Let’s just forget the whole thing.” Frank held up his hand, the crumpled bills tented in his palm like a peace offering of shitty origami. “Take the money, give me the coke.”

“You’re gonna give me that money. But you ain’t getting no coke.”

“You’re robbing me?”

“Yes, I am. I’m robbing you. This is a motherfucking robbery.”

“It’s Christmas Eve.”

“Well ho-ho-ho, motherfucker.” Santa snatched the bills, jabbing the muzzle of his gun into Frank’s ribs. “Now empty your pockets. And if you yell, if you scream, if you so much as clear your goddamn throat, I will turn this robbery into a homicide.”

Frank felt a chill run up his spine, colder than the winter night.

“Okay,” he whispered, reaching for his pants pocket with his free hand. “Just don’t do anything crazy.”

“Is that you, sarge?”

The voice came from behind him. It was a stranger’s voice, but the tone was unmistakable – excitement tinged with disbelief. He’d heard it many times before, on red carpets, in the main hall at Comic-Con, on the floor of fan-expos. It was the sound of recognition.

He’d been well acquainted with it once. He even enjoyed it a little. Who wouldn’t?

But after a while, he’d come to find it a nuisance. And then, before it could even rise to the level of a real problem, he stopped hearing it at all.

He missed it now. He’d never admit that to anyone, but that was the dirty truth of it. Most days, there was nothing in the world he’d like more than to hear someone call to him in that tone.

Just not today.

“It is you, isn’t it? I can’t believe this. I never meet anyone famous. How’s it going, sarge?”

Frank felt a friendly slap on his back as the man stepped up beside him. Out of his periphery – he didn’t dare take his eyes off Santa – he caught sight of the guy. Late twenties, bearded, paunchy, dressed in a woolen Darth Vader cap and wearing a pair of unfortunate glasses. Full fan-boy phenotype.

“Why don’t you give us a minute here, pal,” Frank said, trying to get his voice to thread the needle between calm and insistent.

“Sure, I won’t bother you. Mind if I just grab a quick pic.”

“Maybe we could –”

“Hey, you look pretty skinny. Where’d all those muscles go? You starving yourself for a part?”

“Something like that.”

“And the hair,” the guy ran his hand over Frank’s stubbly head, “hope they’re paying you good money to go bald.”

Frank didn’t respond. The hair was still a sensitive subject for him.

The guy fished his phone out of his pocket and held it at arm’s reach, the universal selfie pose. Before he could switch to his front-facing camera, Santa’s gun flashed across his screen.

“What’s going on here?” he said.

“Listen,” Frank said, “you don’t want to –”

“You’re filming a movie, aren’t you?” The guy laughed. “Un-be-lievable. I don’t even see any cameras around. Is this a guerilla-style thing or –”

“Who the fuck are you?” Santa said.

“Martin Simmons, my friends call me Marty.” The fanboy tapped his phone.

“You better tell your boy to beat it.”

“I don’t know him,” Frank said.

“But I sure know you.” Marty’s phone beeped. “Hell, I saw Sgt. Skulltaker three times in theaters. The first one, that is. Hate to say it, Frank, but the sequels were one-and-done for me. I liked when you teamed up with Red Oni. And setting it in the nineties was a cool idea. Big guns, big action. But by the time the third one came around, I was burnt out. They should’ve never cast Jodie Comer as FemiNinja. She didn’t bring anything to the role.”

“Wait a sec,” Santa said, “are you famous?”

“No –”

“Yes! Haven’t you seen Sgt. Skulltaker? It was only the best movie in the Maverick Comics Cinematic Universe. Well, the best in Phase Two. Phase One was really the peak.”

“You’re a movie star?”

“Was,” Frank said.

“I’m going on LiveCast with this. No one’s gonna believe me otherwise.” Marty’s phone blooped and then the screen filled with his pasty, open-mouthed face. “Hey guys, y’all are gonna freak out when you see who I ran into on my big vacation in New York Ciiiiiity. Tell us what you’re working on, Frank.”

“Now isn’t really the time, Marty.”

“Secret project, huh? We get it. Say, where have you been the last few years? Haven’t heard from you since they canceled Skulltaker 4. Any chance of a reunion with Red Oni? Maybe a streaming series on Maverick+?”

Santa shoved Marty to the ground and he hit the floor hard, his phone landing in a pile of dirty snow.

“Are you kidding me?”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?”

“It’s okay,” Frank said. “He doesn’t understand what’s going on. He’s harmless.”

Marty glanced at Santa and then back to Frank. He looked like he was about to cry.

“Is this …”

“You’re okay, Marty. Everything's okay.” Frank tossed his wallet on the ground in front of Santa. “Take it. It’s yours.”

Santa bent to retrieve the wallet. “You, too.”

“Me too, what?”

“Give him your wallet,” Frank said.

“I’m not giving him my wallet. Why should I give him my wallet? It’s mine.”

“You said you’re in town visiting, right? Where from?”

“Wisconsin.”

“You got family back there? People that care about you?”

“Yeah.”

“Then give him your wallet.”

Marty saw the cop car first. He saw it and his eyes widened and then Frank followed his eyes. If Frank had seen it first, he could have avoided all the trouble that came later. But that wasn’t what happened. It went Marty first and then Frank, quick like that, maybe a half second between the two of them.

It wasn’t much time, just long enough to cause trouble.

“Police!” Marty yelled.

The car didn’t stop, didn’t even slow down. Probably the cops hadn’t even heard Marty’s scream. Hell, it was three in the morning on Christmas Eve, they probably didn’t want to hear it. But none of that mattered.

Marty yelled and Santa tensed, his entire body tightening, all the way up to his eyes. Before Frank even saw the hand move, he dove, knocking Marty out of the way. And then the gun fired.

He landed on his side, felt the wind knocked out of him. His back burned, like someone had pressed a white-hot penny under his shoulder blade. By the time he sat up, Santa was gone. He didn’t realize he was bleeding until Marty said something.

“Can you believe this, guys?” Marty said into his phone. “Frank Farrell’s just been shot.”

“Call 911,” Frank grunted.

“Sure. Where’s your phone?”

“My phone? You have a phone in your goddamn hand.”

“But I’m LiveCasting.”

“You’re gonna be fucking DeadCasting if you don’t –”, he coughed, tasting blood, “call … 911.”

The burning in his shoulder blade grew hotter, impossible as that seemed. He eased back onto the cool snow, hoping that would help. As he moved, he felt a kind of sloshing in his chest, like shaking a half-empty jug of milk. One by one his senses failed him, sight and sound and sensation, all in a row like that, like flipping switches in a breaker box.

And then he sunk back down into the dark of unconsciousness.