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The Coyote lay still atop the narrow, padded MRI bed. A female bobcat nurse pulled a blanket up over his legs, while a lean wolf in tech scrubs checked his IV. The bobcat fetched a pair of earplugs, and smushed them up before gently pushing them into The Coyote's ears. It was a strange feeling, The Coyote thought, having someone else put earplugs in for you. Next, the wolf strapped an odd, slightly uncomfortable device to the canine's belly. It pressed against his abdomen.

While the wolf applied the elastography machine, he gave The Coyote instructions. The Coyote swiveled his plugged ears, trying to listen. The directions were simple enough. Don't move. Follow the automated breathing commands. Be patient, the tests would take a while. Squeeze the sensor in his hand if he needed to talk to the staff or stop the procedure. Soon, they put tight headphones on over the Coyote's ears. He wondered if it was still going to be uncomfortably loud despite the double protections.

As soon staff retreated into the adjacent control chamber, the slender bed retracted into the MRI tube. The narrow, gray, tunnel-like slid by scant inches from his muzzle. The Coyote had the distinct feeling he was being loaded into a torpedo tube, and prepared for launch. At least then, he thought, he wouldn't have to worry about all this health bullshit much longer. The bed came to a stop. Faint blue-purple lights flickered at the edges of his peripheral vision.

A loud, buzzing sound surrounded him. It was as loud as he'd been warned, but the earplugs and headphones muffled it nicely. The noise lasted for only a few moments, but was quickly followed by a second, higher-pitched tone. This pinged several times in a row. It faded, and a third, low rumble followed it. That continued off and on for some time. Now and then, an odd warmth filled the coyote's belly whenever the machine buzzed. Sometimes, the lights flickered and changed, bluer at first, then darker purple. Cool air washed across him from hidden vents.

Soon, a robot voice delivered breathing instructions. Breathe in. Breathe out. Hold your breath. The Coyote did as asked, though he struggled a bit to hold his breath with no air in his lungs, especially with his low hemoglobin. After the first time, he remembered the bobcat nurse telling him earlier that he should only breathe halfway out, during these tests, as it would make it easier. He did so the next time, and found it a little easier to hold his breath for as long as required. During each breath hold, the machine rumbled in a different ways. Sometimes it was a steady buzzing. Other times, a higher pitched pinging noise, as if an enemy submarine was hitting him with sonar. Coyote torpedo ready to fire, he thought.

Another breathing exercise followed. This time, The Coyote was required to do the opposite. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in, and hold your breath. The Coyote found this one a little easier to manage. He repeated the breathing exercises a few times. On the third attempt, the device on his belly suddenly vibrated. The intense, almost uncomfortable vibrations startled him so much he jumped a little. But at least he didn't bang his muzzle on the MRI's ceiling. The Coyote just hoped he didn't accidentally screw up the test. The next time the elastography machine buzzed, The Coyote was ready. Though it did not make him jump, it did make him feel odd. It both vibrated and writhed against him, almost as if it was attempting to massage his liver directly. It was very strange.

When the first phase of the test concluded, the bed moved, pulling him back out of the machine. The wolf tech approached him, and explained he needed to adjust the elastography. He unstrapped it, shifted it slightly to the right, and tightened it down even harder than before. Apparently, it seemed, The Coyote's liver was further off to the side than most people. Somehow, The Coyote found that oddly appropriate. Lately it seemed like nothing else was as it should be in his body, so why should his anatomy be any different?

The tech retreated, and the coyote was once more pulled back inside the narrow tube of the MRI. The lights shifted a few times, blue, lilac, purple. All sorts of noises surrounded him again. The machine buzzed, beeped, chirped, and rumbled. Robotic voices told him when to breathe, and when to hold his breath. The elastography machine vibrated, rattling his ribcage. The Coyote closed his eyes, following the breathing instructions. Though the confined space didn't bother him, it was awfully early in the morning, and he was quite tired. As the rest progressed, there was little more to do than breathe the way he was told, and wait.

Something brushed his arm. Suddenly, his headphones and earplugs were gone. An all-too-familiar voice whispered into his newly exposed ear. “Alone together in a cramped space at last, eh lover?"

The Coyote's eyes flew open. An urd'thin with gray fur, and a fluffy, golden-hued Santa robe now lay alongside him. Tinsel was strewn across the inside of the MRI. Mistletoe dangled from the enclosed ceiling, brushing his nose. The urd'thin glanced up at it, then back at The Coyote. The canine tried to scramble away, only to bump against the MRI's wall. He gave a muffled yowl of horror as the urd'thin grabbed his head, and pressed his muzzle to The Coyote's in a sloppy kiss.

The Coyote shoved him away. “God damn it, Asterbury!"

“Merry Christmas to you too, Trash Puppy!" Asterbury's fingers danced down the Coyote's chest, towards the Elastography machine. “Say, can I borrow your vibrator?"

“It's not a vibrator!" The Coyote slapped Asterbury's hand away, just as the machine buzzed loudly against his stomach.

“He says, being vibrated." The urd'thin rubbed the canine's arm, up and down.

The coyote growled. “Why's everything gotta be sexual with you?"

“Me?" Asterbury put a hand to his chest, gasping in mock offense. “Why, I'm as innocent as Angel!" He gestured at The Coyote. “You're the one being slowly pumped in and out of a tight hole, head first. Didn't know you were into unbirthing!"

“Oh, my god." The Coyote scrunched his muzzle. “And don't you mean, you're as innocent as an angel? Which you definitely are not."

The urd'thin shook his head. “No, I'm as innocent as Angel!" He lowered his voice. “The guy I buy my angel dust from. And he's as innocent as Black Licorice, the guy-"

“I really don't think you should finish that sentence."

Asterbury forged ahead, anyway. “That I buy my black licorice from."

“Oh." The Coyote grunted. “I was afraid you were gonna say…"

“And that's also his porn star name! Black Licorice!" Asterbury cackled. “Can you guess what he tastes like?"

“I swear to God-"

“Strawberry candy, oddly enough." Asterbury waggled his fingers. “Those old-fashioned hard candies, in the strawberry wrappers? With the gummy centers? Tastes just like that. It really makes Strawberri Candi jealous."

The Coyote blinked. “Who the fuck is Strawberri Candi?"

“My favorite stripper! Who, funnily enough…" Asterbury shifted onto his side, snuggling up against the Coyote. “Tastes like eggnog. Much to the chagrin of Edd Nawg."

The Coyote gave a frustrated growl. “I'm not asking who-"

“My other favorite stripper! And, ironically, who I buy my Black Licorice from!" He lowered his voice. “That's what I call condoms."

“Why the fuck would you call condoms that?"

“Because, they're cheap knockoffs! And I'm deathly allergic to fake latex, so they make my dick turn black and shrivel up, just like black licorice." Asterbury cackled. “Also, they're Black Licorice flavored! By which I mean, the man! That is to say, they taste like strawberry candy. The old granny treat, that is, not the stripper. Although…" Asterbury jabbed a finger into the air, bumping the MRI. “Speaking of treats for old grannies, you should see that strip club on Nursing Home Night!"

The Coyote turned his head, eyes widening. “The strip club brings in old folks to watch?"

“No, that'd be ridiculous." Asterbury shook his head. “They bring 'em in to pole dance! Those old grannies love strippin'!"

The Coyote groaned, slipping a hand up to cover his face. “Oh, my god."

“Hah, that's two Bob's Burgers groans already this year." Asterbury clapped his hands once. “We're on a roll. Do you know what the Old Grannies call me?"

“I don't know, but I'm starting to sense a Who's On First set-up." The Coyote tried to fold his arms, only to realize there wasn't enough room in the MRI tube. “How the fuck did you even fit in here alongside me, anyway?"

“I'm flat as a pancake!" Asterbury pressed up against The Coyote. Something solid poked him. “And hard as a rock!"

The canine snarled, his ears back. “That had better just be a candy cane I feel." He snapped his teeth. “And don't you even start about 'Candy Cane' being what the old grannies call you."

“Nah, they call me Twizzler!" Asterbury traced a single finger up and down The Coyote's arm. “Wanna know why, Scavenger?"

“Fuck, no." The Coyote slapped his hand. “The only thing I wanna know is the fastest way to file a restraining order."

“Oooh, legally forbidden love! That really frosts my sugar cookie…" Asterbury licked The Coyote's ear, whispering. “If you know what I mean."

The Coyote snarled, fangs bared. “I will never understand how you manage to get worse every year. I'd say I was gonna stop inviting you to these Christmas stories, but that would require me to have invited you in the first place!"

“I'm sorry, all I hear is…" Asterbury held his hand out, working it like a puppet. He lifted his voice to a cartoonishly high level. “Gee, Mister Asterbury, you sexy, sexy, ridiculously cut, god-entity with the body of Greek god, why do they call you Twizzler?"

The Coyote tried to cover his ears, but lacked the room to raise his arms that far. “No one wants to know that!"

“Glad you asked, old buddy!" Asterbury twirled a finger in the air. “It's because Twizzler is my stripper name! Because I'm twelve inches long, and a quarter inch wide! Not to mention bright red, and flexible! I'm like a dolphin, crossed with spaghetti!"

The Coyote grimaced, ears flat. “There's an image I could have lived without."

Asterbury shook his hips. “You can hang some bells from it, if you want. That'll make it more festive!"

A voice crackled over the MRI speaker. “I'm detecting some hip motion. Please, no fucking in the MRI tube."

The coyote's eyes went wide. “We're not fucking! I don't even know how this little shit got in here."

Asterbury whispered. “Did you do a little doo-doo in your muumuu?" He made a fist in the air. “Squeeze the button, I'm sure they'll get you a change of gowns. Probably happens all the time."

“I didn't do a little shit, you reindeer's mounting block!" The Coyote rolled to his side, slapping Asterbury across the muzzle. “You're the little shit!"

Asterbury's head spun round and round like an amusement park ride, his neck twisting up. “Wheeee!"

The voice came over the speakers again. “I'm still seeing movement. You need to hold still, sir. And please, no cartoon mischief in the MRI tube."

The Coyote sighed, laying back against the pillow. “Sorry, Daniel."

Asterbury caught his head, and slowly unwound his neck. “Who the fuck is Daniel?"

The Coyote grunted. “He's the tech who-"

“Wait!" Asterbury's head wobbled back and forth like an oversized bobblehead with a broken spring. “Is it Daniel, from the Karate Kid?"

“What?" The Coyote blinked. “Of course not. Daniel is the MRI tech who does the elastography, among other things."

“Daniel from the Karate Kid became an MRI tech?" Asterbury's head hung limply over his chest. “What happened to Mister Miyagi? Did he become a urologist?"

The Coyote stared at the mangled urd'thin, horrified yet unable to look away. “Why the hell would he become a urologist?"

“Because…" Asterbury grabbed his head, pushing it back into place. “He'll know how to treat people who spent too much time waxing off!" The urd'thin cackled.

“Oh, lord." The Coyote put a hand over his face. “I walked into that one, didn't I."

The elastography machine buzzed, rumbling against The Coyote's abdomen. The MRI machine rumbled, beeped, and pinged. Somehow, it was quieter now, even if the sounds rattled its newly decorated interior.

“You wanna answer your vibrator?" Asterbury pointed towards the elastography machine. “It might be for you!"

“For the last time, it's not a goddamn vibrator." The Coyote growled. The elastography shaking continued for a few moments longer, then stopped. Nearby, something else loudly vibrated, it's buzzing oddly muffled. “What the hell is that?"

“Oh, that's my vibrator," Asterbury said, grinning. “I gave Vatch the controls for the day!" He wiggled his rump, tail swishing and thumping against the MRI tube. “Can you guess where it is?"

“Goddamn it." The Coyote took a slow, deep breath. “I am sick, and tired of your bullshit already."

Asterbury cupped a hand to his ear. “Say that part again?"

The Coyote glanced over. “I am sick-"

“Yes." Asterbury frowned, his ears drooping. “You are." He snapped his fingers.

Suddenly, The Coyote was somewhere else entirely. He was in a padded blue chair, in a small cubicle. A cloth curtain was pulled across the front of it. Behind him, early afternoon sunlight shone through the window. Something tight gripped his right arm. The Coyote glanced down. A blood pressure cuff encircled his bicep. Vital statistics flashed across the screen of the machine attached to it.

Something red caught his eye to the left. He shifted towards it. An IV pump stood alongside the chair, opposite the vitals machine. A unit of blood hung above the pump, labeled with The Coyote's name, birthdate, and blood typing information. The pump steadily pushed blood through the long, clear tubing that snaked around the machine. A transparent dressing was affixed to The Coyote's arm, keeping the IV catheter in place while the blood was pumped into him.

“Oh…" The Coyote swallowed, looking around. “This was the same day."

“It was!" Asterbury sat in the visitor's chair, where normally it was The Coyote's mother or father keeping him company. “It was a wild week. Of course…" Asterbury glanced up at the unit of blood. “As often as they've got to fill you up with cranberry juice, lately, this could be just about any week in the last eight months, or so. And then there was the week in summer, that you spent here…"

Asterbury snapped his fingers again. In an instant, the world was replaced with another. There was no sensation of movement, no whirling globe, no blurred images, and no nausea. The Coyote simply found himself laying semi-upright in a hospital bed, covered by thin blankets. An old Indiana Jones movie played on the TV suspended from the wall. A large, plastic water cup sat on a table nearby, alongside an iced mocha from Dutch Bros that his parents brought him. Near it was a mostly empty tray that once contained his breakfast. At the far side of the room, his mom and dad sat on the little sofa, under the window. They made small talk and silly jokes, while they awaited the latest updates from the doctors and nurses.

A different brand of IV pump sat alongside his bed. This one, too, was pumping someone else's blood into him. It was his third unit in two days, along with two units of platelets. His levels just kept dropping too fast, despite the multiple transfusions he'd received since he'd been admitted. The doctors thought he might be bleeding somewhere in his upper digestive tract. As a result, they wanted to give him an esophagogastroduodenoscopy. Yet, because of the potential for unlikely but serious risks, the GI lab didn't want to do the procedure until they could get his red cell and platelet levels high enough.

“You're making that up." Asterbury suddenly stood alongside his bed, dressed in a cheesy, Sexy Nurse Halloween custom. “There's no way Ass-O Phay-go Gastropub Doo Doo Scoopy is a real word."

“It isn't," The Coyote said, reaching for his mocha. When he touched it, it turned into egg nog, instead, with red tinsel swirling around it. “But esophagogastroduodenoscopy is a real word. Look it up."

Asterbury turned towards the camera, and pulled the cigar out of his mouth. “I think he's talking to you, reader…" He thrust the cigar towards the camera. “In 3D!"

The Coyote sipped his egg nog. “It's a bit early for you to start breaking the 4th wall, and making needless callbacks, isn't it?"

The urd'thin shrugged, puffing his cigar. “Who knows how long you'll wanna do this? You may give up early, this year. I gotta squeeze 'em in while I can."

“Whatever." The Coyote gestured with his cup. “Where the fuck did you get that cigar, anyway? You can't smoke in a hospital."

Asterbury took another puff, and then coughed heavily, his voice a wheezing squeak. “It's okay! It's really dank weed!"

“That doesn't make it better!" The Coyote gave a snarl. “People are trying to get healthy, in here. Not to mention they use a lot of flammable stuff, like pure oxygen…" He blinked, then pointed towards a little nuzzle in the wall. “Actually, go smoke that thing over there. Turn that knob. Maybe you'll go up in flames like the Griswald family Christmas tree."

“Ooh, there's a deep cut!" Asterbury took another pull from his oversized joint.

“National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation is not a deep cut." He took another drink of egg nog, then sat his cup down on the table. “It's a holiday classic! In fact, I should watch it again."

Just then, Vatch, wearing nothing more than an undersized white bathrobe, walked into the hospital room. He was drinking a beer, whilst also smoking a cigar. He carried a grimy orange hose over his shoulder. As The Coyote stared, Vatch pushed open the bathroom door, then stuck his hose into the toilet. Somewhere, a noisy pump started. Sewage spewed out into the toilet. Vatch flushed it, and walked out of the bathroom.

Vatch gave a cheery wave. “Shitter was full!"

Asterbury splayed his ears. “You made Vatch cousin Eddie?"

The Coyote shrugged. “I was running out of well-known male, bipedal characters. Krek and Valyrym wouldn't be quite as funny in a bathrobe."

“I argue," Asterbury said, gesturing with his half-smoked blunt. “They'd be funnier." He swept his hand towards the door. “Exhibit A!"

Just then, Krek, wearing nothing more than an undersized white bathrobe, walked into the hospital room. He was drinking a beer, whilst also smoking a cigar. He carried a grimy orange hose over his shoulder. As The Coyote stared, Krek pushed open the bathroom door, then stuck his hose into the toilet. Somewhere, a noisy pump started. Sewage spewed out into the toilet. Krek flushed it, and walked out of the bathroom.

Krek gave a cheery wave. “Shitter was full!"

The Coyote rolled his eyes. “You just copy and pasted what I already wrote, but with Krek's name. Nothing else changed."

“Oh, I'd wager something changed," Asterbury said, easing away from Vatch and Krek. As the pumps continued to rumble, the toilet swiftly overflowed with raw sewage. It seeped out onto the floor, trickling through the bathroom door. “Gryphons have way bigger shitters than urd'thin!"

The Coyote gave a horrified cry. “Oh, come on!" He frantically pushed the buttons on his hospital bed. “Bed goes up, bed goes down, but where's the 'bed gets the fuck outta here' button?"

“If you think that's bad, you should Exhibit B!" Asterbury hopped up onto the bed. “Come on in, Valyrym!"

Just then, Valyrym, wearing nothing more than an undersized white bathrobe, walked into the hospital room. He was drinking a beer, whilst also smoking a cigar. He carried a grimy orange hose over his shoulder as he sloshed through the sewage. As The Coyote gagged, Valyrym pushed open the bathroom door, then stuck his hose into the toilet. Somewhere, a noisy pump started. Sewage spewed out into the toilet, causing the overflow to triple in size. Valyrym flushed it, and waded out of the bathroom.

Valyrym gave a cheery wave. “Shitter was full!"

“We know!" The Coyote pulled his blankets up. “This isn't funnier, Asterbury, it's just more disgusting!"

“But," Asterbury said, waggling his blunt. “I did change a few more words that time."

“Yes, and you made it even worse." He glanced over at the three Cousin Eddies. “And put out those cigars!"

All three bathrobe-draped, sewage wading Cousin Eddies gave a cheery wave. By now, the sewage was nearly halfway up Vatch's body. “Shitter was full!"

The Coyote turned towards Asterbury. “You made them brain dead, too?"

Asterbury scratched his head. “I just copied your template! Didn't realize you only gave them the brain power for one line."

The canine grunted. “Thought this scene would have switched back to the infusion chair already."

“It's probably for the best they're just mindless caricatures…" Asterbury lowered his voice to a whisper. “Like most of your characters." Then he waved at Vatch. “Would you really want Vatch to be self-aware when he's about to drown in a literal river of shit?"

“No!" The Coyote scrunched his muzzle. “Though, with lit cigars and all the methane, drowning's about to be the least of their problems." He pointed towards a NO SMOKING sign. “And that's not to mention the oxygen, and all the other flammable stuff I already tried to warn you about."

Asterbury stared at the sign. “But what about…" Asterbury swept a hand over himself. “Smoking hot?"

“Oh, god." The Coyote dragged a hand down his muzzle. “Will you just get us out of her before those idiots explode themselves and take us with them? Besides, this festive river of holiday feces is making me sick."

“Yes," Asterbury said, his ears drooping again. “You're sick." He snapped his fingers, and once again, they were in a calm, quiet, infusion room. “That's why you're here so often."

The Coyote sighed, leaning his head back against the chair. This time, a warm blanket smothered him. Normally, he refused the warmed blankets the nurses always offered. Lately, though, he was accepting them. The lower his blood counts got, the easier he found himself getting cold hands, cold feet. It dismayed him to think that if the temperatures ever did finally drop down to Christmas-appropriate levels, he might not enjoy them as much as usual.

“You know," The Coyote said, staring at the ceiling. “These tonal shifts are gonna give the readers whiplash so severe, I'm gonna get sued by guy named The Hammer."

Asterbury only smiled. “You're the one writing them."

“Yeah, well…" The Coyote snuggled down under his blankets. “Since when do my stories ever go as planned?"

“That's true." Asterbury gestured at himself. “As evidenced by me!" He gazed around the room. “And the fact that you made pretty much the same tonal whiplash joke last year, without even remembering it till you went to check on how long last year's story was. After you realized you'd written almost 4,000 words already, and haven't even gotten through the intro scene you'd intended."

The Coyote grunted, glancing over at the urd'thin. “Wouldn't be Christmas without callbacks and repetition, I guess. That hospital scene was your fault, though. You weren't supposed to just whisk us off there without warning."

Asterbury only smiled at him. “You weren't supposed to end up in the hospital so suddenly in real life, either."

“No…" The Coyote sighed. “I wasn't ready for that. We knew things were trending in the wrong direction, obviously. But I always figured the doctor would be like, 'we should consider admitting you next week, if things haven't improved'. And instead, it was just…" The Coyote whimpered. “I'm putting you in the hospital. Tonight."

Asterbury leaned his head against his hand. “At least it let them finally do some of these tests that were scheduled so far out at your other hospital. Like the Doo Doo Scoopy!"

The Coyote snickered. “It definitely isn't called a Doo Doo Scoopy. That sounds like a different kinda test, actually. They mostly just call this one an EGD, for short. And yeah, at least we got that done earlier than it would have been, otherwise. Plus the bone marrow biopsy, and so on." He grunted, his ears falling. “Still don't know what the damn room cause is, though." He took a breath, sighing. “Hence appointments with more specialists, after things stabilized and they let me back out. And now the MRI, and appointments with more specialists, and more procedures to come."

“One of which is…" Asterbury held his hand out, and a red and green advent calendar popped into his hand. Drunken reindeer decorated it. He popped open the little door for the 17th, and pulled out a tiny beer bottle. “Coming up in two days!"

“Yeah." The Coyote grimaced. “Not looking forward to that one. Gonna find out about the MRI, and some other tests they did. Not exactly the way I wanna spend the week before Christmas."

Asterbury produced a teeny, tiny bottle opener, shaped like Santa's sleigh. He popped the miniature top of the tiny bottle. “Kinda like how you didn't wanna spend the days right before Thanksgiving getting an MRI and a blood transfusion."

“I did not, no." The Coyote shook his head, then gave a weary sigh. “But sometimes that's just how shit works out. That was a wild week, though. From…" He gestured towards the beginning of the story, where he was laying alone, in the MRI tube. “Straight to this…" He waved at the blood pumping into his arm. “And then the next day-"

The urd'thin snapped his fingers again, and The Coyote was stumbling around a grocery store, late in the evening. He bumped in a cart filled with food, snacks, toiletries, and firewood. Realizing it was his, he pushed it around, crisscrossing the aisles of the giant grocery store. Some part of him knew he was buying way too much for his upcoming adventure, but he preferred to be overprepared, than underprepared. Thankfully, the blood he'd just gotten the day before had given him a boost for all the shopping.

As he wandered around, he wondered about the MRI. The myriad of results it might show ran the gamut from great news all the way down to 'well, you're fucked'. More likely, they would fall somewhere on the impressive broad spectrum between the two. But, he'd have to wait a few more weeks before he saw his doctor again, to discuss it. In the meantime, all he could do was try not to think too hard about it.

At least the advent of Thanksgiving the following day gave him something else to focus on. There would be food, and family, and football, and even things that didn't start with an F. Like Turkey. And Cranberry Sauce. And his mother's English-style sausage stuffing. And yes, technically those things all fall under food, but counterpoint, shut up and let him have this. And when Thanksgiving was over, it was time for along drive down to the coast, where he'd be camping on the sands. That was what all the food, was for.

“And from this…" Asterbury appeared alongside him. “To this."

Asterbury snapped, and again existence shifted. The Coyote found himself seated around the dining room table, with his parents. It was Thanksgiving, and as usual his folks had outdone themselves. His mother had roasted a turkey in the oven, while making homemade cranberry sauce, and the sausage stuffing they all loved so much. There were also roasted carrots and parsnips, roasted and mashed potatoes, Brussel sprouts with bacon, Yorkshire puddings, which the coyote suggests you look up if you're confused, scratch made gravy, and more. As for The Coyote, he'd baked his usual contribution, a pumpkin cheesecake. His father, meanwhile, who loved to smoke meats, had also smoked a second turkey.

Not that they needed two turkeys, but they'd started the tradition years ago when they used to have more people around Thanksgiving. After his brother got married, and his mother lost her sisters, it was less and less common for extended family to join them on the day itself. But that hadn't stopped his parents from preparing way too much food, year after year. Not that anyone was complaining. They'd have leftovers to eat on their own or turn into other dishes for the next week. The Coyote planned to take down plenty of leftovers to his camping trip, as well.

Thanksgiving Dinner was spectacular. For the first time in several years, everything was done almost exactly when, and how, it was intended. Nothing was cold, or burned. The smoked turkey was ready on time, rather than four hours later like last year, after it stalled out. The food was all wonderful, and the coyote and his parents sat around the table, slowly eating and casually reminiscing about years past.

When food was done, The Coyote put on his beloved Cowboys. They were playing their annual Thanksgiving game. It had been a rough season for them. They hadn't been playing well even before they lost their starting quarterback for the year, and things only got worse after that. Last week, though, somehow they'd managed to beat their hated rivals, who at the time, were leading the division. Now, on thanksgiving, they managed a second win in a row, also against a division rival. The coyote packed up his camping gear with a smile on his face, and-

“To this." Asterbury snapped again.

The Coyote was in his car, shortly after sunrise, early into his six hour drive. He had the radio cranked, listening to the local sports hosts talk about the Cowboy's victory. He was downing copious amounts of caffeine from Dutch Brothers. Later, he'd stop to buy more canned coffee drinks for his trip. After all, he had to compensate for the fact that he'd left all the coffee he bought for his trip…at the grocery store. When he reached the end of the radio distance, he'd put on some new music for the day. Metal Injection had just posted about some weird Italian prog-death metal band that sounded right up his alley.

“And then, to this!" Asterbury whisked him ahead another day.

The Coyote stood on an endless stretch of sand. A cold wind howled, tearing right through the two layers of hoodies he wore. It was gloomy, and overcast. His hands were freezing. His feet were wet, and cold. And none of that mattered at all, because he was battling a giant fish, in the surf. He paced back and forth across the wet sands. Waves lapped over his feet. The Coyote grit his teeth as the powerful fish made a long run. Drag screamed off his feet, the high-pitched buzzing noise temporarily overwhelming even the sound of the waves. Nearby, two of his long time fishing buddies watched and cheered him on, laughed and playfully teased him, taking photos of the battle. A warm fire and a cold beer awaited him, once the battle was over. But even without their looming comfort, none of day's hardships meant anything, because for at least a little while, The Coyote was simply enjoying his life, with his friends.

As the Coyote battled the fish, it struck him how ridiculous his entire week had been. Tuesday, he'd spent nearly two hours inside an MRI tube, followed by an afternoon getting someone else's blood pumped into his body. Thursday, he'd enjoyed Thanksgiving dinner with his family. Friday, he drove down to the same lonely stretch of isolated beach featured in a Christmas story a few years ago, where a storm flattened his tent. Saturday, he was battling huge fish in the waves.

Life was often a very strange journey.

The key, he thought, was to make the most of it, as often as possible.

Eventually, The Coyote hauled the fish up onto the bank. He gave a happy, excited bark when he realized his catch was a black drum. As a lifelong multispecies angler, The Coyote had always loved catching as many species of fish as possible. He'd nearly exhausted the freshwater options to add new species to his list, at least without going a long ways out of his home state. But there were countless saltwater species he hadn't yet caught, and the black drum was one of them. Though there were bigger fish landed that trip, mostly red drum, none of them excited The Coyote quite like that big black drum. He weighed it, posed with it for a few photos, and then returned it to the waves.

“Hell of a week," Asterbury said, sloshing through the waves. The urd'thin now wore a bright orange rain-slicker over a blue sweater. Rubber galoshes covered his feet all the way up to his knees. “Even by your current standards."

“It really was." The Coyote glanced over, flattening his ears. “Why are you dressed like the Gorton's Fisherman."

“Because…" Asterbury spread his arms. “Everyone trusts him!" A devious grin spread across his muzzles. “Makes it easier to slip 'em-"

“Nope!" The Coyote turned around, walking away from urd'thin. “We're not doing that joke. That's too fucked up, even for you."

“What?" Asterbury padded after him. “All I was gonna say was, slip 'em five bucks to be me some E."

“First, no you weren't." The Coyote shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. “Second, there's no way you're buying E, or anything else, for only $5. You might be buying something they tell you is E, but if you take it, you're probably gonna end up on the news."

Asterbury danced across the sands. “You mean, because I set a record for rizziest skibidi?"

“No, because you died, from taking drain cleaner." The Coyote paused, glancing back. “Wait, what did you say?"

“Rizziest skibidi." Asterbury waved a hand. “You know, the skibidi with the most rizz?"

“Okay, Tik Tok," The Coyote said.

“I'm not Tik Tok!" Asterybury moved closer to the Coyote. “But we do share a lot in common. I'm also banned by the federal government!"

The Coyote glanced down at him. “And yet, they keep letting you in."

“Yeah!" Asterbury nudged the canine with his elbow. “Just like the southern border, am I right?"

The Coyote was silent. Somewhere, a cricket chirped.

Asterbury looked around. “What, too political? Maybe you just need a sense of humor, Coyote. That one killed at Madison Square Garden a few months ago!"

“That's it." The Coyote said, holding his thumb and finger close together in front of Asterbury's muzzle. “You are this close to being written out of these things, permanently."

“Alright, alright." Asterbury held his hands up. “Tik Tok jokes are as far as you wanna go, huh?" He cleared his throat. “I'm also owned by the Chinese! Not the government, though, just a few businessmen who bought my ass from Vatch." He blinked, then amended himself. “That's not a phrase, by the way. They bought the rights to use my ass every Friday night! Just my ass, I mean. Only Vatch gets my mouth." He snuggled up to the coyote's arm, whispering. “But I've got a pass for you Scavenger."

The Coyote put a hand over his face, groaning. “What are we doing?"

Asterbury waggled his fingers, and an elegant tent sprang out of the sands. Christmas decorations adorned it. Tinsel ran down its every pole, bells hung from its corners. Inside, an enormous bed shaped like a gingerbread man sat in the center, covered with cream-hued blankets arranged like icing, and gum drop pillows.

Asterbury pointed to it. “Consummating our union, I think!"

The Coyote took a deep breath, then let it out in a deep sigh. “Alright, fuck it. Let's get this over with."

Asterbury gasped, his eyes wide. “You mean it? After all these years, you're finally gonna bend me over and crash your oversized semi into my low bridge? You're gonna deck my halls with boughs of holy shit, show me what dat coyote dick do?"

The Coyote scrunched his muzzle, walking towards the tent. “Yeah, sure. Whatever."

“Wait, I got more!" Asterbury scurried ahead of him, his rain slicker squeaking. He spun around, a wide grin on his muzzle. “You're gonna pop that knot into me like a champagne cork into unbirthing?"

“Ugh." The Coyote flattened his ears. As they reached the tent, he put a hand on Asterbury's shoulder. “I have to admit, Asterbury. I've been waiting a long time to do this." A smile spread across his muzzle. “And it's going to feel really good."

Asterbury smiled back at him, his tail slowly wagging. “I feel the same way Scavenger."

“After you, then…" The Coyote swept his hand towards the bed that awaited them inside the tent.

Asterbury waggled his eyebrows like a horned up cartoon wolf. He ducked under the entryway, and slipped off his rain slicker. He tossed it on the floor. Then he smiled back at the coyote over his shoulder, removing his sweater. Next, he pulled his waders off over his boots, leaving the galoshes on. Beneath everything else, Asterbury wore lacy, neon pink lingerie, and an old fashioned 1920's era granny garter complete with suspenders.

“Huh…" The Coyote scratched his head. “Somehow, that's both the last thing I expected you to have on under there, and completely fitting."

“Got 'em from my favorite granny stripper, Eustace Butterbutt." Asterbury snapped his suspenders. “And as Eustace says, every time I visit the old folks home… Ready when you are, sonny."

The Coyote smirked. “Okie-dokie, here we go."

Quick as he could, the Coyote zipped up the tent without entering it. He padlocked the zipper, trapping Asterbury inside. Then, he magicked a can of gasoline into existence. The Coyote walked around the tent, pouring gasoline all over it while singing to himself.

“It's beginning to look a lot like Fuck This." The Coyote went behind the tent, dousing it with more gas. “Everywhere you look." He tossed the can away, and pulled a lighter of his pocket. “Take a look at this fancy tent, where you'll live if can't pay rent…" He lit the lighter, and tossed it onto the gas soaked tent. It immediately went up in flames. “Now there's gasoline and polyester aglow!"

The canine pulled a large can of lighter fluid out of the Christmas ether, and used it to spray the flames. They jumped higher still, glowing brightly enough to silhouette the burning urd'thin inside the tent. He sprayed the doors, ensuring Asterbury couldn't get out. “Yes, it's beginning to look a lot like Christmas! Flames, at every door!" He walked another circuit, emptying the can. “But the prettiest sight to me, is the burning corpse I'll see, when Asterbury's dead."

The Coyote turned away as the burning tent collapsed in on its hapless, trapped occupant. He dusted off his hands. “And that's that." The Coyote smiled to himself. “Okay, now it feels like Christmas."

Just then, Asterbury exploded out of the top of the tent. He shot into the sky, smoke trailing from his burning ass like Mario after falling into lava. “Whaaaa-ha-ha-huey!"

“Huh…" The Coyote watched him fly through the sky. “Usually gotta taser someone in the ass to get to make that joke." His shoulder slumped. “And damn it, how did that only burn your ass?"

“I'm 90% asbestos!" Asterbury plummeted back down to earth. He crashed into the sand headfirst, bouncing back and forth like a cartoon character shot out of a bow. Smoke billowed from his scorched ass. “But well done on trying to Amaleen me!"

The Coyote backed away, scrunching his muzzle. “That had better just be smoke coming out of your ass."

Asterbury sprang back up, spitting sand. “It's not! I stopped at Taco Bell for lunch." He cackled, clapping his hands once. “Hah! It's never a bad time to take a shot at Taco Bell." Then he cupped his hand next to his muzzle, as if whispering to some unseen bystander. “And if you eat there, it's never a bad time to take a shit after taco bell, either."

The Coyote blinked. “What does that even mean?"

“It means, you gotta get ahead of the game, Scavenger!" Asterbury pulled a chalkboard eraser out of his pocket, then rubbed his ass with it, erasing the burns as if they were only drawn on. “If you don't take a taco bell shit on your own terms, it takes charge of you! You gotta keep emptying yourself out. Otherwise, next thing you know, you got a real, Three Cousins Eddies in a Hospital Room situation." He lifted a foot, waggling his rubber boot. “Why do you think I kept these on?"

“Gross." The Coyote turned towards the waves, his ears flat. “I should bury you in the sand and let the tide drown you."

“Oh, please." Asterbury tossed his eraser away. “You know I always come back." He nudged The Coyote with his elbow. “Just like your herpes."

The Coyote gave a horrified a yelp. “I don't have herpes!"

Asterbury waggled his eyebrows. “You will when I'm done with you." He glanced around conspiratorially, his voice lowered. “You should warn your wife." Then he rubbed his muzzle. “Or would it be, your husband? Actually, what gender is a dumpster?"

“I'm not married, you rejected Temu supervillain." The Coyote folded his arms. “Especially not a dumpster."

Asterbury gasped, putting a hand over his muzzle. “Have you told the dumpster that? You'll break their poor, filth-encrusted heart. Why, it was only last year you were first wed! In fact, I remember it like it was just last December." Asterbury cleared his throat. “Hey gang, remember that time-"

“Don't you dare!"

Asterbury only cackled. “Like that ever stopped me!" He danced away from the coyote, spreading his arms wide, and washing the world away with a surprise flashback. “Hey gang, remember that time the coyote married his favorite dumpster?"

*****

SMASH CUT TO A BEAUTIFUL WEDDING CEREMONY

EXTERIOR: MOUNTAINS

SUNSET

( NOTE TO SELF – GOOGLE 'SCRIPTWRITING FOR DUMMIES' )

( ADDITIONAL NOTE TO SELF – REMOVE THIS )

( FURTHER ADDEMDUM – ITS SCREENWRITING NOT SCRIPTING WRITING, DUMBASS )

*****

We open on a cliffside villa. It's sunset. It's snowing heavily. The last rays of the dying sun shine brightly on the falling snow. Wait, that doesn't make sense. Unless… uh….oh, I got it. So, like, it's totally snowing over the cliffs, right? And the villa? But the skies are clearing in the distance, over the purple mountain's…majesty. And so, it's snowing on the coyote because he loves that, but also he can see the mountains and they're like shining in the sun, and all that other scenario shit he's got a total boner for. Because it's his wedding and he should get what he wants.

Speaking of boners, anyone get a peek at that dumpster he's marrying? Hubba hubba, talk about a place to dump your load, amirite? Boom got 'em chat.

Anyway, moving on.

The Coyote was dressed in his finest Trashxedo. It was woven from scraps of old newspapers, trash bags, some frayed twine and used floss, and a hobo's dirty pants. He stood beneath a beautiful archway, built from soiled cardboard and cartoon style fish skeletons. Across from him, stood the dumpster of his dreams. Patches of rust marked its faded green paint. The black plastic doors atop it were battered, and barely clung to their hinges. Somehow, it was always at least half full of trash, even after the garbage truck had been and gone. It was as if the dumpster had attained its own trash gravity. Trashvity, they called it. And the coyote had never known anything so beautiful. Or putrid. It gave him a real Scavenger Chubby in his trashbag pants. A Scav-Chub-Trash-Pant, they called it. Or scavchatrapant, for short.

Yes, The Coyote got a real scavchatrapant every time he caught a whiff of that dumpster's tantalizing odor of pure-

*****

“Goddamn it, Asterbury," The Coyote said, slapping the urd'thin across the muzzle. “This is dumber than usual."

Asterbury's muzzle popped off like Daffy Duck's beak in an acme accident. Asterbury held his hands up, his muzzle talking from its place on the ground. “Alright, alright, keep your scavchatrapant in your trousers. Lemme convene the focus groups, and re-ka-jigger this thing."

*****

SWIPE CUT TO THE TITLE SCREEN

SWIPE RIGHT TO BE HOT FOR THIS MOVIE

*****

My Big Fat Coyote Wedding

*****

(Note – The title is because the coyote is fat, not because it's a riff on My Big Fat Greek Wedding. That movie is a classic! I won't have this festering, garbage-marinating, maggot-ridden, flea-bitten, dumpster-soup sucking-

*****

“Asterbury!" The Coyote snarled, his ears back. “I ain't got all year to write this thing! Why don't you…wait, what the hell is dumpster soup?"

“You know that liquid that ends up in the bottom of a trash bag?" Asterbury gestured with a candy cane that suddenly appeared in his hand. “Now imagine dozens of trashbags, all draining into the bottom of a dumpster. Then you pour it all into a rusty pot, and heat it up over your favorite trashcan fire with your fellow hobos." Asterbury licked his muzzle, rubbing his belly in a circle. “That's good eats!"

The Coyote took a slow breath, then let it back out in a long, disgusted groan. His shoulders slumped. “I really gotta learn to stop asking questions in these stories."

“You sure do, my beloved Garbage Gobbler! And now…" Asterbury clapped his hands once. “Back to my tale!"

*****

Everyone was there to see The Coyote married. Valyrym was there, and so was Amaleen. She wasn't even on fire yet, either. Valyrym's Cousin Roy was there, too. Or at least, the bag containing his ashes, was. Poor Cousin, everyone said together, right in the meat grinder. Alia was there too, I guess, probably starting some reality TV style drama with Amaleen. The Real Housewives of DitD. Say, there's a parody we could do.

“That's my dragon, bitch!" Pimp slap! Bitch slap! Bass slap! Bowchickkabowbowbow!

Let's see, who else was there for the wedding? Fabio, of course, and he was busy fisting Asterbury, as always. Vatch was there, preparing to sell Asterbury's ass to Krek, as soon as Fabio was done with it. Big Ayly was there too, but not Little Ayly, because these jokes would be highly inappropriate for a hatchling. Also, Tim Allen was there, both as himself, and as Santa. And you know who else was there?

Theodore Roosevelt.

That's right, The Theodore Roosevelt. By which I mean the ballistic missile sub, laid down on May 20th, 1958. She was there, crying her torpedo tubes out, to see her beloved scavenger finally tying the knot. And of course, I mean that literally. He knotted that dumpster in front of everyone, in much the same way he'd once knotted Theodore Roosevelt. The President, not the submarine. Crazy story.

Oh, but President Theodore Roosevelt was there too. Though they'd each moved on with their lives and found new scavengers to shack up with, they still talked. They had a healthy relationship, and a good friendship. Why, only six months earlier, during the Vietnam War, The Coyote took a break from hunting Charley and the Chocolate Factory to attend the wedding of Theodore Roosevelt and Theodore Roosevelt. That is, both the submarine and the president were getting married. Not to each other, just together.

Theodore Roosevelt the Ballistic Missile Sub was marrying that nice aircraft carrier from college. Meanwhile. Theodore Roosevelt the President was marrying the latest trash mammal to catch his dick's fancy. Her name was Cindy Shitstick, and she was the hottest possum this side of that porta-potty behind the construction site.

The Coyote blinked, looking around. “What in the actual fuck is happening?"

That's right, readers, even The Coyote was there to attend The Coyote's wedding. Just like your old pal Asterbury! Why, he was both in the audience, and penning this portion of the tale. It's just like in Revaramek, when he was like Dr. Manhattan and living in both in the future, and the past, and then he was like, hey, I can see through time! Wait, is this a spoiler? Oh, who cares, no one reads this garbage anyway. Wait a minute, if I can see through time, does that mean I can reach through time, and if the answer is yes, does that mean I can fuck myself?

That'd be great! Then, from now on, whenever anyone says, Hey Asterbury, go fuck yourself. I could literally do just that! That'd show them! Or…me. Or someone. Well, as long as they were watching me when I fucked myself, I guess.

It was then that The Coyote yanked a scene out of an old Monty Python, in which everyone from the cast showed up, and yelled, GET ON WITH IT.

Fine, fine, Scavenger. There's no appreciation for the arts anymore! Let's just jump to the climatic scene.

“Do you, The Coyote…" The Trash Fox sat atop a pile of garbage bags, adjudicating the wedding. He waggled his syringe fingers, clicking his teeth. “Take this Dumpster, to be your lawfully wedded trash receptacle?"

“I do." The Coyote smiled, love shining his in his eyes as he stared at the dumpster. Or perhaps that was just all the drugs they'd doped him up with at the hospital, in the earlier scene. That would explain why he was marrying a dumpster. Come to think of it, that would explain a lot of things in this story. Anyway, he was totally in love. “I absolutely do."

“And do you," the Crack Fox said, his voice high, squeaky, and punctuated with creepy giggles. “Dumpster, take this coyote to be your lawfully wedded nuisance animal?"

The Dumpster shook with joy, its trash innards jostling and rattling. “I do! A million times, I do! For all the garbage in the alleyways, and all the plastics in the sea, I do!"

The Trash Fox, passing each of them half a tennis ball filled with red liquid. “Then drink this goblet of wine to seal your marriage!"

The Coyote took the halved tennis ball carefully from the Trash Fox's syringe fingers. He drank the wine, then immediately spat it out, gagging. “What the fox is that?"

“It's blood from a cat's face," said the trash fox, giggling and wiggling his needle-fingers. “Do ya like my joke?"

The Dumpster downed the cat blood immediately. “Mmm, my favorite!"

“You may now fuck the bride," said the trash fox.

The Coyote got right too it. He ripped off his trashxedo, Hulkamania style. And just like Groundskeeper Willie, he was ripped as fuck under that thing. You've heard of an six pack? Well, this dude had a 27 pack. Of beer. Right before the wedding. So he was pretty fuckin' hammered. But also, he totally had abs! Not even a six pack, either. Or an eight back. But an 11 pack! Which is a weirdly high and odd number. Plus, they were only on one side of his body. Come to think of it, that was probably less likely to be his abdominals, and more likely to be some kind of serious medical emergency.

Then he went to town on that dumpster. He wrapped his arms around as much of it as he could hold, and he started humping away his grime-slathered, rust-spotted lover like a pure-blooded Mississippi Leg Hound. And if you're thinking there must have been an awful lot of scraping and chafing going on, you're right! Only the coyote didn't notice, because he was so drunk. Then, just when he was about to pop his Christmas cracker, the dumpster decided to be on top. It fell over, onto the coyote, crushing his bones to jam instantly.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

THE END

*****

“Why the fuck do I keep getting killed in these stories, lately?" The Coyote glared down at Asterbury, back on the beach. “Last year I got burned, electrocuted-"

“And everyone loved it!" Asterbury cackled. “Besides, incinerating your characters is a beloved holiday tradition. Just ask Amaleen!"

“Oh, Lord." The Coyote rubbed his muzzle. “You know, I'm starting to think you're the reason these stories keep going so far over their word budget, every year. That whole wedding debacle just now was all your idea. I hadn't even thought of that, until now."

Asterbury bowed. “You're welcome." He straightened back up. “I'm the reason these stories are entertaining! Otherwise, it would all be…" Asterbury's head shifted into a caricature of the Coyote, with oversized glasses and blood shot eyes. His voice shifted into something high and whiny. “Oh, woe is me, I have health problems! Wah, I'm so sad, no one's on Sofurry to read my stories anymore, boo hoo! The government and the election and the medical insurance industry all give me unbearable stress, everything's bad, wah, wah, baby want bottle!"

The Coyote folded his arms, grumping. “I don't sound like that. And I definitely never said, baby want bottle."

Asterbury cupped his hand to his muzzle. “Booze bottle, maybe."

The Coyote shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. “Are we spending the rest of the story on this beach? Hell, for that matter, where even were we in the story?"

“You mean, before you went all cum-dumpster on your dumpster?" Asterbury gasped, then clapped his hands once. “Ooh, ooh, I got it, I got it!"

“You got what?" The Coyote glanced over. “Every STD known to man?"

“Sure do, old buddy!" Asterbury danced his fingers down The Coyote's arm. “Wanna share a few with me?"

“Not only fuck no," the coyote said, slapping his hand away. “But-"

“Health care claim denial, no?" Asterbury pulled his hand back, grinning.

The Coyote cringed, shaking his head. “That's what I was thinking, but… too hot button right now."

“Speaking of hot, have you seen that Luigi?" Asterbury licked his muzzle.

The Coyote gulped, glancing over. “The killer?"

“No!" Asterbury opened his santa robe, and pulled out an immense pin up. “Luigi Mario!" He flashed it to the coyote. “Check out the mushroom on this guy!"

The Coyote's jaw dropped. “Why does it look like a portabella?" He blinked. “Wait, did you paste John Leguizamo's face, from the 1993 live action Mario Bros movie…" The Coyote tilted his head, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. “Over some kind of weird-penis fetish R34 art of Luigi, from the 2023 animated movie?"

“Sure did!" Asterbury rolled the poster back up. “Johnny Legs will always be the only Luigi in my heart. And his dick's not that weird… it's a goomba!"

The Coyote stared in horror. “He has a goomba for a dick?"

“I can't get off if he doesn't!" He tucked the poster away. “Oh! I never told you what I got!"

“Whatever is is…" The Coyote held his hands up. “I don't want it."

“No, remember, like two minutes ago, I said cum dumpster, and then I said, I got it?" Asterbury clapped his hands once. “Cumpster!" He cackled, pirouetting away. “Get it? A cum dumpster… a cumpster!"

“That's horrifying…" The Coyote scrunched up his face. “Clever, but horrifying." He slowly looked around. “Where the hell were we, anyway? In the story, I mean. Before you derailed us worse than usual."

“Hell, if anything, I derailed us less than usual. But, since you asked, I believe we were at…" Asterbury cleared his throat. “Tik Tok Skibidi Rizzler Ohio!" He snapped his fingers in time with the rhythm of his words. “Sounds like Scat! I mean the music, not the fun, sexy kind."

“Nope." The Coyote quickly duct-taped Asterbury's muzzle. “We're not going any further with that particularly disgusting joke. We're gonna go with…" He thought for a moment, then went on. “I can barely even understand the words that just came out of your mouth, but they sounded like something Big Ayly would say."

Asterbury ripped the duct tape right back off, taking both fur and skin with it. His rent lips flapped loosely. “Where do you think I heard it from? She was teaching me how to rizz while we were watching Skibidi Toilet, in Ohio!" He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Those toilet bowl guys really know how to plunger my clogged turd, if you know what I mean."

“Okay, you yeti's blowup doll." The Coyote's ears went flat. “You're making me sick."

Sick. The world shuddered around them. Waves rolled across existence, and left it shimmering in their wake. The gray surf flattened out. The sands dissolved away. The Coyote wobbled, the changing reality left him dizzy. He stumbled a few steps and fell back, only to flop down into a comfortable, pale blue chair. He blinked, glancing around. A familiar cubicle surrounded him. A blue and green cloth curtain was pulled across the end of it, providing a minimum of privacy. An IV pump beeped alongside the chair. The Coyote looked up at the bags hanging free it. He was getting blood again.

“Oh…" He sighed, leaning his head back against the chair. “This again."

“Yanno," Asterbury said, once more seated in the visitor's chair. “If you break your readers' necks with all these mood swings, you're gonna have to pay their hospital bills." The urd'thin laughed to himself. “Because United sure as hell won't!"

The Coyote chuckled with him. “Okay, that's not bad." He peered up at the bags hanging from the IV pole. Blood steadily dripped from one of them, through the filter, and into the tubing that eventually went to the catheter in his arm. “So, what is this, anyway? This year's sad reality part of the story? Every time I say the word sick, I end up back here again or something?"

The urd'thin shrugged. “Something like that. It's your concept."

The Coyote snorted, resting his head against the chair again. “You know I make this shit up as I go along."

“Most of it, anyway." Asterbury drummed his fingers against the arm of the chair. “I think you just wanted people to see how wild that Thanksgiving week was for you. From MRI, to blood transfusion, to shopping for a trip, to Thanksgiving dinner, to camping on the beach. All in the span of a few days."

“That was gonna be the intro, anyway." The Coyote traced little circles in the fur on the back of his other hand. “But now here we are, halfway through my maximum word budget already."

“So what happens if we hit your word budget and we're not done?" Asterbury leaned towards The Coyote. “Do we all just stop moving mid-" The urd'thin froze completely still.

“Man, I wish it was that easy to shut you the hell up." He looked around the little room. There was a small TV on an extendable arm, but he didn't really feel like watching it. “Nah, I'll just wrap things up and say Merry Christmas, or whatever, and that's that. Cause I really don't wanna be grinding away at this thing on Christmas Eve."

A smirk spread over the urd'thin's muzzle. “Yeah, not when you could be grinding away against your Dumpster Wife again."

The Coyote rolled his eyes. “Hilarious, Asterbury."

A female rabbit in a nurse's uniform pulled the curtain aside. She smiled at The Coyote. “Time for vitals!" She wrapped a blood pressure cuff around his arm, and tapped on the machine. While the cuff inflated, she put a pulse ox monitor on his finger, and stuck a thermometer into his muzzle. She pulled the thermometer out. “Temp is good." Then the blood pressure machine beeped, and she unstrapped the cuff. “Blood pressure looks great."

The Coyote smiled at her. “Well, at least I got that going for me."

The nurse laughed while she removed the cuff, and the pulse ox monitor. “That's right."

“Aww, you old flirt, you," Asterbury said. “Trying to scavenge up yourself a nurse, are ya?"

The rabbit nurse ignored Asterbury entirely. She couldn't see, or hear him, anyway. She walked around the IV pump. “We can bump up your rate now." She tapped a few buttons, earning a few loud beeps. “Should be another hour and a half, or so. Can I get you anything else?"

“You guys don't have any eggnog, do you?" The Coyote wagged his tail.

The nurse pursed her lips, glancing from the coyote's wagging tail to his hopefully perked ears. “Not really, but for you, sweetie, anything. Be right back."

As she vanished through the curtain, Asterbury turned to stare at The Coyote. “Wait, if she can't see me, doesn't that mean all this…" He circled a finger around The Coyote's head. “Should be, I dunno…a whole lot less canine?"

The Coyote scowled, his ears splayed. “I don't know. I don't think I can be bothered to do that whole, The Writer thing. I'm just gonna stay The Coyote this year."

Asterbury waggled his eyebrows like Groucho Marx. “Furries, amirite chat?" Then he blinked, twisting up his whole face, his oversized ears flicked back. “A Marx Brothers reference?" He pressed a hand to his chest in faux surprise. “How timely! Ooh, what should we reference next? The Great Depression? How about the Wright Brothers?"

“Shut up," The Coyote said, jabbing a finger in the air. “The Marx Brothers are fucking timeless. Besides, I'm tired, man." He gestured at the blood bag hanging from the IV pole. “I was in the infusion clinic all day yesterday, doing this for real. Platelets, too. Then today I had to go back and see Dr. Liver Man."

Asterbury blinked. “Dr. Liver Man? That's a cool name! If I was a Doctor, I think I'd be…" He hopped up out of his chair. “Dr. Dick Man. No, wait!" He waggled his oversized candy cane around his crotch. “Dr. Cock Rocket!"

The Coyote just chuckled. “Dr. Liver Man isn't his real name. But I'm not gonna use my doctor's actual name in one of these stories."

“Oh, even better." Asterbury bent over, suckling the end of his candy cane whilst still positioning it at his crotch. “Dr. Look What I Can Do!"

“Goddamn it, Asterbury."

“I dunno…" Asterbury straightened back up. “Dr. Goddamn It Asterbury is kind of a mouthful, yanno? And speaking of mouthfuls…" Asterbury approached The Coyote. He set his fingers on the canine's knee, then slowly walked them up The Coyote's thigh. “How'd you like to give me a mouthful of your canine candy cane? Promise I'll make you forget where you are, for a while."

“Hell no." The Coyote lifted his arm with the IV. “And I'll strangle you with this IV tubing if you try. I've got enough issues to deal with already, without adding every known STD to the list."

Asterbury bounced on his toes, entirely too cheerful. “And plenty of undiscovered ones!" He wandered back to his seat, hopping into it. “Actually, I'm going back to Dr. Dick Mann. With two N's now. Full name, Richard Mann. That way, Dr. Dick Man is my real name, and what they call me down at the Twink Club, Skinny Dicks!"

“For the last time, Asterbury," The Coyote said, slapping his chair. “Slender Richard's is a friendly, weight-loss support group for men! It's not a Twink Club!"

“Yanno, for a place called Richard's, they really don't have much of a sense of humor about my Nixon impression." Asterbury held up two fingers on each hand, lowering his voice and shaking his muzzle while he spoke. “I am extremely crooked down there!"

“Oh my god." The Coyote dropped his head back, groaning.

“No, really, my cock's as red and crooked as that moving line on the map in the Indiana Jones movies." Asterbury cackled. “Ever seen the lines approaching a crosswalk in Europe? It used to be shaped like a U-turn, but I think all those kicks from Amaleen over the years have really bent it outta shape. On the plus side, now I can use it to snake out drains!"

The Coyote burst out laughing. “Alright, that last one was pretty good."

The nurse returned, pushing the curtain aside. She handed the coyote a few little plastic containers filled with eggnog. “Here you go, sweetie. Lemme know if you need anything else."

“Thank you!" The Coyote wagged his tail. It thumped against the infusion chair as he took the eggnog. He set the small containers on the little table nearby, then carefully peeled away the plastic from the first one. He took a sip, then smiled and set it down. “Pretty good for eggnog from a little plastic cup."

Asterbury glanced over. “Do they really make eggnog in those little hospital juice cups?"

The Coyote shrugged. “Probably not. But who cares." He settled back into his chair, glancing over at the urd'thin. “If we're doing this whole…" The Coyote flourished a hand. “Trials and tribulations of my real life thing, then…" He set his arm back down. “Shouldn't it be Valyrym who's here with me?"

Asterbury only smiled. “You had something else planned for him."

The Coyote blinked. “I did?"

“More or less." The urd'thin interlaced his fingers behind his horned head, leaning it back against the wall. “He'll show up shortly, with a few of the other Christmas story regulars. Let's face it, though. For all the time you spent joking around and venting to Valyrym in the early Christmas story years, it's mostly just been you and me for a while, now."

“I guess that's true." The Coyote reached for his eggnog, then took another little sip. “Sometimes I wonder why that is. I used to enjoy my little chats with Val. And the readers did, too."

“They did, but in a way, you've both moved on." Asterbury shrugged. “The readership's not what it once was, especially in these stories. And I know, I know, we've joked about it every year. For a while, it kinda bothered you, but…" He glanced over, grinning. “I don't think you care, anymore. Not about the stories, I mean. Even when you bitched about how you weren't sure you wanted to write them, anymore, some part of you always longed for it. To spend a few days, just…" He lifted a hand long enough to swirl a finger in the air. “Spinning up some merry holiday bullshit, and the weirdest, grossest jokes you could think of." Asterbury tucked his hand back behind his head. “Plus, it gives you a way to vent, for a while. Sometimes you don't wanna burden your boyfriend, or the fox-cat, or your family, or any of other best friends with all the shit you wanna say. All the things that frighten you, all the worries that keep you up at night. And you know, eventually they'll read this too, and by then…" Asterbury shrugged again. “They'll probably have heard it all. But this…" He looked around, the walls shimmering all around them. Scrolling lines of text were faintly visible behind everything, like the molecules upon which the universe was built. “This lets you vent a little more, a little easier, a little more…anonymously."

The Coyote grimaced. Sometimes, how hated how insightful the cosmic bastard could be, when he dropped all the cockacidal maniac nonsense. “Hardly anonymous. The only people reading this are people who already read my stuff."

“Exactly!" Asterbury's half-eaten candy cane floated before him, jabbing the air to punctuate his words. “Your readers. Not your loved ones, not your real life friends. Telling them about bad things means you have to see the worry in their eyes, or hear the fear in their voices. Telling them means they have to share your burdens, too. Which…" He waggled a finger. “Is important. But it also means, they have to share your fears. And you don't like that. You don't want them to be worried about you. But this?" The candy cane swept around the room. “All this? It lets you vent to a wider audience, without having to place all your worries on your friends and family, all at once. It gives you…" He gestured with a hand. “Time to think about things."

The Coyote sighed. He drained his egg nog, and tossed the cup into a trash bin. Then he opened a second one. “I guess so."

“And Valyrym, he…" Asterbury painted an image of the dragon's smiling face in the air. “He's like a friend, to you. Maybe you just don't wanna burden him anymore, either. Or…" The dragon's face faded. “Maybe you'd just moved on from him, for a while. It's okay, you know. To move on. It's what people do, if they're able."

“I haven't moved on from Valyrym." The Coyote crossed his arms, careful of his IV. “Hell, I've written over twenty new chapters of DitD 11, across the last year. If anything, I've circled back to him."

“To his story, anyway." Asterbury leaned forward. “But he's still not on your mind the way he used to be. Even when you think about DitD, you spend as much time thinking about Krek, and Valar, as you did thinking about Valyrym. Maybe more so. I do believe I've even heard you say, it's their story, now."

The Coyote flicked his ears back. “More and more, I think it is. But that's not-"

“You still think about my story, a lot." Asterbury adjusted his Santa robe. “I know you've had the ending in mind for ages, and I know you want to write it. You just keep letting other stories jump up and take priority again. But I remain further forward in your mind than that old black sack of scales, I think." Asterbury shrugged. “Maybe I'm wrong. But do you want to know why I really think I'm here, instead of him?"

“No," the coyote said. “But you're going to tell anyway."

“I'm funnier than he is," Asterbury said, standing up. “And I don't mean that in the way you're thinking. Now, sure enough best buddy, you want me here for all the good, funny times we've shared of the years." He pulled a DVD copy of the Hannibal TV series boxed set out of his robe, tapping it with a finger. “Good, funny times? Mason reference. Watch Hannibal." Then he shoved it back into his robe, and went on. “But think about it. Somewhere in your mind, you also see these stories as an escape. Even when you're bitching about how stressful they sometimes are to get finished in time? How you don't know if you wanna do them anymore? They've always been better than thinking about all the other difficult bullshit in your life."

The Coyote snorted. “Except when they make me think about all that shit."

“Ah!" Asterbury waggled a finger. “But even then, its your way of venting about it. Escape, through venting, and through the strangest humor you can manage. And I…" He put a hand to his chest. “Am funny. While Valyrym…" He traced a finger in the air, an image of Valyrym appeared. In it, the dragon was crying. “Is the crying Jorden meme."

The Coyote snickered, his tail swishing. “He is not."

“But he is filled with trauma, and sorrow, and an aching desire to set things right. So he shows up, and you joke about his sad past, and then eventually…" Asterbury set his hand on The Coyote's shoulder. “He sets his paw upon you, and you bear your soul, and then you cry a while. And he cries with you. And that's good for the real you."

The Coyote cleared his throat, glancing away. “I guess."

“But sometimes, you don't want that." Asterbury squeezed his shoulder, smiling. “Sometimes, you just wanna enjoy the holidays, as quick as they come and go, without bearing your soul. Without tears. Sometimes, you just wanna get drunk, and make some funny, stupid jokes, and go to bed with a smile on your muzzle. And that's okay, too."

The Coyote sighed, swallowing hard. “Sometimes I think I need that more, lately. To just…" He waved a hand at the IV pump. “Not think about this shit, for a while."

Asterbury stepped back, smiling. “And that's why I'm here. Because we both know you could fill a dozen novels in no time flat with all the stupid banter you and I always share in these dumb stories."

“That's true." The Coyote took a drink of egg nog. “I dunno why, but I always find it easiest to just write us bullshitting."

“Exactly! No sad crap, no real life intrusions…" He slapped the back of one hand against his other palm. “No, 'I don't feel so good, Mr. Stark' Thanos snap bullshit…Just dick jokes, Bob's Burgers, Who's On First, and callbacks aplenty! That's why you keep bringing me back. That's why I'm here more than Valyrym. Not because you like me more." Asterbury laughed to himself. “Fuck knows you don't. But because I make you laugh."

“You have your moments." The Coyote glanced up at the unit of blood hanging from the pole alongside his chair. “Though, if this is your idea of keeping me away from my real life fears this year, you're not doing a very good job."

“Oh, no." Asterbury held his hands up, backing away. “I'm not taking the blame for this." He gestured at the hospital around them. “This is all you. This is your way of sharing your real life, with your readers." He tapped a finger to his chest. “I was the beach, the Three Cousin Eddies, The Dumpster Wedding. I'm offering you as many distractions as I can. You just keep bringing us back here."

The Coyote growled, baring his fangs. “Bullshit. You kept snapping your fingers and-"

“You're in control of the story, Coyote." Asterbury moved closer again, gently poking The Coyote's chest. “You could edit every one of these scenes out right now, if you wanted. But you'd rather that this was true to life. I'm just trying to give you a few laughs along the way. So…" Asterbury returned to his chair, and sat back down. “You may as well tell them what this is all about. Unless you'd rather they just draw their own conclusions?"

“No…" The Coyote shook his head. “They'll get the wrong idea."

“Well, then…" Asterbury waved a hand. “Tell them."

A snarl crept up the canine's throat. He gazed around the small room, his eyes flicking from the blood bag, to the IV pump, over the blood pressure machine, to the little TV, and the little curtain. Nurses voices drifted from nearby cubicles, where they attended other patients. He sighed, dropping his head back against the chair.

“I don't even know where to begin." The Coyote stared at the ceiling, sighing. “I've been including these little medical episodes, since at least Pictures in the Snow. Sometimes I do this way, other times I just mention it off-hand. I've had chronic diseases of the bone marrow and blood for…" He scrunched his face. “Hell, most of my adult life. They've been…" He waggled a hand. “Manageable, for a while. But this year, some things changed. My hemoglobin, and my red cells in general, started trickling lower and lower. And no one really knew why. Till I ended up in the hospital, with a camera in my belly, and biopsy needles in my marrow, again. And…"

The Coyote grimaced. “Nothing panned out. It wasn't any of the things the doctors thought it was. And that was months ago. I've been getting way too frequent blood transfusions, seeing other specialists, and on and on, while they try to track it down. I don't wanna get to into specifics, so… I'll just say that I saw the liver doctor today. And the MRI gave us some good news, and some bad news, and some things to work with. But it still doesn't totally solve the mystery. I'll need to see some GI specialists next, so they can stick cameras…" He scrunched his muzzle. “Well, everywhere. But…" He gestured at the IV. “This has been my life for the last six months, or so. Maybe more. And it'll be my life for the foreseeable future. So, I dunno…" The Coyote leaned his head back again, closing his eyes. “Go donate blood, if you can. People need it."

“Wait…" Asterbury stared up at the IV tubing and the crimson-filled bag it was attached too. “That's blood in there?"

“Yes?" The Coyote lifted his head again. “What the hell did you think it was?"

“I thought it was cranberry juice!"

The Coyote sat up straighter. “You thought it was what?"

“Cranberry juice!" Asterbury hopped up out of his chair to poke the coyote in the belly. “I thought you just had a really bad urinary tract infection!"

“First, gross." The Coyote shoved him away. “Second, they wouldn't give you cranberry juice intravenously, Dr. Dumbass. Third-"

“Excuse me, but that's Dr. Mann, to you." Asterbury was suddenly dressed in a stark white doctor's coat. An ID badge hung from the right side of his chest. It read 'Dr. Dick Mann', and featured a photograph of Asterbury's penis. “Dr. Dick Mann."

The Coyote grabbed the badge, yanked it as far as the elastic strap would go, and then released it. It whipped back and smacked the urd'thin sharply in the chest.

“OW!" Asterbury grabbed his chest. “My third nipple!"

“You have a third nipple?" The Coyote tilted his head. “Why would it be where your regular nipple is?"

“Regular nipple?" Asterbury kept rubbing himself, wincing. “Sounds like someone's biased against the extra nippled community."

“Okay, that's definitely not a thing." The Coyote snorted. “I mean, some people have an extra nipple, but I sincerely doubt there's a whole community of them. And wouldn't it normally be-"

“If you think my third nipple's in an unusual place, you should see where my third dick is!" Asterbury cackled.

The Coyote pinched the bridge of his muzzle. “Anyway," he said, his voice a frustrated growl. “It's not goddamn cranberry juice."

“Well, what is it then? Ketchup?" Asterbury suddenly held up a basket of fries. “Lemme get some of that!"

“It's not ketchup, you elf's chode." The Coyote snarled at him. “I literally just told you, it's blood!"

“It really is blood!?" Asterbury gasped, his eyes wide. He stared in silence for long moments. Then he scrambled to grab the tube. “Even better! Quit bogartin' it!"

The Coyote shoved him away. “Listen here, Rudolph's Ballbag, I ain't bogartin' it. It's blood! It's not for sharing! They gotta type and screen it every time, just to be sure-"

“Oh, dampen your dumpster!" Asterbury hurried right back, clambering up onto the chair. “I ain't gonna stick it in my veins!"

“Dampen my dumpster?" The Coyote scratched his ear. “I don't even know what that means! And get off my chair!"

The Coyote pushed Asterbury again, this time sending him toppling off the arm of his chair. The urd'thin caught the IV tube, swinging back and forth on it like a drunken Tarzan. Then the tube pulled free of the bag, sending Asterbury crashing to the floor. Blood ran freely from it, splattering the urd'thin and hospital's tile floor. Asterbury popped to his feet, grabbing his basket of fries. He held it out under the rent blood bag, and let the streaming crimson liquid splash all across his snacks like runny ketchup.

Asterbury popped a blood-soaked fry into his muzzle. “Mama Mia, that's a spicy marinara!"

“God damn, Asterbury!" The Coyote snarled at him, waving his arm at the slowly emptying bag. His IV tube flopped around. “Will you at least fix this, you elf's fleshlight?"

“Can do, old buddy!" Asterbury set the fries down, then picked up the other end of the IV tube off the dirty floor. He hopped up onto the chair, and shoved the far end of the tube back up into the bag. Blood started flowing through it again. “There ya go, good as new!"

“What the shit!" The Coyote stared at it, wide-eyed. “Good as a septic infection, maybe. There's a reason that stuff has to be sterile, you idiot! You can't just pick it up off the floor and-"

“Sterile?" Asterbury whirled back around, glancing at The Coyote's crotch. “So, they finally plucked the old puppy makers, did they? Or did that MRI zap you in the goody bag by mistake?" He picked up his basket of bloodied fries and popped a few into his muzzle. “Well, no big loss! As far as I know, you can't actually impregnate a dumpster!"

“That's not funny!" The Coyote tried to slap the fries out of his hand, only for Asterbury to gleefully dance away. “And that's not what I meant by sterile, anyway. Besides, an MRI can't do that. It's magnetic, so…" He trailed off, tilting his head. “At least, I don't think it can. Anyway, that's not what I was talking about!" He thrust a finger towards the IV. “That has to be sterile, or it can lead to a serious infection. You can't just pick it up off the floor."

Asterbury waved a red-hued fry at him. “Oh, nonsense! I've got plenty of infections, and I'm just fine! Aside from a few nightsweats, some swelling on the brain, some penile discharge, some sores on my sugar plums and candy cane, and occasional severe bleeding from every orifice." He ate the fry, then selected another one. “You know what the real problem is?"

The Coyote folded his arms. “I have a feeling you're going to tell me."

“That Tarzan joke a few paragraphs ago!" The urd'thin clucked his tongue. “You missed a perfectly good chance for a Crystal Skull reference! Remember the swinging monkeys?"

The canine pinned his ears back. “Unfortunately."

“Absolute classic!" Asterbury paced back and forth. “Unfairly maligned, that one. It's just banger scene after banger scene."

“Are you kidding me?" The Coyote sneered, a few fangs bared as his lip curled. “He rides out a nuclear explosion in a refrigerator."

Asterbury spun back towards him, beaming. “Exactly! Pure genius, that movie."

“Are you shitting me?" The Coyote waved his arm, IV tube bobbling. “They swing around on fucking vines, like cartoon monkeys! Basically, alongside cartoon monkeys! It's so-"

“Cool, I know!" Asterbury bounced on his toes.

“No, I was gonna say dumb!" The Coyote snarled. “It's so-"

“Dumb how many people don't realize how cool it is?" Asterbury tossed his empty basket of fries into the biowaste container. “I totally agree, Scavenger! And it's even got Harrison Ford's real life son, Mutt Williams!"

The Coyote paused, head cocked. “Wait, you think Mutt Williams is Harrison Ford's real life son?"

“I don't think, Scavenger, Mutt is Harrison's son. He's the one who plays Han Solo's illegitimate kid in Crystal Skull!"

“Wait…" The Coyote rubbed his head. “Han Solo?"

“Yes!" Asterbury slapped the back of his hand against his palm. “Try and keep up, Scavenger! Han Solo and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull! Starring Mutt Williams, Harrison Ford's son. You know, the guy from Deep Rising."

“That was Treat Williams."

Asterbury licked his muzzle, purring to himself. “Oh, you're right about that. He was a treat. Especially when he fucked that sea monster!"

“He didn't fuck any sea monsters, you horned up little porn addict."

“Sure he did," Asterbury said, running a hand back over his ears. “Right before he turned into the Green Goblin, and put all those leeches all over his body."

The Coyote struggled to keep up with all the leaps of logic. “Wait, are you talking about Willem Dafoe, in Speed 2?"

“Yeah, Treat Williams!" Asterbury ticked off his fingers. “They were on that cruise ship, with the bus driver lady, and what's-his-face."

The Coyote sighed. “Jason Patrick."

“Yeah, that's the guy, Captain Picard."

“No, that was Patrick Steward."

“That's what I said!" Asterbury reached into his doctor's outfit, and withdrew a box of red and green frosted sugar cookies. He took one out, and bit into it. “So anyway, Captain Picard was on a cruise ship with the Green Goblin, sharing leeches, while Harrison Ford's real life son Mutt Williams was fucking a sea monster. Then Han Solo showed up and climbed out of that refrigerator he survived the nuclear blast in! Next thing you know, they're about to crash into the coast line, so they all follow the monkeys and swing away on vines!" He finished off his cookie. “Classic picture, really. And I haven't even got to all the psychic powers!"

The Coyote slapped the chair. “Oh, god, don't get me started. I know the Indiana Jones movies always dabbled in the supernatural, but this one's different. It just feels so overwrought. Aliens disintegrating someone with the power of knowledge? That was just stupid."

Asterbury gave him a blank look. “Who the fuck is Indiana Jones?"

The Coyote stared back at him, then couldn't help laughing. “Alright, that's a pretty good punchline."

Asterbury just kept staring. “What the fuck's a punchline?"

“It's the last line of a joke…" A smirk crept across The Coyote's muzzle. “But that's not important right now."

Asterbury clapped his hands once, then made finger guns. “That's what we missed out on." He picked up another cookie. “An Airplane reference! We coulda done that scene, where the nun with the guitar keeps knocking the kid's IV out. And he starts dying and making that sour face, like his head's gonna implode."

The Coyote laughed again. “Yeah, that's a good scene. Too bad that's not how it works."

“Oh yeah?" Asterbury yanked out the Coyote's IV.

The Coyote immediately started flopping around. His eyes went cross, and his lips curled inwards across his muzzle, as if his face was starting to implode. He grunted and groped around for the IV cord, gasping. Asterbury stuck it back into the Coyote's arm, and the canine gave a long sigh of relief. He leaned back in his chair.

“Alright," The Coyote said. “I stand corrected. That is how that works." The Coyote looked around for a moment, then glanced down at his phone. “You know, it says here, we're getting fairly close to word budget. If you wanna do that other part of the story, we really oughta do it now."

“It says that, does it?" Asterbury strolled over, waving a cookie at The Coyote's phone. “Right there, on your phone? When you're in the hospital, your phone magically keeps track of the word count?" He lifted an ear. “Of the story, you're working on, back at home? On your PC?"

“Sure, why not-"

“Cause all I see on your phone is pornography fan art!" Asterbury snatched up The Coyote's phone. “Speaking of which, lemme borrow this a moment. Wow, look at the tits on her. And the dick on that dragon!"

The Coyote cleared his throat. “Those are just there as art references."

Asterbury ignored him, scrolling through images. “And look at the tits on that dick! And wowie, look at the dicks on those tits!"

“Okay, I do not have-"

“Where's your dicknipples folder?" Asterbury looked up.

“Where's my what?" The Coyote flattened his ears back.

“You know, Dicknipples." Asterbury wiggled a finger by one of his nipples. “It's when you got dicks, for nipples."

The Coyote's eyes widened. “That is not a thing."

“It sure is, Best Buddy, and if I were you." Asterbury moved in closer, as if whispering a secret. “I'd put it into the next DitD. Get ahead of the dicknipple movement."

“I am not putting dick nipples into DitD!" The Coyote snatched his phone back. “Are we moving onto the next scene, or not?"

“Sure are, old Pal!" Asterbury stepped back, spreading his arms. “Hey gang, remember when everyone had dicks for nipples?"

*****

It was Christmas morning. Presents were stacked artfully under the tree. Ornaments were hung from every bough, each unique and beautiful. Lights twinkled in serene display. Curtains of snow gently fell outside, painting the land in white. All his best friends were gathered around, waiting to open their gifts. The Coyote smiled to himself, taking a picture of the peaceful, wonderful scene on his phone.

The Coyote dicknippled dick-nipply down the stairs. It was like breasting boobily, but he had dicks for nipples. His dick nipples bobbled gayly about. For some reason they were human dicks, not canine. And of them was fully erect, while the other was shy and experiencing shrinkage.

“Hi, everyone!" The Coyote walked past his friends, his dicknipples dick-nippling.

“Hi, Coyote!" Valyrym smiled, lifting a forepaw. He waved it, and the motion caused his own dicknipples waving merrily about. They were also human dicks, and one was slightly larger than the other. Also, one was cut and the other wasn't. “Happy dick nipple day to you!"

“Yes, Happy Dick nipple day to everyone!" Amaleen sat on the sofa, completely topless. She had some huge knockers, with some totally perfect dicknipples. They were both erect, and really impressive, too. They kept slapping her in the face whenever she breathed too deeply. Or moved. Or looked around. Basically she had two dicks that kept smacking her face all the time. But it wasn't pervy or anything, it was just dick nipples. “Let's open our presents!"

Everyone dove into the presents, starting with Krek. He also had dick nipples, but right now his were small and cold and just about hidden in his plumage. They peeked out from his chest like two pale mushrooms poking out from some black moss. He opened his present, and then explained with glee when he saw when he'd been given. The gryphon lifted his gift from the box. It was two condoms tied together with twine.

“A bra, for my dick nipples!" He quickly put it on. “Thanks, Coyote!"

“You're welcome, Krek." The Coyote opened his present next. He also got two condoms tied together with twine. “Wow, a bra for my dicknipples, too!" He modeled it, showing it off to his friends. “Great minds!"

The rest of everyone's favorite DitD characters also opened the heartwarming gifts. One by one, they all discovered they'd been given two condoms tied together with twine. No one could think of a better, more thoughtful present. Everyone put their new dicknipple bras on, except Amaleen. She had some real horse-dong sized schlongers, and even the magnum condoms of her dick bra weren't big enough. Still, she tried to force them on over her massive thinga-ma-dicks, wanting to fit in. Just when it seemed like the first condom was finally going to slide over her dick-a-doo-cocky, she lost control of it. It sprang across the room, and struck Valyrym square in the face.

“OW!" The dragon grabbed his head with a paw. “You shot my eye out!"

Everyone laughed because that was from A Christmas Story. Except Valyrym, who stumbled around blind until he stepped on a jellyfish. Only, this time it was a Portuguese man'o'war. Valyrym writhed around in agony until he died.

The End.

*****

“What in Santa's Ruddy Red Ramrod was that?" The Coyote glared at Asterbury, unsure if he should be more furious, or horrified.

“What?" Asterbury turned towards him, his flaccid dicknipples flopping cheerily about on his chest. “I thought you wanted to go to next scene!"

“That's it." The Coyote pulled a taser out one of the previous year's stories. “It's taser time."

The Coyote fired up the taser, and jammed it against one of Asterbury's dicknipples. Asterbury's whole body shook as his dicknipple fried up like a sausage in a pan. “Mama Mia, now that's a spicy tazing!"

“And now," The Coyote said, taping the taser to Asterbury so it would continue shocking him. “Time for another beloved recent holiday tradition."

The Coyote grabbed Asterbury in both hands, and hurled him up through the ceiling. “Ya-yeet!"

Asterbury smashed through the hospital's roof. Plaster and broken tiles rained down into the Coyote's infusion cubicle. The Coyote peered up through the hole, watching as Asterbury careered through the sky, heading for space. After a moment, he sighed, and grasped his own clothing.

“Well, I gotta get to that next scene somehow…" He threw himself into the air, after the urd'thin. “Ya-yeet!"

*****

UNGAINLY SCENE TRANSITION

*****

The Coyote sat in the comfortable, overstuffed chair alongside his Christmas Tree. Waves of shimmering lights decorated his beloved tree. Hundreds of unique ornaments hung from its boughs. There were snowmen galore, collected by his mother. Some of the decorations were dated, and nearly as old as he was. A few marked the earliest years of his childhood. Others were brand new. Some were shiny and expensive, while others handmade and barely holding together over the years. There were animals and anglers, glass spheres and porcelain packages, metallic reindeer, and more Santas than anyone could count. There were even foxes, dragons, and octopi.

The canine smiled, staring at an octopus ornament. Each of its eight tentacles clutched a package. He'd found it at a little boutique and thrift store a few years ago, and bought it half as a joke. But it was so unique it proved to be quite the hit amongst his family. Now, it was both an inside joke and a cherished addition to the tree.

“About time you got here," said a familiar voice from nearby.

A black dragon with a few indigo highlights lounged on the sofa nearby. His once-tattered wings were healthy and strong, edged faintly with cerulean ripples. The dragon's golden eyes shone with a fresh, youthful vitality. A recognizable smirk spread over his snout as he regarded the coyote.

“Hello, Valyrym!" The Coyote smiled, then trailed off, glancing around. “I don't entirely remember how I got here, actually. But it's lovely to see you again. I knew you'd show up, eventually."

“We've been here, waiting for you." The dragon hopped off the couch, padding over. He wrapped the coyote up in a warm hug, holding him tight. “Lord Douchebag promised us all he'd take care of you, this year." Valyrym snorted. “I, of course, told him to go soak his head in a turd-filled toilet, but before we knew it, he'd stuck us here while he went to fetch you."

The Coyote laughed at Valyrym's unusually colorful language. “Is he helping write your dialogue this year, too? Or have you always said things like that in the Christmas story?"

Valyrym shrugged his wings. “Fuck if I know." Then he blinked, and gave a satisfied rumble of amusement. “Oh, I like that. You don't normally let me say that word, in my story."

The Coyote rubbed Valyrym's scales before easing back from the hug. “Nah, it doesn't really fit DitD that well. You guys always get the extra flowery, more poetic language. Although…" He smirked. “There are a few F-bombs coming up in DitD 11. Even if I think Krek drops most of them."

“Because I'm the coolest character," said the gryphon, sitting on the other side of the tree. “And it's about gods-damned time you were actively working on my story again."

“Your story?" Valyrym tossed his head, returning to his place on the couch. “It's my story, you pompous, shit-crusted, cock-stuffed turkey!"

The Coyote barked laughter. “Okay, someone else is definitely tweaking your dialogue this year, Valyrym."

“It's Krek." Amaleen sat alongside the dragon. She wore a bright green Christmas sweater, with a crackling yule log emblazoned upon it. “I saw him on a phone, earlier."

The gryphon tossed his head. “Consider it my gift to the decrepit old newt sitting next to you. Thought he'd appreciate it if his insults actually had a bit of bite to them."

“Bite?" Valyrym growled, thumping his tail against the couch cushions. “I sound like a gothy edgelord's Asterbury fanfiction!"

The Coyote snickered. “One of these days, I really will cut off your access to the internet. At least you were properly de-aged this time. Unlike last year's debacle. You looked like the de-aged Harrison Ford from Dial of Destiny, if the Quantum-mania people did it."

Valyrym gave him a blank look. “You're saying words, but they don't have any meaning."

The Coyote laughed. “Just like Quantum-mania, am I right?"

Everyone was silent. After a moment, Amaleen whispered to the dragon. “Are these jokes?"

Valyrym shrugged his wings. “I think he's talking about his new medications."

“By the way, Amaleen," Krek said, his ears splayed in gryphon smugness. “Nice sweater."

Amaleen glanced down at the burning log. “Yes." She narrowed her eyes, then turned to glare at the coyote. Her voice was flat. “Lovely, isn't it."

“Whoo, boy." The Coyote adjusted his collar. Steam wafted from it. “Getting a little hot in here, isn't it?" He squirmed in place like Rodney Dangerfield, in every Rodney Dangerfield movie. “I get no respect for my craft, I tell ya, no respect all."

Krek squawked and clacked his beak. “There's a timely reference."

The Coyote's ears swiveled towards strains of Christmas music and laughter. In the kitchen, all his characters were mingling and enjoying his Christmas party. Long platters of foods and snacks covered every counter. They were sliced meats and myriad kinds of salami and other charcuterie. Cheeses of every type covered several trays. Dips and spreads were everywhere, alongside countless crackers. There were tins of smoked fish and oysters. Devil eggs were arranged in spirals. Another section was covered with pieces of fudge, iced sugar cookies, raspberry chocolate bars, and other delightful treats.

“Is that my Christmas party?" The Coyote glanced around. “I haven't even had time to start it. Let alone to write that scene."

Valyrym snorted, his tail tip flicking. “Asterbury arranged all that, too. As much as I hate to admit it, he's actually been…" He grimaced, as if just saying the word was painful. “Helpful."

“Huh…" The Coyote lifted his ears. “That's different."

Valyrym waggled a paw. “He even did something to the time-space continuum, to ensure it wouldn't…" He shrugged his wings. “Well, you know. Break. When my son interacts with his younger self."

In the kitchen, Little Valar was riding around on Valar's head, playing Conqueror. He was directing the larger dragon to each plate of food. When they arrived at the tray with all the smoked fish, Little Valar promptly pointed at it. “That's mine!"

Larger Valar licked his muzzle. He gently nodded in agreement, careful not to dislodge his passenger. “Yes, that's definitely mine."

Little Valar bopped Valar with a paw. “No! That's mine!"

Valar crossed his eyes, trying to peer up at his younger self. “We're the same person. I suppose that makes everything ours."

Little Valar just stared at him. After a moment, he lifted a tiny, blue-socked forepaw, and pointed at Valar's face. “That's mine!"

The Coyote grinned. “So, I see!"

“Isn't it amazing," Amaleen said, leaning against Valyrym. “How that scruffy scavenger can squeeze in something so nostalgic, heartwarming, and adorable…" She pursed her lips. “Into the same story where he has an urd'thin burning to death, and eating blood-covered French fries."

Krek clacked his beak. “Don't forget the dicknipples."

Valyrym waved a paw. “And it's the same story in which he spent so much focus on his actual, real life health concerns."

The Coyote leaned back in his chair, grinning. “Yeah, I'm a real fuckin' enigma."

“Actually," Krek said, glancing at him. “The word I was going to use is, insane."

“By the way, Coyote." Valyrym lifted his head, gazing into the kitchen. “Who's the, er, other coyote, and his feline friend?"

In the other room, a sharply-dressed coyote with a red vest over a green button-up stood, sipping an eggnog infused cocktail. Pistols were strapped across his sides. He had his arm around a cheetah, who wore a bright purple shirt with golden sleeves. A few Christmas bells decorated the coyote's tail, while the cheetah wore a pair of santa gloves. Silver tinsel adorned his own spotted tail. They were laughing and joking around with Rog, and Princess Nira. The gnoll had a glass filled with beer, while Nira was drinking wine. From snippets of conversation, they seemed to be playfully arguing about who's story took place on a larger airship.

“Oh!" The Coyote sat up, wagging his tail. “That's Argos and Rivi, from Impure." He smiled to himself. “Rivi Chee, best chee."

Krek gave an indignant squawk. “Ah, the story you once again paused ours to write."

The Coyote rolled his eyes. “That's not what happened, and you know it. But, it is the story I've started posting while working on yours. And…" He scrunched his muzzle. “Also writing Impure."

Amaleen leaned forward, grinning. “At the risk of helping you advertise your own work, dare I ask about those two?"

The Coyote smiled. “So, Impure is basically about a cheetah named Rivi. Rivi is, much like me, afflicted with terrible anxiety. Unlike me, he's also deeply religious, and comes from a very closed, structured society. He's also v_ery_ closeted. Rivi's secretly attracted to other males, though he doesn't like to admit it even to himself. His people call it being impure, and consider it both sinful, and a source of deep shame." The Coyote made a face. “They also believe it's something that must be cured, lest it taint the soul. And sometimes they seek to cure it with…" He looked down. “Violence."

Valyrym gave a snort. “Sounds like a real holiday heartwarmer."

The Coyote chuckled. “So, anyway. Rivi is on a pilgrimage around the world. He's a scholar, and his people have chosen him to travel around the world, on the Church's dime, and document everything he sees. Only, he's been abandoned by his guide after a series of catastrophes. At the beginning of the story, he's only just made it to port in time for the final airship flight out of the country he's in. He's already missed the flight he was meant to be on, but they've promised to get him passage on this ship. Once he's aboard, his general innocence and naivety immediately gets him in trouble. When he finds out there's no where they can put him but steerage, a con artist tries to take advantage of him."

Amaleen twisted around to glance back into the kitchen. Rivi's tail twitched back and forth, flicking in off-time rhythm to whatever conversation they were having. “Is that coyote with him the con artist?"

“Oh, no, no." The Coyote waved a hand. “Admittedly, that was one of my first ideas. Con artist who falls for his victim. But no. Argos is…" He lowered his voice as if afraid Rivi would hear him. “An assassin. Think John Wick kinda shit."

Valyrym cocked his head. “John Wick…Is that the one with The Matrix in it?"

The Coyote grimaced. “I mean, sort of? Keanu Reeves was the main character in both movies, yes."

“Keanu Reeves…" Valyrym tapped a claw against the couch. “Is he the one from Indiana Jones?"

“No," Amaleen said, shaking her head. “That was Han Solo."

Krek looked around at the others. “Which one was Mutt Williams in?"

“I think he was in Deep Rising," Valyrym said.

Amaleen rubbed her chin. “Was that the one where Morpheus gets eaten by a shark?"

The Coyote grit his teeth. “No. You're thinking of Deep Blue Sea. But that was Samuel L Jackson that got eaten by the Shark, not Lawrence Fishburne."

“Samuel L Jackson?" Krek ruffled up his feathers. “Wasn't he the one helping Frodo carry the one Ring to Mordor?"

The Coyote sighed. “No, that was Samwise Gamgee. Do you want me to finish telling you about Impure, or not?"

“Oh, right, right." Valyrym nodded. “You were telling us about The Matrix."

“John Matrix?" Krek fluffed up his feathers, grinning. “I love Commando!"

Valyrym glanced over. “Is that the one with Judge Dredd in it?"

“Yes!" Krek slapped a forepaw against the floor. “And he says, come with me, if you want to live."

“No, he doesn't!" The Coyote gave a frustrated snarl. “The Terminator says that, not Judge Dredd. Besides, Judge Dredd was played by several actors. Karl Urban, most recently. But you're probably thinking of the Sylvester Stallone version, if you're mixing him up with Arnold Schwarzenegger. Which, honestly…" He rubbed his muzzle. “I dunno how you'd manage to do that, anyway." He held up a finger. “But Arnold Schwarzenegger played John Matrix in the movie, Commando. Which is legitimately an 80's action classic. So classic, in fact, that we've made jokes like these about it before."

Valyrym whispered to Amaleen. “The Coyote, repeating himself? There's a surprise."

“Anyway," The Coyote said, raising his voice over the others. “The Coyote in Impure is named Argos. He's an assassin, for lack of a better term. He does a lot more than contract killing, but that is part of his job, sometimes. I don't wanna spoil too much about him. When Rivi boards the airship, Argos has volunteered to serve as special security. They're taking on a lot of refugees, and so Argos and his partner are trying to help keep everyone safe, in return for getting free VIP treatment, basically. He realizes Rivi is in danger, and ends up going to save him. Before long, he realizes that the cheetah isn't real likely to survive the voyage on his own, so Argos decides to keep him safe. He also soon realizes the cheetah's queer, and deeply repressed about it. So, Argos sets about trying to convince Rivi that it's okay to be who he is, no matter what anyone else says. And…" The Coyote chuckled. “Spoiler alert, but they totally end up falling in love."

“Awww!" Amaleen gave a little coo. “That sounds sweet."

“It is." The Coyote idly wrung his hands. “It's pretty new, so not a ton of people are reading it yet. But those who are, seem to really love it. Multiple people have told me how much they identify with Rivi, already, and I think that's incredible. Plus…" He grimaced, gesturing with a tan-furred hand. “Given the election results, and the general growing far right, anti-LGBTQ sentiment in a lot of states…it feels like it's pretty vital a story, right now. Like it's important for me to write a story that's actually about finding acceptance, for your identity. From others, but just importantly, from yourself."

Valyrym arched his neck, smiling. “That does sound like something your world needs more of." He glanced towards the kitchen. “Do you think we should invite Argos and Rivi out here, into the Christmas story?"

The Coyote held his hands up, frantically shaking his head. “No, no, no. Definitely not. Poor Rivi is far to pure and innocent to ever subject to the shit in this story. Besides…" He laughed to himself. “If we traumatized Rivi, Argos would literally kill all of us."

The old dragon gave a snort. “A real badass, is he?"

“Top 2 or 3 most dangerous, non-powered characters in my stories, for sure." The Coyote chuckled. “Plus he's got guns. Lots, and lots of guns."

Valyrym snorted. “More dangerous than me in my prime? I think not."

The Coyote scratched at his ear. “Well, I suppose on one hand, it's not fair to compare a dragon, to an anthro coyote. But, on the other hand…" He leaned forward. “You do know what guns are, right?"

Valyrym tossed his head. “I'm not afraid of his little one-shot, flintlock peashooter."

“First of all," The Coyote said. “Flintlock rounds were fucking huge. They blast giant holes through steel breastplates. Second…" The Coyote pointed to the pistols hanging along the coyote's sides. “Those aren't fucking flintlocks. Those are magazine fed semi-automatics."

The dragon cocked his head. “What does that mean?"

“It means they'll put a lot of fucking holes in you, really fucking fast." The Coyote leaned back in his chair. “Impure's in a different world than my others, but so far the technology tree, so to speak, is sort of a mix between the 1920s and the 1940's. It means they got more advanced airships and guns than they have in say, Princess of Beasts, let alone Pledged in Blood. It also means Rivi and Argos get to nerd out about cheesy, radio serial dramas."

Krek looked over at the others. “Do you ever get the feeling he's just making words up to screw with us?"

Amaleen crossed her arms. “Actually, I'm quite certain he made up dicknipples." She shot the Coyote a glare. “Lovely, high brow humor in this tale, by the way."

The Coyote sighed, rubbing his head. “I wish I made that up. That's a real thing, out there on the internet."

Valyrym stared at The Coyote in silence for a moment. “Let me get this straight. You wish to be the person who made that up?" A grin slowly spread across the dragon's muzzle. “You enjoy that much, do you? So much so that you desperately wish to be credited with its creation?"

“Okay," The Coyote said. “I probably could have phrased that better."

Krek gave a whimper. Everyone looked towards him. His ears were back, his eyes wide and painted. “I don't feel so good, Mister Coyote." Krek lifted his forepaw. It started dissolving away.

Valyrym gasped. “What's happening to him?" He glanced back at The Coyote. “Are you having another mental health crisis?"

“No." The Coyote grunted. “This isn't me. It's probably As-"

Suddenly, Krek exploded. Blood and gore erupted everywhere. The tree was painted crimson, all its lights shone a dull, muted red. Intestines draped it like tinsel. A gryphon spleen struck Amaleen in the face, breaking her noise and knocking her backwards over the sofa. Krek's bloodied skull landed atop Valyrym's head like a macabre hat. Blood and bile splattered The Coyote, matting his fur. Asterbury stood where Krek had been seconds earlier, now decorated the rest of Krek's internal organs.

Asterbury spread his arms. “Ta-da!" He honked Krek's heart like a bicycle horn. Honka honka!

“God damn it, Asterbury!" The Coyote wiped Krek's blood off his glasses. “Who the hell are you, Art the Fucking Clown?"

Asterbury pivoted towards The Coyote. “Wait, do you mean that as an expletive or a verb? Because if Art's a clown who fucks…" He honked Krek's heart again. Honka honka! “Then I gotta watch those movies!" He beamed, showing off all his sharp teeth, then skipped merrily around the Christmas tree, splashing more blood around. “They shoulda called it, Fuckaffier!"

“I'm getting the feeling you've already watched them." The Coyote wiped his face with the back of his hand. “And what the hell was that, anyway? You just blew Krek up like that whale, on the beach!"

“Couldn't be bothered to wait for you to do a whole Thanos-snap parody." Krek dusted his hands off. More blood splattered The Coyote's glasses. “Think you got something on your snoot, there…" Asterbury reached up and wiped the coyote's muzzle, dragging a piece of intestine across it. “Got it!"

“Cut it out!" The Coyote slapped his hand away. “And fix this bullshit. Now! Before we run out of words and have to end the story on…" He gestured at all the gore around them. “A Very Saw Christmas."

Asterbury smiled, offering an enthusiastic fist pump. “Can do, good buddy!" He rubbed his hands together. “Here we go! Nick nack, paddy whack, give me the coyote's bone!" Asterbury clapped, and the scene was returned to normal.

Once more, the Christmas tree was shining and bright, strewn with glittering, multihued lights. Countless beautiful ornaments hung from every bough. Blood no longer painted every surface, and gore was no longer the primary decoration. The Coyote's fur was clean. Amaleen sat alongside Valyrym again, broken noses and skull hats nowhere to be fun. Yes, everything was back to normal, except Krek, who was dead.

“And there we go!" Asterbury surveyed his handiwork. “My work here is done."

The Coyote gave a little growl. “Asterbury…"

“Yes, everything is as it should be." He glanced at Krek's stiff corpse. The gryphon was whole again, but still quite deceased. “Pretty sure he was like that when I got here."

“The hell he was!" The Coyote nudged Krek's corpse with a foot. “For starters, he was breathing two minutes ago. Now he's…" He chuckled to himself. “He's ceased to be!"

Valyrym glanced over, grinning. “Would you say he's…" He tilted his head. “An ex-gryphon?"

Amaleen looked Krek over. “Remarkable gryphon, the Illandran Black. Beautiful plumage."

The Coyote sighed. “The plumage don't enter into it! He's stone dead!"

Asterbury nudged the gryphon with his foot. “No, no, no, no. He's resting!"

“Well, then, let me wake him up!" The Coyote grabbed Krek's head, shaking it back and forth. “Hello, Mister Kreky gryphon! I've got a lovely, fresh, Valar here to fuck you!"

“Hey!" Valyrym snapped his jaws. “You leave my son out of this parody."

The Coyote glanced over. “Trust me." He released the gryphon's head. It thumped heavily to the floor. “If Krek was still alive, he'd be way more interested in Valar than some cuttle fish."

Asterbury kicked Krek in the head, knocking it sideways. “There, he moved!"

“No, he didn't!" The Coyote shoved the urd'thin back. “That was you, kicking him in the skull!"

“No, it wasn't." Asterbury put his hands behind his back and looked away, whistling.

The Coyote grabbed Krek's hand, banging it against the floor. “Hello, Kreky! Testing, testing!" He smacked the gryphon's head against the floor harder. “This is your nine oclock wake up call!" Then he glanced at Valyrym. “Val, can you, uh…you know."

“Oh, right." The dragon hopped off the sofa. He padded over to Krek's corpse, and scooped it up in his forelegs. Then he threw Krek up into the air. The gryphon flopped back onto the floor, limply rag-dolling like a video game character. “Now that's what I call a dead gryphon!"

The Coyote laughed to himself, shaking his head. “Alright, enough's enough. We better stop there before we get sued. Asterbury, bring the poor bastard back to life, alright?"

“Oh, very well." Asterbury waggled his fingers. “Hocus Pocus, Santa's gonna choke us!"

Krek jerked his head up, jumping to his paws. “What the hell just happened!" He looked around, something wild and terrified shone in his eyes. “I think I saw the afterlife! There were…clouds, and sweet music, and a feeling of peace and love! But then it was all being taken away from me, and-"

“Blah, blah, blah," Asterbury said, waving him off. “Not everything's about you, gryphon."

Krek slowly sat back on his haunches. “I-I think I have to reevaluate my life." He lifted a paw, rubbing his head. “Wait, why is my head bleeding? I think…I think I have a concussion."

“Yeah, well, uh…" Asterbury spun away, sweeping an arm towards the kitchen. “Anyway, here's Ayly!"

“Hi, Coyote!" A little black and purple hatchling padded in from the kitchen. A red rider wagon was hitched to her tail. The wagon was filled with countless glasses, bottles, and cartons of egg nog. “Martin Chrimbat!"

“Hi Ayly!" The Coyote unhitched Ayly's tail from her wagon, then scooped her up in a warm hug. “Merry Christmas to you too!"

“That's what I said!" Ayly playfully batted at The Coyote's ears. “Mini Crap Butt!"

The Coyote shook his head. “No, Merry Christmas."

Ayly tilted her head. “Many Crime Blogs?"

“No…" The Coyote slowed it down. “Merry. Christmas."

Ayly beamed. “Murry Christ Bus!"

The Coyote blinked, then shrugged, and set the little dragon back down. “Close enough."

Valyrym waved a paw at his granddaughter. “Ayly's started her own eggnog collection, as you can see."

“I noticed that." The Coyote returned to his chair, flopping back into it. “I'm guessing she's just been stealing everyone else's all day long."

Ayly turned her head, staring at her wagon full of eggnog. “It's mine!"

The Coyote chuckled. “I should have seen that coming."

Amaleen glanced down at the little hatchling. “Didn't she used to have a more complicated design, with more colors and patterns."

“Yup." The Coyote magicked his own glass of egg nog into existence. He took a drink, then set it on a nearby table. “But I got tired of describing all that bullshit every year."

“Well then, speaking of being tired of doing bullshit…" Asterbury moved to the center of the room, slowly pivoting on his heel to take everyone in. “We've finally reached your original idea for this year's Christmas story! So, settle in, and-"

“Nope." The Coyote took another drink of eggnog.

Asterbury blinked. “What do you mean, nope?"

“I mean, nope." He sipped his nog again, then set it down. “We're not doing it now. We're just about at this year's word budget already."

“But…" Asterbury looked around. “We were gonna have everyone tell you Christmas stories! Ayly was gonna tell one, Valyrym was gonna tell one, Krek was gonna tell one…" Asterbury put a hand to his chest. “I was gonna tell the funniest one, of course. Cockaneezer Scrooge, and the Three Sexy Goats!"

The Coyote's flattened back. “Three Sexy Goats? Was that a typo, or was your story really gonna be about sexy goats?"

Asterbury trailed a finger down the canine's muzzle, whispering. “Only one way to find out, Scavenger."

The Coyote slapped his hand away. “No only no, but Luigi Mangioni to the Healthcare Insurance Industry, no!"

“Hah!" Asterbury cackled as he pranced away. “And I thought you said that joke was too hot button!"

“It is, but fuck it." The Coyote shrugged. “Look at all the other shit we've already done this year. Anyway, we're definitely not doing the thing where everyone tells me their version of a Christmas story. I like the concept, but we're already out of words. Maybe we'll do that next year."

“Aww, damn it!" Asterbury reached into his Santa robe, feeling around. “It's your fault, you know. Wasting all those words on your real-life bullshit, when we could have telling hilarious, original, innovative, and truly hilarious holiday fables!"

The Coyote scratched his ear. “I somehow doubt any of those things would have been true."

“But Coyote…" Asterbury pulled a inch-thick manuscript out of his robe. “I worked really hard on my story!"

“I didn't," Valyrym said. “I was just gonna re-tell the smash hit holiday classic, Jingle All the Way." He curled his tail around his paws. “But instead of The Terminator and Sinbad chasing a Turbo Man, it was going to be The Coyote and Asterbury competing for a toy for Ayly."

“Turboman?!" Ayly jerked her head up. “I want the Turbo Man Action Figure with the arms and legs that move!" She took a deep breath, and yelled at the top of her lungs. “And the boomerang sword and the rock and roller jetpack and the realistic voice activator that says FIVE different phrases including…" Ayly switched into a deep, booming voice. “ITS TURBO TIME!" She bound around in a circle. “Accessories sold separately, batteries not included!"

“Great." The Coyote threw his hands up. “Now you got her started on her Turbo Man kick." He turned towards the hatchling. “Ayly, there's no Turbo Man in this story."

Ayly skidded to a stop, her eyes wide. “No Turbo Man?" She whimpered, her jaw trembling. “But Turbo Man be bussin', FR ong!"

The Coyote scratched his head. “Who let her hang out with Big Ayly?"

Krek rubbed his head with a paw. “I think I was going to tell a story, too. But…" The gryphon splayed his ears, grinding his beak. “For some reason, I can't seem to remember anything from before about ten minutes ago…"

“I'm sure it's fine," Asterbury said, swatting his manuscript against his hand. “Now, my story-"

“Isn't gonna happen," the coyote said. “Because that's word budget."

“So…" Valyrym glanced around. “We're just done?"

“Not quite," The Coyote said. He shifted in his chair, smiling at the little hatchling nearby. “Ayly can tell her story, first."

“Yay!" Ayly bounced around in a circle. “Story time!" She pulled her wagon full of egg nog up alongside Krek. She peered up at the gryphon. “Why is cranberry sauce coming out of Lellumgurb's head?"

Krek stared down at her, drooling. “Blrrrrrrbbbllbllblbllll…"

“Damn it, Asterbury!" The Coyote drained his egg nog, then filled it up with a wave of his fingers. “You gave Krek a cerebral hematoma?"

Ayly tilted her head. “Lellugurb's a cereal hermaphrodite?"

Asterbury gasped. “They have their own cereal now? I gotta go stock up!"

“Oh, Lord." The Coyote rubbed his muzzle. “Will you just fix Krek, properly?"

“Can do, good buddy!" Asterbury reached into his Santa robe. His tongue poked out while he felt around inside the infinite cosmos. “Let's see… chainsaw, monster truck, snowglobe containing all of existence, snowglobe containing the snowglobe containing all of existence, life sized butter sculpture of Valar, life-sized butter sculpture of Valar's testicles the size of Valar, the Easter Bunny from a few stories ago…" He glanced at The Coyote, waggling his eyebrows. “Saving him for later."

The Coyote grimaced. “I don't think I even wanna know what that means."

“It's a sex thing!" Asterbury went back to searching his bottomless pockets. “What else is in here? My dicknipple bra, Krek's fanfiction about slenderman with dicknipples, the gimp box Vatch keeps me in, every possible ending for Dragon in the Dungeon, the meat grinder that Valyrym's Cousin Roy fell into…"

Valyrym sighed, shaking his head. “Poor Cousin Roy."

Amaleen stared down at the ground. “Right in the meat grinder."

“Ah hah!" Asterbury yanked an old, rusty pair of hedge trimmers out of his Santa robe. He turned towards the gryphon, snapping the hedge trimmers a few times towards Krek's hind end. “Now, just hold still, old pal! A quick snip-snip, and you'll be good as new!"

The Coyote jumped up, and yanked the rusty tool away from Asterbury. “No! I meant, fix his brain bleed! Not fix him."

“I don't know, Coyote…" Valyrym smirked at the gryphon. “I don't think anyone would miss them if they were gone, anyway."

The Coyote glanced back at Valyrym. “Your son would."

Valyrym narrowed his eyes, his spines lifted. “Hilarious, Dumpster Dog."

Asterbury tapped Krek's head. The gryphon's eyes were now staring in opposite directions, with one pupil shrunken down to nothing, and the other blown out. “I'll cobble the bird's brain back together, but only under protest! I'm really disappointed I don't get to tell me story based on Scrooge McDick!"

The Coyote blinked. “Wait, did you mean Scrooge McDuck? You were gonna tell a Ducktales version?"

“No!" Asterbury gave him a confused look. “Scrooge McDick, from the animated classic, Dick Tales."

“And…" The Coyote waved his hand in a circle. “What exactly do you think this supposed show is?"

“Oh, you know," Asterbury said, dragging a finger across the rent area of Krek's head. It knit together behind him. “Charles Dickens' Dick Tales! It's an autobiography, about a wrinkled old sapient dick, with a huge pile of money, in an old bank vault. And he goes on adventures with three smaller dicks, and-"

“Nevermind," The Coyote said. “I'm sorry I asked."

Asterbury finished healing Krek's head, then turned away from the drooling gryphon. “Anyway, my story was gonna be way better. It was gonna have three ghosts, and-"

“The original has three ghosts," The Coyote said, sighing.

“And they were gonna be sexy as hell! I was gonna play Scrooge. And you…" Asterbury glanced back at the canine. “Were gonna play the Ghost of Sexy Self-Insert past! But, you were gonna be busy banging Amaleen, so you weren't gonna show up." He nudged The Coyote with his elbow. “Remember? When you inserted yourself into her?"

Amaleen glared at him. “Apparently, everyone remembers. It seems to be the thing I'm most known for in these Christmas stories, recently. Along with…" She silently tapped the burning yule log on her sweater, her angry gaze shifting to The Coyote.

The Coyote cleared his throat with a soft growl, looking away. “So, uh, anyway, since we're not doing Asterbury's story-"

“I could do another one!" Asterbury looked around. “How about a Bob's Burgers home alone? He's got to protect the restaurant from being invaded by the evil landlord, Mister Turdodor!"

The Coyote snorted. “I don't think so. And it's Fishoedor, not…" He chuckled. “What you said. Besides, that's probably not too far from something they'd actually do. But no." He shook his head. “We're not doing that. Ayly, you wanna tell your story, now?"

“Uh huh!" Ayly dragged an ottoman up alongside her wagon, then hopped up onto it. “My story is called…" Ayly paused dramatically. “The Grinch Who Stoled My Edd Nod, and Pilled it All Over Lellugurb!" She snatched up a glass of eggnog from her stockpile, then hurled it all over the nearby gryphon. “Like that!"

“ACK!" Krek shook himself, still recovering from his trauma. “Wh-what happened? Why am I wet, and sticky?"

Asterbury whispered to The Coyote. “What's what she said!" Then he pointed to Amaleen. “And by she, I mean her, right after you wrote that self-insert scene!"

The Coyote sighed, trying not to laugh. “Goddamn it, Asterbury."

“Twas the night before Chrimbus," Ayly said, slowly turning atop the ottoman. “And not a nobody was stirring, not even that weird guy that keeps emailing my father dirty questions!"

Everyone slowly turned and stared at Asterbury.

“Don't look at me!" Asterbury crossed his arms. “I don't email Valar dirty questions! I just text dirty pictures, to everyone! She's probably talking about one of The Coyote's fans."

“When up through the house, there was a such a big loud boombang!" Ayly hopped back and forth. “It was lellumgurb, slipping on da pilled edd nog!" She threw another carton of eggnog at the gryphon, earning a yelp. Then she pointed to the puddle on the floor. “Lellumgurb!"

Krek smiled at his favorite hatchling. “Yes, my dear?"

“I said Lellumgurb slipped on da pilled edd nod!" She glanced back and forth between the pool of egg nog, and the gryphon. “Lellumgurb! Slip!"

Krek sighed, then hung his head. “Must I?"

Ayly solemnly nodded.

Krek put his front paws in the egg nog puddle. “Oh no, I'm slipping, on egg nog!" His paws slide out, and he flopped to the floor. “Ow, my everything!"

Ayly giggled, and picked up another glass of egg nog. She immediately threw it on him again. “Oh no, da grinch pilled more edd nog!" She hurled another one.

“Ack!" Krek tried to cover his head with his paws.

“Huh." The Coyote sipped his own egg nog. “I think I can see why she brought a whole wagon's worth."

“And I can see that I was right all along." Valyrym arched his neck, smiling. “People really do say, I pilled my edd nod."

The Coyote sighed, pinching the bridge of his muzzle. “No, Val, for the last time. Only Ayly says that. And I'm pretty sure she only says it that way because she thinks it's funny."

“You're soggy, Lellumgurb!" Ayly hopped onto his back, pouring an entire bottle of egg nog onto his head.

“Only because you keep dousing me in eggnog!" He tried to glance at the Coyote, shielding his eyes with his paws. “Isn't this joke getting old, Scavenger?"

The Coyote only smiled. “Nope. This is a great Christmas story, Ayly."

“Thanks, Coyote!" Ayly hopped back into her wagon to resupply. “I was gonna tell a longer one, but you ran out of words, and then I forgot how it went!"

“That's okay, Ayly." The Coyote leaned back in his chair, getting comfortable. “You can tell it, next year. I probably won't have any better ideas by then, anyway."

“Yay!" Ayly hopped around in a circle. “Christmas story ride!" She picked up a opened carton filled with nog. “Oh no, the Grinch is back!" She hurled the glass at Krek, but it overshot the gryphon and smacked The Coyote in the face, knocking off his glasses. “It was Grinch Coyote, all along!"

“Ow!" The Coyote grabbed his face. “That really knocked my glasses off!"

Valyrym groaned. “That's a stretch, Scavenger. Do we really need to end the story on all these callbacks?"

“What?" Asterbury grumbled under his breath. “The story's over already? That's a real shit on the floor."

“I swear to God, Asterbury," The Coyote said, rubbing his eyes. “If you shit on my damn floor again, I'll have you fisted by Fabio!"

Amaleen sighed. “I'm about to light on fire, aren't I."

“What?" The Coyote shook his head. “No, of course not. Everyone look around for my glasses."

Just then, when no one was looking at her, Amaleen spontaneously combusted. She sighed. “I knew it."

“Oh, no!" Valyrym jerked his head up. “We let her go off-screen again. Ayly, quick! Pill your edd nod on Amaleen!"

Ayly jumped back into her wagon. Quick as she could, she hurled a bevy of holiday beverages over the woman in flames. The fire was quickly extinguished, leaving Amaleen with only minor burns across her entire body. Steam rose from her clothing.

Ayly bounced in place. “Yay, I saved Christmas!"

Suddenly, Korvarak appeared. “Did someone say, surprise buttsex?"

Everyone stared at him.

The green dragon looked around, sighing. “Wrong month? Again?"

“Yup!" The Coyote pointed to the kitchen. “May as well go and enjoy the party."

“Alright, thanks Coyote." Korvarak turned around, walking past Valyrym. He brushed up against the black dragon, whispering into Val's ear. “And I'll see you in April." Then he honked Valyrym's balls like a bicycle horn. Honka honka!

“What the hell's with the bicycle horn, scavenger?" Asterbury turned back towards him.

“Hell if I know," The Coyote said. “Just random shit that amused me in the moment. And now, with our callback quota met, I think that…" He tucked his hands behind his head. “Is that. See you next year, everyone."

The lights dimmed. The Coyote closed his eyes for a few moments. When he opened them again, Valyrym sat just before him. The Christmas Tree's lights painted his ebony scales in myriad, scintillating hues. The dragon lowered his head, gently bumping his muzzle against The Coyote's chest. The Coyote smiled, and rubbed the old dragon's nose.

“Hello, Scavenger."

The Coyote chuckled, idly stroking the dragon's scales. “Hello, Valyrym."

Valyrym lifted his head. “How're you really doing this year?"

The Coyote leaned his head back against the chair. “I'm okay, Val. Kinda feels like a loaded question, but…" He turned his head, staring at the tree. “I think I'm okay."

“Christmas season flew by even faster than usual this year, didn't it?"

“It did." The Coyote scowled, sighing. “But what else is new? Just about every year, it feels like there's some new reason why it doesn't feel as Christmasy as I want. Or the season's over before I even realize it started. This year, Thanksgiving was late, and I've been dealing with all this…" He waved his hand, yipping bittersweet canine laughter. “Magically medical bullshit."

The dragon chuckled. “That's not a bad name for this year's story."

“No, it isn't. Maybe I'll use that." The Coyote gently rubbed the dragon's muzzle. “Still, it feels like my whole Christmas season has been spent hurtling from one appointment to another. And we've done a lot of the usual stuff I love doing. We went and looked at all the lights in our favorite downtown area. Had a meal, and a cocktail in a nice restaurant and bar. Watched a Christmas drone show! Saw Santa Claus drive by on the firetruck. Went out and did a lot of Christmas shopping on the weekends. Hit up the traditional, post-Christmas shopping beer bar with my dad. Missed out on some stuff, too. Didn't get up to the other downtown square area I always like to visit before Christmas. Just sort of…" He scrunched his muzzle. “Ran out of energy, I guess."

“There's nothing wrong with that, Coyote." Valyrym gently rested his head against The Coyote's chest. “Nothing wrong at all."

“I know." The Coyote ran a hand back over Valyrym's ears. “It's just frustrating to miss out on things. And it feels like I blinked, and the world jumped from Thanksgiving to Christmas. But such is life, I suppose." He gave the dragon a smile. “Thanks, though."

“Of course, my friend." Valyrym bumped the canine with his snout, again. “Anything else you want to talk about? To vent about?"

The Coyote considered it, then slowly shook his head. “No, I think I've vented enough, this year. Now I just wanna…relax, and enjoy the peacefulness of Christmas Eve, and Christmas." He smiled at the dragon. “You don't have to go, though. You can stay right here, and enjoy it with me, if you want. In my head, in my heart, in my imagination."

A smile spread over the dragon's muzzle. “I'd like that, Coyote."

“Me too." The Coyote hugged the dragon's head tightly, leaning against him.

“Merry Christmas, Scavenger." Valyrym returned the Coyote's friend.

Happy just to be with an age-old friend, awaiting the arrival of his beloved holiday, The Coyote closed his eyes. “Merry Christmas, Valyrym."

*****

And that's it for this year! As always, if you've enjoyed, please leave a fave, and a comment. I read those on Christmas day and the week after, believe it or not. So gimme something to smile about, huh? Or not. Your choice! Merry Christmas!