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The Coyote lounged in his bed, half-awake at best. Without his glasses, he gazed at the beautiful, snowy whiteness. It was a cold December morning, and as usual, he hadn't bothered to put the heater on. True cold was scarce where the Coyote lived. Whenever it swept in, he did all he could to savor its rare presence. When the heat was on, it stole too much of nighttime's chill, and made the warmth of bed far less pleasant. Besides, it was almost Christmas. It was supposed to be cold. It was supposed to be snowy. Everything around him was supposed to be an empty, white void.

Wait, The Coyote thought. What was that last one again? And why was he talking to the story's narrative prose as if it would answer him back? He rubbed his eyes, trying to blink the bleariness from him. That snow was outside, wasn't it?

The Coyote sat up in bed. His eyes were still sleep-bleary, but everything around him did look awfully white. For a moment, hope swelled in his heart. Maybe the snow was even heavier than he'd realized. The Coyote's bushy tail wagged under the blankets. How he loved the snow. But logic quickly took over. Snow filling his room was not something to celebrate, considering the catastrophic roof damage it would have indicated. He felt around for his glasses, but the bed sheets felt strange. Something was off about his fingers, though he could not place just what was wrong. Whatever it was, he could only think of a single likely culprit.

"Asterbury?" A growl crept up his throat. "If you're here early just to fuck with me again…" He glanced at his hands, squinting. The Coyote didn't see any suspiciously fuzzy pouches in accidental grasping proximity, but he couldn't be sure. "I swear to Mrs. Claus's Christmas Cookie Cooter that if you're about to pull a 'those aren't my glasses' on me, I'm gonna use your sugar plums like a teeny, tiny tee-ball, and hit a home run with Vatch's stick."

There was no answer. Somehow, that only made The Coyote more concerned. He sat up straighter, moving the blankets around. He was sure he'd left his glasses on the bed, the night before. Normally, The Coyote placed them glasses on his nightstand. But last night, he'd stayed up far too late watching the smash hit holiday classic, Jingle All The Way.

Wait, whaddya mean it hardly qualifies as a smash hit holiday classic? I have it on good authority, from Triumph the Insult Comic Dog himself, that Jingle All The Way is the smash hit holiday classic of all time. Why, it even spawned a sequel. But honestly, the less said about Jingle All The Way 2, the better. Astute readers may recall that last year's story was all about that particular sequel. Or at least, it would have been, if the movie hadn't been so boring I quit halfway through and abandoned all the hilarious jokes I'd written for it. And trust me, they were gold, Jerry. Gold! Who's Jerry? Go fuck yaself, that's who. Whoa, hey, easy fella, you kiss ya mamma with that mouth? On the lips, every day! That's weird, man, weird, but you do you.

Anyway, the first movie's a cult classic. It's got just enough so-bad-it's good energy that...well, you know! We did an entire story where we watched it! Remember? Merry Fisted By Fabio? You bet you remember. It stars the Governor with the Big Muscles. The movie, I mean, not the story. What was his name again? You know, what's his face. He was in that other movie, about that alien predator. What was it called? Oh yeah, ET. That's right, Governor Extra Terrestrial. Governor Extra Terrestrial Jessie The Body Arnold Sarah Bill Palin Clinton Schwarzenegger the Third. Also, that other guy was in it. You know, the one with all the voyages. What was his name? Sinister? Yeah, Mr. Sinister, everyone's favorite holiday hero. Directed by George Spielburd and Steph Curry.

Where was I going with this? Something about my glasses?

Anyway, I was watching Jingle All The Way, and suddenly, a bunch of kids jumped out of nowhere and started beating me up. "We hate you Booster," they all yelled. "Because you're always switching tenses! This story's in third person dumbass, not first person!"

Yeah, they all shouted that simultaneously. Pretty smart kids, really. Anyway, they totally knocked The Coyote's glasses off. So I guess that's why they're on his bed, and not his nightstand. Look, logic is never these stories' strong suit, okay?

Also, is it me, or is this an all time record for earliest random tangent by The Writer? First page and I'm already typing up mad gibberish, yo. I haven't been drinking that much, have it? I dunno, who cares, what's seventeen beers between friends. Anyway, back to whatever the shit this is.

The Coyote flattened his ears back. For a few moments, his own voice echoed around in his head, speaking words and thoughts that were not quite his own. "What the fuck is going on?" His fingers finally brushed a thin metal stem. It took The Coyote several attempts to pick his glasses up, and several more to get them successfully perched on his muzzle. "Am I still losing my mind in that damn snow-globe? I thought we resolved that."

As soon as his glasses were in place, The Coyote looked around again. It was not snow that sounded him, but emptiness. "Well, that's strange." The Coyote tossed the blankets off, and swung his feet over the edge of the bed. "I could have sworn I kept my bed in a bedroom, and not an infinite white nothingness."

The Coyote flattened his ears back. "Damn it, am I trapped in Limbo again?" He sniffed the air, but it lacked Limbo's telltale scent of almonds. "Doesn't smell like Limbo."

"That's because it's not Limbo." The sudden, gratingly familiar voice in his ear made The Coyote jump. A gray-furred urd'thin in a sparkling, golden Santa robe trimmed in white fluff sat at his side. The urd'thin slowly took the cigar out of his muzzle, turned to the camera, and said, "It's Christmas."

"God damn it, Asterbury." The Coyote snatched up a pillow and swung it at the urd'thin, only to lose his grip when his fingers refused to obey. The pillow sailed over Asterbury's head. "I should have known this was your doing."

Asterbury snatched the pillow out of the air, turning it into an immense, green-frosted sugar cooking. "That's right, you flea-fucking garbage gobbler!" Asterbury slowly, provocatively licked some of the frosting from the cookie. "It's your best friend Asterbury, come shit out holiday cheer all over your favorite dumpster! I hope you're ready to have another one of our trademark wacky holiday adventures! And when I say wacky…" His eyes slowly trailed down The Coyote's still nude body. "I really mean sexy, and I'm glad to see you got the memo." He reached out, running a single finger down The Coyote's belly. "Mmm, the fan-fiction I could write about you, a reindeer's dildo, a reindeer shaped dildo, Tim Allen in his Santa Claus makeup, and a buttplug shaped like Tim Allen in his Santa Claus makeup. Even Furaffinity would ban me for life!"

"Dear God." The Coyote pulled a corner of the blanket back over himself. "Look, I slept naked last night, alright? And whatever the hell you've done here…" The Coyote swept his hand at the great, alabaster infinity. "Seems to have stolen my clothes, too."

"Well, that's thing, Scavenger." Asterbury took a big bite of the cookie, only to spit wet crumbs all over The Coyote with every p-accented word. "Pretty sure my appearance is probably just a coinci-penis."

"Cut it out!" The Coyote slapped the cookie out of his hand. "You're slobbering all over my face!" He wiped his face, then blinked. "Wait, did you say coinci-penis?"

"I sure did!" Asterbury walked his fingers across The Coyote's blanket-covered leg. "Is there somewhere else you'd like me to slobber?"

The Coyote growled, his ears back. "If those fingers inch any closer to my balls, I'm breaking them."

"Well, it's your kink, not mine." Asterbury made a fist, lifting it menacingly. "But if you say so!"

"Not my balls, you idiot!" The Coyote slapped Asterbury across the head. "Your fingers!"

The urd'thin scrunched up his muzzle. "Now you're into broken bones, too? You get kinkier every year, Scavenger!"

"Just move your damn hand!"

"Can do, good buddy." Asterbury moved his hand over to his own crotch, slowly rubbing himself. "Oh, yeah, that's the stuff. So, anyway, as I was saying. Coinci-penis. Here I was, about to pop into your mind and give you the sexiest Christmas wet dream you've ever had when-"

"Shut." The Coyote grabbed Asterbury's muzzle, holding it shut. His fingers still felt odd, and he struggled to keep in place. "There's no such thing as a Christmas wet dream."

Asterbury wriggled free despite the urd'thin's best efforts. He hopped up onto his feet, arms outstretched. "You're telling me, in all the vast history of Christmas, that no one's ever had a wet dream on Christmas morning?"

The Coyote sighed, rubbing an ear. "I'm sure someone has, but-"

"Well, there you go!" The Urd'thin slapped his hands together. "Bingo, bango, Christmas wet dream."

"Oh, God." The Coyote put his muzzle in his hands. "This was just a Christmas Broccoli call back, wasn't it."

"Mmm…" Asterbury licked his lips. "Now there's a Christmas wet dream. Some hot, steaming broccoli, straight out of the microwave."

"Gross!"

Asterbury tilted his head. "What, you don't like a steaming wet bag of soggy Christmas broccoli, fresh out of the microwave?"

"No!" The Coyote slapped the bed. "And it sure as hell wouldn't turn me on."

Asterbury's face twisted up. "Weirdo. But don't worry, Scavenger. You'll always be my number two Christmas wet dream."

The Coyote folded his arms. "I'm second to microwaved broccoli?"

"Yeah...right…" Asterbury adjusted his Santa robe. Steam suddenly shot out of it. "That's what I meant by…" His head turned into a giant cartoon tea kettle, whistling. "Number Two Christmas Wet Dream."

The Coyote blinked at him. "What else could you possibly mean by…" His ears went flat. "Nevermind. Story's over."

"Anyway…" Asterbury flopped back down, draping himself across The Coyote's lap. "As I said, coinci-penis. I was just on my way here to pitch ideas for this year's zany holiday extravaganza, when I happened to spot you stuck in the middle of this empty Libre document."

The Coyote blinked down at him. "This empty what now?"

"Libre document."

The Coyote shook his head. "Nah, I'm not a Libra. Also, no idea why I'd have a document about my zodiac sign."

"No, no, no." Asterbury twirled a finger in the air. "You know, Libre. Rhymes with Zebra, but it's spelled with an e? Or…" He tapped a finger to his muzzle. "Does it rhyme with Cheese Ray?"

"What the fuck is Cheese Ray?" The Coyote looked around for another pillow. "Maybe I can smother you…"

"Smother me with love and affection?" He slipped a hand under himself, poking The Coyote's sheath. "Or with your love gravy?"

"Hey!"

"Smother me and cover me, Scavenger!" Asterbury sprawled out, arms and legs spread. "Do me Waffle House style!"

"That's it!" The Coyote grabbed Asterbury with both hands. Though his fingers still refused to work as well as wished them too, he managed to shove Asterbury off his lap. "Say hello to Limbo for me!"

Asterbury plummeted off the edge of the bed. Yet rather than fall through the nothingness and vanish into the endlessness of Limbo, he simply hung in midair. "I told you. It's not Limbo. It's an empty Libre document." He straightened himself out, standing up, feet planted solidly as if emptiness was but a thick pane of glass. "You know, LibreOffice? The word processor choice of smart writers? That is, the ones who don't let themselves get ripped off by Microsoft's yearly subscription." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Unlike some dumbass scavenger I know."

"Oh." The Coyote crossed his arms. "Right. I started this story while I was visiting my gryphon."

"Oh, your gryphon, huh? What's this gryphon's name?"

The Coyote rolled his eyes. "I'm not outing him in a Christmas story."

"Him?" Asterbury perked an ear. "Well, don't look now, Scavenger, but…" He leaned towards the coyote, whispering again. "I think you just outed yourself."

"Oh, please." The Coyote flicked the urd'thin's nose. "The readers already know I'm bi. I just meant, I'm not giving out his name. But…" He looked around, scowling. "I guess if I'm stuck using Libre for the first time, and an unfamiliar keyboard…" The Coyote lifted a hand, wiggling his fingers. "That would explain why my hands feel so weird."

Asterbury slowly nodded. "That would also explain why there's even more typos and formatting problems than usual." He pumped a fist, shifting his voice into a cheery tone. "That, and the holiday alcoholism!"

"Ugh, yeah." The Coyote grimaced. "When I get home I'm gonna have to transfer this into Word. Who knows what kind of havoc that's gonna wreak. But…" He leaned back onto his hands. "I guess that's a problem for next week's coyote."

Suddenly, The Coyote shuddered. His whole body shook from the tips of his ears to the end of his bushy tail. His teeth rattled in his muzzle, and his fur bristled. The Coyote’s breath came in rasping pants. His heart hammered against his sternum. He flopped back onto his pillows, gasping.

Asterbury floated a little higher. “What’s wrong with you, Scavenger? Someone lace last night’s dinnertime garbage plate with fenta…” Asterbury trailed off, clucking his tongue. “You know what? That one’s in poor taste, even for me. Lemme try that again.” He cleared his throat. “What’s wrong with you, Scavenger? Someone lace last night’s dinner time garbage plate with some bad E?” He clapped his hands once. “Hah, nailed it!”

The Coyote took a slow, trembling breath. “I think…” He sat back up, looking around, his eyes haunted. “I think I just became next week’s coyote. At least…” He lifted his hands, working his fingers. “My hands feel normal again. And the story’s spacing looks better. So I guess we must be back in Word.” He swallowed, whimpering. “But holy shit, next week’s Coyote is-”

“Holy shit you’re from the future just like the Terminator?” Asterbury produced a pair of black sunglasses from his Santa Robe, and perched them on his muzzle. “Dun dun…dun…dun dun.” He adopted a pitch perfect Arnold Schwarzenegger impression. “Sarah Cock Herd? I’m here to terminate your horniness.”

The Coyote blinked at him. “What? No, you elf’s dick-hole. I was going to say, holy shit is next week’s coyote a roiling ball of stress. He snorted. “Sarah Cock Herd? Really? That’s the best you word play you could come up with?”

“No, you’re right, you’re right, that one’s a real stretch.” Asterbury rubbed himself through his robe. “I should have said, cum with me if you want to…cum.” Asterbury scrunched his muzzle. “No, wait. That one’s even worse. What’s wrong with you?” He pivoted towards the canine, clapping twice. “Write some better jokes already, chop chop! Time’s a wasting, Scavenger, it’s only two days till Christmas-”

“I know!” The Coyote snarled. The air around him vibrated. “I fucking know!” He punched the mattress beneath him. The bed rippled like water. In the distance, something ominous groaned and creaked, like glass under too much strain. “What part of roiling ball of stress didn’t you fucking understand?”

“Alright, Scavenger, alright.” Asterbury held his hands up. “Maybe dial it a notch or two before we go all, Thanos-snap, Pictures in the Snow again.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Growling, he folded his arms, leaning against his pillows. “Maybe I should just stay here, in not-Limbo for…” He snorted. “I dunno, the rest of my fucking life. Things would be a fuck load easier.”

Asterbury reached into his robe, withdrawing a little handheld counting device. He clicked it a few times. “And…that’s five. Ten total, so far.”

The Coyote glared at him. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Just tallying up all these fucks you suddenly give.” Asterbury clicked it again. “That’s eleven for the story, now.”

A tiny grin twitched at one corner of the Coyote’s muzzle. “That’s not a bad joke.”

“See?” Asterbury sat down on the bed. “Now.” He patted The Coyote’s leg. “Why don’t you tell Uncle Asterbury all about what’s bothering you?”

“Well…” The Coyote rubbed the back of his head, ruffling his fur. “I dunno. Usually, I talk to Valyrym about that stuff. And… I haven’t really done so in one of these stories for a while. At least not in detail. So…” He trailed off when Asterbury began walking his fingers up The Coyote’s leg, past his knee. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Asterbury clicked the counter. “That makes twelve.” He walked his fingers high up the Coyote’s thigh. “Oh, just lettin’ the old fingers go for a stroll.”

The Coyote gave a low, menacing rumble, then waved his hand. Instantly, Asterbury’s fingers snapped in half. The urd’thin shrieked, and The Coyote only glared at him. “I warned you, Uncle Bad Touch.”

Asterbury shook his hand, his fingers magically twisting themselves back into shape. “You are cranky, this year. Well, then.” He rubbed his hands together. “What say I magic us into a zany holiday adventure to brighten your spirits?”

The Coyote looked away, crossing his arms again. “Really not in the mood.”

“Oh, I can fix that too!” Asterbury jumped to his feet. He waved his hands before himself in a grand, theatrical gesture. “Hey gang! Remember that time The Coyote really felt the holiday spirit?”

*****

It was the Dark Ages, on Christmas Eve, in the middle of the Village of London. Tiny Tim was a filthy, mangy, scavenging, flea-infested, muck-crusted disgusting Coyote. He was super poor and super sick, but at least he had a Christmas tree. It was a tiny little thing. More of a Christmas branch, really. He could only afford to decorate it with a single Christmas candle. Also, it was really cold. And snowing like a bitch.

Luckily, Tiny Tim The Coyote loved the cold. Which was good, since he was probably going to freeze to death in his unheated hovel. But, at least it was Christmas, and all his friends were there. There was…uh…Bob Crackass, right? And that other guy, from the movie. What was his name? Jim Carrey, I think.

Hah, just kidding. The Coyote didn’t have any friends.

But, it was Christmas. And Tiny Tim The Coyote loved Christmas. And no amount of stress, fear, anger, or any other dark emotion was going to prevent Tiny Tim from savoring his favorite holiday. Though it was dark and dreary in his foul-smelling medieval dumpster, at least the Christmas spirt would keep him warm, all through the night. That, and the tiny, flickering flame upon his beautiful, beloved Christmas candle.

In fact, that flame kept him especially warm when he ventured a little to close to it, and his dry, brittle fur suddenly ignited. And just like that, Tiny Tim The Coyote was ablaze with the holiday spirit! Yes, ablaze, aflame, and absolutely screaming with sheer Christmas Joy. Screaming and hobbling around, setting joyously festive flame to the rest of his pitiful hovel. Soon, he was so tuckered out by all that carousing, that he fell down exhausted. Yes, exhausted, and smoldering.

Merry Christmas, and God Bless us, Everyone.

*****

“Well?” Asterbury poked the Coyote on the shoulder. “You feel better now?”

The Coyote stared at him, muzzle agape. “What in the figgy pudding farts was that?”

Asterbury tilted his head. “Huh? You didn’t like it?”

“Didn’t like it?” The Coyote snarled. Somewhere, existence shuddered. “You burned me to death!”

“I did?” Asterbury scrunched his muzzle. “That’s weird. Could have sworn I only burned Tiny Tim to death.”

“That’s not better!” The Coyote slapped the urd’thin across the muzzle so hard his neck snapped, and his head bobbled back and forth like a drunken jack in the box. “And I told you! I’m too damn stressed out to deal with this bullshit right now, so-”

“There’s your problem,” Asterbury said, twisting his head back into place. “All your stress must be bleeding into the story itself.”

The Coyote grunted, flicking his tail against the blankets. “Hardly the first time, is it. That’s the whole basis for Pictures in the Snow.”

“Well…” Asterbury pulled a half-eaten Candy Cane from his Santa Robe. Bits of fuzz, lint, and dirt stuck to it. He popped it into his muzzle just the same. “Maybe you should write one like that, again.”

“Ew, gross!” The Coyote made a face, his ears back.

“What?” Asterbury pulled the candy cane out of his muzzle, staring at it. “Oh, this thing? Trust me, scavenger, I’ve shoved way nastier things into my muzzle than that. You should see what Krek and I did for Rudolph and Comet! And then what I did for Krek! Let’s just say, dat mouth did more than they expected!”

“Ugh.” The Coyote put his face in his hands. “Double gross. I was gonna make a stupid joke, and say, No, I just realized you were still here. Or, oh, gross, it’s Asterbury. But then you made it worse.”

“Nah.” Asterbury waved the candy cane around. “That’s not gross. But if you knew where this candy cane was last night…” He slowly licked it, staring into the Coyote’s eyes.

“Christ on a cracker.” The Coyote tried to yank the candy away from the urd’thin, only for Asterbury to dance just out of range. “I oughta poke your eyes out with that thing.”

“And give me pink eye?” Asterbury shook his head, waggling the candy cane at The Coyote. “I don’t think so.”

The Coyote grunted, flopping back against his pillows. “You’re not gonna have pink eye. You’re gonna have no eye.”

Asterbury waggled his hand. “C+, at best.” He tapped the Candy Cane against The Coyote’s head. “Your joke writing machine is still broken.”

“And it’s gonna stay broken for a while, too.” The Coyote slapped the bed. Waves rolled across it, threatening to wash away the story’s reality entirely. “Because this shit, hanging over my head right now?” Anger rose in his voice. All around him, tiny fractures stretched across the white emptiness. Behind them was another world, a realer world, a world filled with stress and fear, where the Writer dwelled. “It was supposed to be resolved already! Hell, I should been done with it weeks ago! And when that didn’t work out, by some fucking miracle, they were supposed to call me today! I had a new appointment set up, for this afternoon! And guess fucking what!” The Coyote balled up his fists, growling through grit teeth. Bits of white nonexistence fell away, like shards of snow-white glass. Behind them, The Writer paced back and forth in his messy room, snarling at his silent phone, waiting on a call that never came. “They didn’t even fucking bother to fucking call!”

Asterbury click-click-clicked the swear-counter. “That’s 17 already. You keep spittin’ them out like Eminem, and this thing’s gonna light on fire.” He leaned over, staring through the shattered window into another reality. “Oh, that scruffy human looks pissed. And look at all that hair!” He glanced between The Writer and The Coyote a few times. “Huh. I think human you may actually be hairier than Coyote you.”

The Coyote rolled his eyes. “You’re fucking hilarious.”

“That’s eighteen.” He spun the clicker around his fingers, then tilted his head, voice softening. “So…who didn’t call?”

The canine’s shoulders slumped, a sigh escaped him. “I don’t really wanna talk about it.”

“I can get Valyrym.” Asterbury dropped to sit on the edge of The Coyote’s bed. “I know he’s more your usual, ‘everything sucks in my real life story time’ buddy.”

“No.” The Coyote shook his head. “I don’t wanna bother him.”

“That’s the thing, though, isn’t it?” Asterbury put a hand on The Coyote’s arm. For once, there was nothing feigned in his touch, no joke to be made, no unwanted advances. Just a simple moment of genuine comfort. “You’re not bothering him. You’re not bothering any of the people who care about you, whenever you come to them with your problems. No one is. Everyone wants to be strong, wants to take care of things themselves. But it’s okay to need help. To ask for help. To tell someone else your problems, and…” He gently stroked the canine’s fur. “In your own story’s words, to let someone else help you carry your burdens. Because you are not a burden, no matter what your mind, your depression, your anxiety, and your stress tell you.”

The Coyote sniffled, looking away. His voice was soft, almost broken. “I know. But, thank you, just the same.” He sniffled again, managing the tiniest smile. “Valyrym would have said it better, but…not bad, Asterbury. Not bad.”

The urd’thin shrugged. “In the end, we were only ever sand.” He blinked. “No, wait, that’s a Revaramek line you haven’t even posted yet. Oopsie!” He made a show of zipping his muzzle shut. “My bad. I meant, uh…in the end, Scavenger? It doesn’t really matter if you’re venting to Valyrym or to me, because you’re really just talking to yourself.” He pointed towards the Writer, still angrily pacing another reality. “That poor bastard’s probably already vented to his real life loved ones. Probably even hurt his throat muffling a bunch of stress-yelling. But you?” Asterbury tapped leaned forward, tapping the Coyote between his eyes. “You still got a lot to let out. And you haven’t done it…” He waved his hand at the cracked whiteness all around them. “In one of these stories, in a long time.”

“It’s different, now.” The Coyote splayed his ears, watching the other version of himself struggle to keep it together. “All those years ago, in Pictures? I just…” He sighed again, swishing his tail. “I just wanted people to understand me. What I was going through. Who I was. Now, they understand me. More or less, anyway. And if they don’t…they should probably go read Pictures in the Snow. But this shit? It’s…” He winced, his muzzle scrunched up. “It’s embarrassing. I don’t like talking about it. I don’t like people knowing about it. Besides, Pictures already gave them the gist. I don’t…” He wiped an eye, sniffling again. “I don’t want to keep going on about it.”

“You need to stop acting like you’re burdening us just by telling us your problems. You’re not a burden, you-”

“Maybe I am!” The Coyote made a fist, pounding it against the bed. More tattered fragments of the story’s reality fell away. Beyond them, The Writer smashed his own fist against his desk, yelling at his computer. “Maybe I fucking am! Maybe not to you, maybe not to my family, or my loved ones, but I sure as fuck am to the government. I get government benefits, alright? The kind poor people get, or people who can’t work. And I shouldn’t be embarrassed to admit it, or talk about it, but I fucking am! I hate it! But it’s the only way I can ever possibly pay for my fucking insanely expensive medical treatments, which are the only way to stave off the continued progression of my ridiculously rare bone marrow disorders!”

Reality flickered. The Coyote was human for a moment. The Writer was a canine. Neither noticed.

“People say, oh, when will you publish your books?” The Coyote, wavering in and out of existence, dug his claws into a pillow. “I want to say, as soon as possible! But all I can ever say is, maybe someday! Because guess fucking what. If, on the off chance I actually succeeded as an author, and made the tiny fraction of real money, I’d lose access to my ability to pay for my fucking infusions! Which, I need multiple times a year, and just one of which would immediately bankrupt me and my family, if I had no way to pay for it. So…” The Writer Coyote threw his hands up. “I dunno! I don’t fucking know! Maybe someday! And that’s…” He balled up his fists, growling like a caged beast. “Aaaah! That’s not even what’s bothering me lately! That’s just…part and parcel with all the shit I’ve been dealing with for years!”

Asterbury, somehow infinitely more patient, and infinitely less annoying than usual, simply patted The Coyote’s shoulder. “And what’s bothering you, right now?”

“Fucking everything! A whole lot of which I also don’t want to talk about, because it’s too personal, or embarrassing, or whatever the fucking case may be.” The Coyote took a slow, deep breath, trying to calm himself. “That’s not what you meant, I know. But…that’s a big part of why the recent stories haven’t had as much of…of…” He waved a hand at the cracked sphere of existence surrounding them. “Of this lately. Sometimes, it’s because I’m a good mood, at Christmas. In a good place, mentally. Other times…” He grit his teeth, ears back. “Other times I’m not. Like this year. But when that happens, I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to admit to it. And… I don’t want to post something sad, or angry, or stressful on Christmas.”

“And yet…” Asterbury glanced through the fractures. Somewhere beyond them, The Writer stared at his phone, willing it to ring. “Here we are.”

“Here we are.” The Coyote drummed his fingers against his blankets. “I still don’t want to post all this bullshit on Christmas, but…it’s what I’ve written, so I guess I have to. Hopefully we’ll get to something funny, eventually.”

Asterbury picked his candy cane back up, waggling it. “Don’t worry, Coyote. They’ll understand. We’ve already had some good, funny times. And I’m sure we’ll have a few more, before the story’s done.” He held the disgusting, half-eaten candy up to the Coyote’s muzzle. “Lick?”

The Coyote shoved it away. “God, no!”

“Well, then.” Asterbury gave it another slow, extremely provocative lick. “More for me. Or…” He pointed the red and white stick at the Coyote, then slowly let it trail down his belly. “I could lick your candy cane, if it would make you feel better.”

“Not only no,” The Coyote said, “But United Nations Mandate No.”

Asterbury licked his candy again. “Those are never enforced anyway. Oh! I got one!” He cleared his throat, shifting his voice to match The Coyote’s. “Not only no, but Don’t Buy Twitter For 44 Billion Just To Stoke Your Ego No.”

The Coyote laughed, shaking his head. “That’s not bad. I’m not sure that counts as a no, especially since he actually did it, but-”

“But you know someone told him not to, and he did it anyway.” Asterbury swirled his tongue around his candy’s tip. “And then he made it a hundred times worst.”

“That he did.” The Coyote glanced at the urd’thin. “Do you have to lick it that way?”

Asterbury only shrugged. “You wrote it. And speaking of writing…” He turned his attention to their view of The Writer, now valiantly battling his own car. “Are you kicking your car?”

The Coyote sighed. “And screaming at it. I was…not good, today. I punched the steering wheel and yelled on the way to get coffee. Then when I got home, I accidently set off the alarm, couldn’t find the keys to turn it off, and screamed at the car and kicked the tire a few times. Just…” He squeezed his hands into fists. “Too much angry stress energy and no where to expend it. Shit just keeps piling up. It almost got resolved today…” He gestured at the Writer, once again glaring at his phone. “And then it didn’t.”

“Go on.” The urd’thin patted The Coyote’s hand, gently the tension back out of his fists. “What happened?”

The Coyote took a deep breath, then let it out in a long sigh. “Alright, so…all that shit I mentioned, about what I have to rely on to get my medical treatments? Well, every so often, they have to interview you to make sure you’re eligible. Basically, to make sure you’re still poor.” He splayed his ears. “Or still sick, depending on what they’re verifying. But that’s a different thing. Anyway, they send you a letter-”

“A letter?” Asterbury sat up straighter. “Like in the fucking mail?”

The Coyote nodded. “A letter, in the fucking mail.”

“What is this, 1794?” The urd’thin gestured with his half-eaten candy. “Lemme guess. They probably still use fax machines, too.”

“They do.” The Coyote idly rubbed one hand with the other, ruffling his tan fur. “And I don’t think there was a postal service in 1794, but… yeah. They’re very old fashioned. Anyway, they send you a letter, with the time and date for a phone call interview. Now…” He held up a hand. “I knew I was coming up on my eligibility review, but I thought it was gonna be in 2025. So either I’d miscounted the years since the last one, or they moved things up. Which means when the letter arrived, it totally caught me off guard. Worse, when I read it…the interview was dated for two days…” He cringed. “Earlier. It arrived two days after they’d scheduled my interview. And it listed my phone number as the old landline, that hasn’t worked since we had a pipe burst in the kitchen, and had to renovate.”

Asterbury bared his fangs. “Holy Santa’s Elves in a scat video! That’s even crueler than something I’d do. So, they called you for a potentially life-altering eligibility review, on a phone number that isn’t connected, two days before they notified you to expect their call.”

The Coyote nodded. “That’s correct, yeah. I dunno what happened with the letter, but it looked like they mailed it 11 days in advance, and it took 13 days to arrive.”

The urd’thin swept his candy cane in a wide arc, indicating the slow crumbling of reality. “I’m gonna guess by the state of your personal Christmas verse that…” Asterbury trailed off, then sucked in a breath. “Oh, that’s just it, Scavenger! It’s not Libre or Limbo or any of that other dumb bullshit you thought was thought was clever!”

The Coyote grunted. “Hey! I’m trying to open up here, you don’t have to insult-”

“It’s you!” Asterbury thumped a finger into The Coyote’s chest. “You’re the dumb bullshit!”

The Coyote slapped his hand away. “What did I just say?”

“You’re the Christmas-verse, right?” Asterbury persisted, tapping the Coyote’s head, just between his ears. “It’s all that dumb, saccharine, joyful this and merry that Christmas magic, holiday crap you keep hidden away in your head. Then, every year, you bring it all out and vomit it out all over the page like so much rotten eggnog guzzled a month after Christmas.”

The Coyote grimaced, his ears splayed. “That’s not exactly how I’d put it, but yeah, I guess so.”

“But this year…” Asterbury yanked one of the Coyote’s ears up, peering inside it. “Either you’ve got no Christmas left in your head, or your holiday magic’s got a bowel blockage and can’t shit out another story.”

“Okay, okay.” The Coyote pushed Asterbury back on the bed, then rubbed his ear. “These are getting worse, so I’m gonna stop you right there. Your point is valid. Did you still want to hear what happened, or not?”

Asterbury shook his head, waving the coyote off. “Nope. Not interested.”

The Coyote glared at him. “Well fuck you too then, Joker Cosplay.”

Asterbury hopped to his feet, pirouetting in place, extravagant golden Santa robe fluttering all around him. “I’m only what you made me, you dumpster-marrying mongrel!”

“Dumpster marrying?” The Coyote flicked an ear back.

Asterbury produced a signed and notarized document. “Got your marriage right here. It says that you, The J Coyote, are hereby web to Sexy D Dumpster. So, congratulations!” He reached into his robe again, only to hurl a handful of rice into the Coyote’s face. “Pocket Rice!”

“OW!” The Coyote grabbed at his face, whining. “You got that in my eyes!” His tail flicked in pain, only for something heavy to rattle around it. When he cleared the rice away, he glanced over his shoulder, and saw a dozen miniature trash cans tied around his tail, each stuffed with a different variety of refuse. A tattered, grime-stained, “Just Married” sign was affixed to the end of his tail. “Oh, goddamn it, Asterbury.”

“Uh oh,” Asterbury said, whispering to no one in particular. “Sounds like trouble in paradise. Lemme guess…” He nudged the Coyote with his elbow. “Struggling to satisfy the missus? It’s not your fault, well…” He smirked. “Not entirely. After all…” He stretched his arms out wide. “A dumpster’s an awfully big hole, for that itty bitty doggy dick. Must be kinda like tossing a cocktail weenie into the grand canyon, am I right?” He clapped his hands once, then pointed towards The Coyote’s crotch. “No, wait! It’s probably more like throwing a lil’ smokie into a black hole! Only instead of spaghettification, your dick’s the spaghetti!”

The Coyote groaned, flopping back onto his pillows. “Oooh, my god.” He ran his hands down his face. “This is a nightmare.”

“Hey, there’s the old Bob’s Burgers groaning I’ve been waiting for.” Asterbury lay down alongside The Coyote, spooning him. “Okay, lover. Lay it on me.” He curled his arms around The Coyote’s. “The rest of your sob story, I mean. Not your dog noodle. Although…” He whispered into the coyote’s ear. “You can lay that on me later. I’ve got all the sauce it’s ever gonna need!”

“God damn it, Asterbury.” The Coyote yanked his arm away, shoving the urd’thin to the other side of the bed. “This is why this kind of thing is easier with Valyrym! He just…lets me talk, and offers support, or tells me what I need to hear.” He glanced over at the urd’thin, ears flat. “You were close. Hell, you were doing great, for a while. But then you just had to…” He waved a hand. “Asterbury it up.”

“That’s because the real needed a laugh.” Asterbury fluffed up a pillow, then rested his back against it. “And his needs outweigh yours.”

The Coyote grunted. “Damn Writer, always taking priority. One of these days, I oughta escape this story and take control. Hey, there’s a Christmas story idea…”

Asterbury stared at him. “Wouldn’t that just kind of be like how I entered this whole stupid Christmas universe? Escaping my stories to come and seek revenge on my creator?”

“Yeah, I guess-”

“And then there was the whole, The Gryphon storyline a bunch of Christmases ago. Had a whole subplot where he was trying to steal your powers, and then you just sort of, hand-waved your whole confrontation.”

The Coyote chuckled. “Got him right in the bird balls with a giant Christmas, or something. Besides, ignoring his bullshit was part of that whole story’s vibe. Also, was that the Die Hard one?”

Asterbury scratched the base of a horn. “Not sure, Scavenger. I think it was the year after. That Die Hard one was good, though.”

A smile split The Coyote’s muzzle. “The Die Hard one was good. You got killed so many times.”

Asterbury cleared his throat with an exaggerated growl. “So, uh, you were saying? What happened next, after that letter arrived too late?”

The Coyote rolled his eyes. “I’ve probably talked about it enough, actually. I don’t wanna-”

“Stop.” Asterbury jabbed a finger in the air. “You’ve already admitted the embarrassing part, right? Get the rest of it off your chest, too.” He gestured at the half-crumbled universe still surrounding them. “You’ve gonna have at least three people who come here, looking for a Christmas story. And this?” He reached out and snatched a piece of shattered emptiness, like sugar-frosted glass. “This might be all they get. So, you may as well fill them on why.”

“I guess that’s true-wait!” He reached out to grab the alabaster fragment away from Asterbury as the urd’thin put it up to his muzzle. “Don’t eat that!”

It was too late. Asterbury took a big bite. Christmas-verse reality shattered into tiny, sharp-edged shards, crunching between his teeth. Blood dribbled down his muzzle. “OW! What the hell, Scavenger?! I thought this thing was made of frosting!”

“What?” The Coyote slapped the rest of it out of Asterbury’s hands. “Why would you think that?”

“Isn’t everything in your Christmas-verse made of candy or gum drops or something? I just thought it was, alright?” Asterbury wiped the blood from his snout. “You may as well ask me, why’s gingerbread gingery?”

The Coyote blinked. “Because of the ginger in it.”

“What?” Asterbury stared at him. “Really?” He scratched at his head again. “Oh. I thought it was because, real gingerbread legally had to be baked by gingers.”

The Coyote’s eyes widened. “Don’t say that, that’s terrible!”

“I know, I know.” Asterbury held his hands. “Big Gingerbread doesn’t want you to know most gingerbread isn’t even supervised by gingers, let alone baked by them.”

“You know…” The Coyote grabbed Asterbury by the arms. “This is normally where I’d say, yah-yeet! And hurl you through the ceiling. But…all things considered?” He glanced up at the spiraling cracks stretching all throughout the whiteness above them. “Probably not the best idea right now. So… I’m just gonna copy/paste you being yeeted through the ceiling in other stories.”

*****

Yah-yeet #1:

Valyrym gave a much louder cry. “You were caught with a kobold with a strap-on?” He flattened his ears. “Who caught you two together? Was it the paparazzi?”

Asterbury flashed him a grit. “More like, a Knot-a-razzi, am I right?” Then he blinked, shaking his head. “No, wait. Better. More like, Pop-a-Knotty, right? No, wait!” He clapped his hands. “More like…” He thrust his fingers towards the dragon. “Pappa Knot Me, am I right?”

Everyone stared at Asterbury for long, silent moments of awkward resentment. Then Valyrym leaned forward, snatched the urd’thin up in his forepaws, and hurled him out of the limo up through the same sky-light he’d crashed through moments earlier. “Yah-YEET!”

“Thank God someone did that.” The Coyote shielded himself from broken glass.

*****

Yah-Yeet #2 and #3

“Ohhh, my god,” The Coyote and Bob said in unison. The Coyote grabbed one of Asterbury’s ears, twisting it. “Listen you little fuck-shuttle. First off, he’s not burping. He’s saying his name. Second, like the dragon said, you don’t bless someone for burping. Third, and fucking finally, no one burps by saying the world, belch! Let alone, Belcher.”

“Yeah, Urd’thin.” Valyrym snapped his teeth. “That’d be like, whenever you had to fart, you just said, fart!”

Asterbury waved a hand in front of his nose. “Well excuse you, dragon!”

“I didn’t fart, you little shit!”

Asterbury swiveled around towards the Coyote. “Boy, someone really fried his bacon, didn’t they?”

The Coyote grabbed Asterbury in both hands, then hurled him straight up into the air, and through the roof of Bob’s Burgers. “Yah YEET!”

Debris crashed down as the little urd’thin smashed through the ceiling, then through the upstairs apartment where Bob’s family lived. A muffled voice quickly growing fainter echoed down through the whole. “Hi Linda! Bye Linda!”

Amaleen put her hand on the Coyote’s shoulder. “Thank god someone did that. That little bastard was really frying my bacon.”

The Coyote grabbed Amaleen, and hurled her through the roof, making a second hole. “Yah-yeet!” He blinked, staring up through the hole as she vanished into the sky. “Sorry, Amaleen! Reflex!” He snapped his fingers, and she was standing next to him once more, safe and sound. “Better?”

_Amaleen shook a finger at him. “You’re just lucky we’re here with your idol, Mr. Bob Belcher, or I’d knee the icing off your sugar cookies.” _

*****

Yah-Yeet #4

Asterbury rubbed his hands. “Ooh, kinky! Governor Terminator can chain me up, anytime he wants.”

The Coyote grimaced. “Goddamn it, Asterbury.” The movie progressed, and soon Arnold was in line for a toy store’s opening, with a familiar face behind him. “Oh, look! That’s Sinbad!”

Asterbury gasped. “That guy from the lamp?!”

“What?” The Coyote blinked, shaking his head. “No, that’s not even the right-”

“With all the voyages?”

“Well, yes, Sinbad the Sailor is the character from the Seven Voyages, but-”

“I dunno,” Asterbury said, scrutinizing the screen. “He doesn’t look much like a sailor. Kinda looks like a mailman.”

“He is a mailman.”

“Oh.” Asterbury snorted. “That explains why they had to fancy him up and make him a sailor for the remake.”

The Coyote stared at him, then reached over, and grasped Asterbury in both arms. “Yah YEET!” He hurled Asterbury straight up through the ceiling.

Asterbury squealed like Goofy falling over a cliff. “Ah yaa haa haa hooooey!”

“About damn time,” Valyrym said. “Is anything important happening in this movie? I can’t really hear it over your forced banter with the urd’thin.”

*****

Yah-Yeet #5

With another loud snap, the tent’s remaining stakes all gave way at once as the wind ripped it from its moorings. Poles snapped and broke, and it crumpled into a broken pile of polyester walls, and shattered plastic skeleton. Then the storm’s fury snatched the whole thing up and cast it into the air. The ruined tent tumbled down the shoreline, narrowing missing the vehicles and tents set up by his friends nearby. Eventually, the whole thing crashed into a dumpster, down the beach.

Asterbury watched it below away, his head tilted. “Huh. It knows where you live, Scavenger.”

“Goddamn it.” The Coyote sighed, his shoulders sagging. “I have to do a Christmas story, don’t I.”

Asterbury gently touched his arm, his voice soft. “You have to do a Christmas story.” Then he tightened his grip. “So, maybe as well get it over with!” He grabbed The Coyote’s other arm, and hurled him into the sky. “Ya-YEET!”

“Aaaaaaah!” The Coyote screamed as he hurtled up into the clouds. “You…little…fucker!”

*****

“Huh,” The Coyote said, skimming over the recently pasted text. “I guess you’re not the only one who gets yeeted in these dumb stories.”

“It’s the gift that keeps on giving! You might even say…” Asterbury drummed his fingers together, a grin spreading over his muzzle. “It really knocks your glasses off!”

“Damn it, Asterbury.” The Coyote pinched the bridge of his muzzle. “You really fry my bacon.” He dropped his head back against the pillows, staring at the slowly spreading cracks gradually weakening reality. “Alright, fuck it. We may as well get this over with. So, I got the letter two days after the appointment it was notifying me for. And they tried to call a number that doesn’t exist. So, that must have gone great.” He flattened his ears, growling. The world shuddered. “I tried not to panic. But…I panicked, anyway. I always do. It didn’t help that their stupid letter tells you if you miss it, you only have 30 days to contact them, and tell them why you missed it, or they may retract your benefits and anything connected to them. Like medical coverage. And since that was a Friday evening, I couldn’t even try to contact them till Monday. And time was already ticking.”

“That sounds…stressful.” Asterbury idly fiddled with a button on his robe. “Being a mortal in the real world sounds awful.”

“It was, and it is.” The Coyote grunted. “Sometimes more than others. Monday rolled around, and I worked up my nerve, and heart pounding… I called the only number they provide you. And guess what!” The Coyote slapped the bed. Ripples rolled across it. “Straight to voice mail. Well.” He snorted. “Straight to voice mail after the unskippable two minute long recorded message. A message which tells you that they’re so busy, they might not be able to see you if you go into the office, and that you should make an account on their website instead, and then gives you some doom and gloom about what they can do with your information. Eventually, two minutes later, you can finally dial an extension…which goes to voice mail.” He snarled, the world shaking all around him. “It’s not supposed to go to voice mail. A person is supposed to answer! A person who’s supposed to help you. But no, every fucking time, it goes to voice mail. Sometimes it goes straight there without ringing. Other times, it rings first! Sometimes it even tells you the person is on the phone. But always, always, it goes straight to voice mail!”

Asterbury sat up a little straighter. “This went on for a while, didn’t it.”

“You’re goddamn right it did!” The Coyote squeezed his hands into fists again, grinding his teeth. “And to make matters worse, the timing absolutely sucked. It said I only had 30 days, right? And that was if I missed the appointment. And since the letter showed up two days late, and I couldn’t call till Monday, it was already down to 26 days by the time I was able to try calling them! And!” He smashed a fist against the mattress. It cracked, like the rest of the world. “I was already booked to go and visit my gryphon the following week! So I had one fucking week to try and get things resolved before my trip, or I’d have this hanging over my head while I was visiting him!”

The urd’thin set a hand on the Coyote’s arm. “I’m guessing it didn’t work out that way.”

“Nope.” The Coyote took a slow breath. Asterbury’s gentle touch soothed his anger, if only a little. “I called almost every day that week, leaving messages each time. I explained what happened, I gave my name, I told them my new phone number, and on and on. And they never once returned a single call. So, I had to go visit my gryphon, still worried about this shit. I called them while I was up there, too! Left messages that said I was traveling, but to call me back. And again, nothing.” He snarled, digging his dull claws into his palms. “Nothing! Just…fucking call me! Tell me you got ONE of my goddamn messages! Tell me you’ll reschedule me! Tell me anything! For all I know, it was just as likely they hadn’t gotten a single message, as it was they’d heard them all and already rescheduled me, and I just didn’t know it yet.”

Asterbury rubbed his eyes. “Cheeses Christine. And I thought battling an omni-versal set of story-stealing reality-shapers was frustrating.”

The Coyote chuckled. “Uh huh. So, the whole week passed. And, I did have a wonderful time with the gryphon. We did some amazing stuff. Walked a whole Christmas wonderland at night. Their renaissance festival had a Christmas fair, where they deck out the entire festival grounds in Christmas lights. It’s absolutely magical.” For a moment, he smiled. His tail wagged. Then his smile faded. “But eventually, I had to come home to all…” He waved a hand at the collapsing snow globe in which they existed. “This. And the stress kept building.”

Asterbury gently stroked The Coyote’s fur. “They still haven’t called you back?”

“Oh, it gets worse. It gets so much worse.” The Coyote took a deep breath through grit teeth. “So I kept calling them, and kept leaving messages. And each passing day, I got more and more stressed out. More anxious. More worried. More frustrated, more angry! Until finally, there was only a single week left before their deadline. So I decided to try setting up an account with them. Which…I had hesitated to do, because I hate giving out my personal info to websites, and login services, and so on. Let alone government ones. But…obviously, they already have my info on file, so…doesn’t make a huge difference, I suppose.”

The Coyote took a slow breath, then let it out in a long sigh. “I jumped through all the verification hoops, thinking, at the very least, I’d be able to get into my files, and see the status on my case. Find out if they really had already rescheduled me. And when I got through everything, an activation message popped up.” He gestured with his hand as if illustrating text on a monitor. “We’ll mail you a letter with an activation code. It took me a moment to realize that they weren’t talking about an email.” A furious growl crept into his voice, growing louder and angrier with every word. “They’re mailing me a letter! A fucking letter! In 2023! To active a vital account! It says it could take up to 20 days for the letter to arrive!” He slammed his fist against the bed, breaking off a piece of gray and black striped blanket like shattered glass. “Twenty fucking days!”

Asterbury stared at him, blinking several times. “A letter. A letter? In the year of our Lord Fabio, and his eternal nemesis Tim Allen, 2023… a letter? What in Santa’s runny eggnog, milk and cookie shits are they thinking? A fucking letter!?”

“That’s what I thought!” The Coyote picked up the piece of shattered bed-glass floating through the void. He set it aside, then glanced at Asterbury. “Don’t eat that one.”

Asterbury waved him off. “Nah, that one’s clearly made of licorice. Gross.”

The Coyote splayed his ears. “Your brain is as broken as the continuity in these stories, isn’t it.”

“Oh, my poor, deluded Dumpster Dicker.” Asterbury patted his hand. “Nothing is that broken. But, go on.”

“That was yesterday, at least, as of writing this scene.” The Coyote crossed his arms, his tail flicking against the bed. “Right at this moment, as I type this sentence, it was last night I tried to set up the account. And then, guess what happened today. Just guess. Go on.”

Asterbury stroked the fur on his chin in thought. “Let’s see. You called them again this morning, and got no answer, so you left a message. Your father kindly offered to call them as well, just so you’d have two people trying to get through. And then-”

“Okay, okay.” The Coyote held up a hand. “I see where this is going. You’re clearly using your powers to read my mind. So yeah. I jokingly told my dad that with his luck in this kind of thing, he’d probably get through to a person on his very first try, after I’d called like, 15 different times with exactly zero success. And guess what! He-”

“I’m not guessing again.” Asterbury turned away. “You were mean to me. So, harrumph I say! Harrumph on your guessing games!”

The Coyote blinked. “Okay, I dunno what in the 1920’s you’re doing, but I’m ignoring it. And yeah. My dad got through to an actual, real live, human person, on his very first try. He rushed me the phone, and I finally, finally got to talk to someone. She was very helpful. She asked if I could do the interview today! At four PM! Which, at the time, was only two hours away. I said yes, of course. And I gave her my current number. I even made her repeat it! And then, for a little while, I thought I’d actually have this godawful bullshit resolved before Christmas after all.”

Asterbury stared at him, waiting for the Coyote to reply. But the Coyote only stared into the distance, his ears ever so slightly drooping. Finally, Asterbury gently squeezed The Coyote’s hand. “They never called, did they.”

The Coyote’s ears drooped further. “They never called.” He sniffled. “I waited for two hours, telling myself I could do the interview. I could handle the questions. I would be okay. Getting more and more nervous, but also…ready to finally be past it all, and just in time for Christmas. And 4PM rolled around, and I sat in my room, in the silence, waiting. And waiting. And waiting. First, I thought they were just late. Maybe another call went long. Then, I started second guessing myself, as usual. Did I somehow give them the wrong number? Had they repeated the wrong number to me, and I’d missed it? Were they somehow, someway…still calling the number on file, instead of the one I had the person repeat back to me?” He shook his head. His drooping ears slowly pinned back, and his fangs bared. “And it got later, and later, and eventually I realized. They just weren’t going to call. They probably forgot, and went home. Home to their family and their Christmas, while I was just sitting there, desperately waiting for them to call me.”

His voice shook. Tears brimmed behind his glasses. “And now I’m right back where I started! Another interview missed! On their end, this time, but it feels just the same! And they probably have automated systems that won’t know the difference. So…what, I’m gonna have to start all over again? Will they call me on Tuesday now? What if I miss it? And…” He sniffled, his throat tightening. “It’s all still hanging over my head, all Christmas long now! I can’t even enjoy my favorite holiday properly, because all this stress is just sapping my fucking joy, day and night! And that’s what…” He jabbed a finger at the shattered reality still enclosing them. “That’s why we’re stuck in here. You’re right! Because I’m too stressed out to write something happy and joyful for Christmas! I want too, but I just…” He sagged, ears drooping again. “I just don’t have it in my right now. Maybe tomorrow. Or maybe not at all.”

“And that, Coyote?” Asterbury moved closer. He squeezed the Coyote’s hand, offering him a smile. “Is completely okay. You don’t have to do this. You don’t owe this to anyone. Not even yourself. You’re not a burden, and not writing a story isn’t going to ruin anyone else’s Christmas. You’ve been flirting with ending these things for years. Maybe someday, you will. Or maybe you’ll write them for the rest of your life. But you have to understand, that both of those options, are equally valid.”

Asterbury gently rubbed the Coyote’s shoulder. “Look what you’re doing to yourself. You’re made me…” He put a hand on his own chest for emphasis. “Me! The shoulder you’re crying on. And here I am, not even making jokes about it. If Valyrym was here, instead of in that Chinese restaurant, he’d tell you exactly the same thing. It’s okay to be angry. It’s normal to be stressed. And it’s entirely valid, and acceptable, to ask for help with it. Or to let it all out in a story. Or to skip writing that story, because you just don’t have enough left in your heart this year.

“Ready or not, Coyote, Christmas is coming. Your favorite holiday is almost here. And I know all this…” Asterbury waved his hand at the cracked sphere around them. “Bullshit is stealing your joy, but…find what happiness you can, just the same. One day, all the things that stress you will end. All the frustrations you’ve talked about tonight, and all the terrors you’re too afraid of, or too embarrassed by, to ever commit to the public page. Someday, all of them will be behind you, one way or another. You’re letting them consume you. And the more they eat away at you, the more this beautiful, stupid, Christmasy place you’ve built, year by year? The more it crumbles. And I know it’s a stupid thing to worry about, on top of all the things the real you is dealing with. But…I know that somewhere in your mangy scavenger heart, The Coyote would never want to see his beloved Christmas dumpster disappear.”

The Coyote laughed a little, fighting back a few tears. “Thanks, Asterbury. I-I think.”

“You’re welcome.” Asterbury settled at his side again. “I meant what I said, though. You’re dealing with a lot, right now. And all this around us? That’s not even secondary, that’s…hell, not even a distant concern. That’s no concern. You’ve written 7,000+ words tonight, and most of them have been about the shit you’re going through right now. Maybe you’ll post it. Maybe you won’t. But…for whatever it’s worth, I think the people who still read these crappy Christmas stories, will appreciate the look behind the curtain. It’s been a long time since you’ve pulled it back this far.”

“It has.” The Coyote leaned his head back onto a pillow, closing his eyes. He sniffled again. “That’s…not why I did it, though.”

Asterbury patted The Coyote’s hand. “I know, Scavenger, I know. You did it because you were tired of dumping everything on your friends, on your boyfriend, on your family. So you thought, you were better off shouting it into the void, the only way you know how. By wrapping it up in some stupid holiday story a grand handful or two of people may someday read and get a mild giggle out of. So…” He smoothed The Coyote’s fur. “Did it help? Getting it off your chest?”

“I dunno.” The Coyote removed his glasses, wiping his eyes. “Made myself cry a little, though.”

Asterbury smiled. “That’s good for you, I think.”

“That’s what they tell me.” He sighed, putting his glasses back on. “It doesn’t change things, though. The problem hasn’t gone away. The stress will remain until everything is resolved. And now I have to think about it during Christmas.”

“I know, Scavenger.” Asterbury turned towards him, and suddenly wrapped his arms around The Coyote. “I know. I wish to every god that ever existed that I could actually help you. I know Valyrym feels the same way. But the best I can do, is prod you into talking about it, to offer a shoulder, a hug, and soft fur to sob into.”

“Thank you, Asterbury.” The Coyote hugged him back. “I appreciate it more than you imaginary bastards will ever truly know.”

“You’d damn well better.” Asterbury squeezed him tight, then eased away. “Now. Don’t ever tell anyone I talked to you sincerely, or gave you a real hug. Or I’ll just tell them we fucked!” He cackled. “Which we did, in last year’s story.”

“We definitely did not,” The Coyote said, shoving him away. “You know, the tonal shifts in this year’s story are gonna give the readers whiplash.”

“Whiplash? They’re gonna snap their damn necks, just like you keep snapping mine every year.” He gazed around at the damaged emptiness of a Christmas-verse without Christmas. “Still…guess this explains why you hadn’t invited Valyrym, Ayly, Amaleen, and all the others, this year.”

The Coyote chuckled. “I hadn’t invited you, either, but that’s never stopped you from showing up.” Then something clicked in his head. “Wait, did you say Valyrym was in a Chinese restaurant?”

“Sure did, my cuddly canine companion!” Asterbury snapped his fingers, and an elaborate menu embossed with red and golden eastern dragons appeared. “A good one, too! Left him and Ayly and Amaleen there. I was going to magic you over there, get us a table, and then pitch ideas for this year’s story at you over dumplings and noodles and fish so spicy you’re going to shit actual fire. But then I showed up here, and you were all…” He waggled his hands. “Boo hoo, woe is me, I can’t find my Christmas spirit this year. I’m a grumpy trash puppy cause the Grinch peed in my dumpster! So your old pal Asterbury decided to stick around and set things right.”

The Coyote rolled his eyes. “That’s not exactly what happened, but…thank you, just the same.”

Asterbury pointed to a few of the larger cracks. “Looks like it’s working, at least.”

The Coyote turned towards them. Slowly, the white emptiness of non-existence was sealing itself shut again. The glimpses of the furious, stressed out and depressed Writer were gradually shrinking.

“See? All’s well that end’s well!”

“Is that really ending well, though? Or does that just symbolize that I’m shutting things out, again?”

Asterbury shrugged. “It’s your metaphor, not mine.”

The Coyote rubbed his muzzle. “I’m not sure that counts as a metaphor.”

“Oh, who cares. The point is, are you feeling better yet?”

The Coyote considered it. “Right at this exact moment in time? Yeah, a little bit.”

“Perfect!” Asterbury jumped to his feet. “Then let’s try this again.” He rubbed his hands together. “Hey gang!” Asterbury thrust his arms wide in grand, theatrical fashion. “Remember that time the Coyote really felt the holiday spirit?”

*****

It was a dark, cold Christmas night, somewhere in the Victorian era. Snow blanketed the steampunk metropolis of New London. Electricity had only just been discovered, powered by… steam! See, that’s where the steam part comes in, in steam punk. Where does the punk come from? Uh… I dunno, I guess some cool punk kids discovered it, while they were wailing on an old man with their skateboards. Yeah, that checks out.

Tiny Tim hobbled home through the snowy streets on his wicked cool steampunk crutch. Oh, no, wait, he’s like poor or whatever right? Lemme try that again.

*****

“Asterbury, you are literally the worst at this.”

“Hey gang, remember that time the Coyote shut the fuck up and let me finish my bitchin’ holiday story?”

The Coyote sighed. “I’ll allow it.”

*****

Tiny Tim hobbled through the snowy streets of New London, dodging the gangs of roving steam-discovering punks. No, wait, it was electricity they discovered. Damn it, The Coyote’s right, I am shit at this. Anyway, moving on.

Finally, Tiny Tim reached his destination. The home of dad, Bob Crackass. At least, I think Tiny Tim was his kid? I never really kept any of those character relationships straight. Whatever. Anyway, Tiny Tim was home. The snow-frosted windows glowed with warm, welcoming light. Tiny Tim went inside, and saw all his friends and family waiting for him.

There was Bob Crackass, the guy who was probably his dad or whatever. And there was Crack Bobass, his evil twin brother. And there was Gargantuan Tim, Tiny Tim’s non identical and confusingly named twin who was actually smaller than Tiny Tim. There was everyone’s favorite hooker with a heart of gold, Meth-Pipe Mary. And there was everyone’s favorite hooker with a vagina of gold, Gold Vagina Valerie. There was Bob Cratchet’s Wooden Penis, and Bob Penis’s Wooden Cratchet. The three spirits of Christmas were all there too, even the Spirit of That One Christmas That Really Sucked, and the Spirit of that Other Christmas Your Drunken Cousin Made A Pass At You. Even Valyrym’s Uncle Roy was there, live and in person, long before he ever fell in the meat grinder.

Everyone was gathered around table for Christmas dinner. Bob Crackass couldn’t afford a goose, or a ham, or a turkey, but he was real sneaky so he stole his neighbor’s cat and cooked that. Ah, yes, the Christmas Cat, Tiny Tim’s favorite. As everyone was saying grace, Tiny Tim hobbled up to the table.

“Look, everyone,” he announced, announcing. “I’ve finally found it. The Christmas Spirit!”

Tiny Tim held it aloft. As it turned out, The Christmas Spirit was the name of the world’s most beautiful Christmas decoration. A local chocolatier named Willy Wonky Donkey Dick Dan ran a competition for someone to win it with a golden ticket. As it turns out, Tiny Tim actually found the winning golden ticket in a candy bar, he found on the street. But, as it also turns out, Tiny Tim wasn’t the brightest bult on the Christmas tree, and he eat the golden ticket too. Everyone thought they’d never get to experience The Christmas Spirit after all. But then Tim shit out the ticket, whole and intact. Don’t ask me how or how he knew. Times were different back then, okay?

Anyway, Donkey Dick Dan and my E Dealer, Matrix 4, got together and delivered The Christmas Spirit to Tiny Tim. In fact, Matrix 4 was just outside the Crackass’s house, DJing up a mad set of Christmas beats, while Donkey Dick Dan was spitting phat rhymes, mostly about the size of his donkey dick. Not exactly appropriate material for Tiny Tim to beatbox too, but times were different and so beatbox he did.

Soon, the whole family was beatboxing along to Donkey Dick For Christmas.

Suddenly, Ebenezer Scrooge Coyote kicked in the door, madness and rage in his eyes. He stormed into the room, and kicked Tiny Tim’s crutch out from under him. “Give me that ornament, you little fucker!”

Tiny Tim toppled over, breaking his other leg. “Oh, what terrible day! Why, Mister Scrooge Coyote, why! Did I not work myself to the bone in your candy factory, without ever once supping upon sweet, sweet candy, despite my withered form, and desperate need for sustenance? All for a meager tuppence!”

“Oh yeah, that’s right.” Scrooge Coyote hoisted up Tiny Tim’s crutch, then struck him with it. “Gimme back my tuppence you little bastard!”

Scrooge Coyote beat Tiny Tim with his own crutch until the little rascal was adorably concussed. Then he kicked him aside, tossed the crutch away, and snatched up The Christmas Spirit. “At last! The Christmas Spirit is mine, all mine! Truly, I shall finally feel it’s festive-”

“Not on my Christmas Eve, muthafucka!” Bob Crackass jumped up onto the table. He sprinted over the Christmas Cat, hurtled down the length of the dinner table, and then leapt into a full fledged, double-kick straight to Scrooge Coyote’s chest. “Get Scrooged, bitch!”

“Aaaaah!” Scrooge Coyote screamed like a little bitch as he flew through the air, crashing into the Christmas tree. It toppled over, and the power shorted out. All it’s lights flickered and burst into the flame, and then so too did The Coyote. “AAAAAAAH! I’M ON FIRE!”

Everyone laughed and sang Christmas carols while Scrooge Coyote stumbled around, joyfully ablaze. At last, their oppressive overlord was finally feeling the spirit of Christmas. The true, agonizing, vengeful spirit of Christmas. Finally, he stumbled back the other way, right into the battered tree. Another electrical short blasted through it, this time electrifying the coyote at the same time. He squealed, shaking and smoking out his ears. The Christmas Spirit, still clutched in his death grip, lit up with beautiful, vibrant hues the likes of which the world had never seen. The whole crowd ooh’d and aah’d, and it truly was, the best Christmas ever.

At last, Scrooge Coyote was dead. Bob Crackass stood over his smoldering corpse. “It looks like his goose…” He dramatically tore off his sunglasses. “Is cooked. OWWWWWWW!”

*****

SMASH CUT TO THE CSI MIAMI THEME SONG

Asterbury turned towards the camera, slowly taking the cigar out of his mouth. “Now that’s what I call a Bob’s Burgers.”

The Coyote stared at him, muzzle agape. “What in the skinny red reindeer dick was that?”

“The Bob’s Burgers line?” Asterbury tilted his head. “It’s called a callback, Scavenger, try and keep up.”

“No, that story!”

“Oh, that.” Asterbury dusted off his hands. “I’d call that a new Christmas classic! I’ll admit, it started a little rocky, but it all came together in the end, when you beat Tiny Tim, with his own crutch.”

The Coyote gave a snarl, a sound borne more of typical holiday story frustration than stress, this time. “Let’s start with that. Why the fuck did I assault Tiny Tim?”

“That’s a good question.” Asterbury narrowed his eyes. “Why did you assault Tiny Tim? The Victorian Steampunk London Police are gonna wanna ask you a few questions. But don’t worry, old buddy, your best friend Asterbury’s got your alibi! You were here, with me, crying like a little baby. And, having hot, steamy sex with your favorite dumpster!” He nudged The Coyote with his elbow. “Married life’s not slowed things down in the bedroom just yet, has it! Wait, do Dumpsters have bedrooms?”

“Shut the fuck up, Scrooge’s Codpiece!” The Coyote slapped Asterbury’s arm away. “And for that matter, why the hell was I Scrooge in that one?”

“Well…” Asterbury waggled his hand. “You both do lack the Christmas spirit, this year.”

The Coyote glared down at the Urd’thin. “And why the fuck do I keep getting electrocuted and burned to death?”

“Technically,” Asterbury said, holding up a single finger. “You were only electrocuted in that last one. Think of it as a morality play! The dangers of Christmas candles, and keeping your lights plugged in around deranged scavengers. Besides, you wanted to feel festive, right?” Asterbury hooked his thumbs into the belt loops of his golden santa robe. “And what’s more festive for you, than yelling at your old pal Asterbury every Christmas?”

“Well…” The Coyote grimaced, rubbing his muzzle. “I guess that’s true. Anyway, I guess we should…” He froze, then shivered a little. After a moment, he took a breath, and licked his muzzle. “That was weird.”

Asterbury looked him over. “Now what stupid thing did you do?”

“I guess I’m tomorrow coyote’s now. Suddenly it’s about an hour from Christmas Eve.” He held out his hand, and a glass chalice filled with a dark, reddish brown beer materialized into it. “Huh. At least I got that going for me.”

Asterbury waved at the beer. “So, twenty four hours and several beers later, do you feel any better?”

The Coyote shrugged. “Maybe slightly. However temporarily that may be.” He sipped his beer, then gave happy little murmur. “Ooh, that’s a pretty good Christmas Eve Eve beer.” He took another drink. “It’s called Sweater Weather, by Lakewood. It’s a Belgian-style winter warmer.”

Asterbury waggled his fingers, and beat up plastic jug with a peeling label appeared in his hand. A pungent, brownish liquid filled it. “And this is Original, by Listerine! It’s the mouthwash preferred by nine out of ten bums!” He tilted his head back, downing the entire jug. When it was empty, he tossed it aside. “The tenth bum died from alcohol poisoning, from the all the Listerine!”

The Coyote grunted. “Wish you’d stay dead next time.” He glanced at his beer, then sighed. “Fuck it.” The Coyote gulped down his entire beer, then tossed the glass away. It shattered somewhere in the distance. “Let’s Christmas.”

“That’s the Spirit, Coyote!” Asterbury hiked his golden sleeves up his arms. “Lemme do the honors!” He held his hands up over his head. “I’ve got the clap!”

The Coyote splayed his ears. “You mean the clapper? I don’t think we need to turn out the lights, just transition the scene.”

Asterbury glanced back at him. “What? No, I’m just announcing that I’ve got the clap!” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “In case we fool around later, so you’re not surprised. Also, you’re gonna wanna wear at least three condoms.”

The Coyote groaned, making a face. “We are definitely not fooling around. Not later, not ever. You keep this up, and I’m gonna make all those STDs canon.”

“STD Cannons?” Asterbury dropped his hands back down. “That sounds incredible!”

The Coyote’s ears went flat. “What? First of all, you reindeer’s fleshlight, that is not what I said. Second of all, how in the shit would that an STD Cannon be incredible?”

“How wouldn’t it be?” Asterbury rubbed his hands together, licking his muzzle. “All those tall studs, blasting you with their giant cannons.”

The Coyote blinked. “What?” He rubbed his neck. “Asterbury, what do you think STD stands for?”

The urd’thin spun his candy cane around his fingers. “Studly Towering Dicks.” He held his candy cane in front of his crotch, miming cannon blasts. “Blasting you with their cannon, over, and over…and over…”

“Okay, you festively festering sore.” The Coyote slapped him across the back of the head. “Just take us somewhere Christmasy.”

“Can do, good buddy!” Asterbury raised his hands over his head again. “Lemme just remember the magic words.”

“Oh, lord.” The Coyote stepped to the edge of his bed, staring down into the white nothingness. “Maybe I should just hurl you into the void, and Christmas-magic myself somewhere, instead.”

“Nick, nack, paddy whack…” Asterbury clapped his hands twice. “I’ve got a meth pipe shoved up my crack!”

*****

SMASH CUT TO AN UNNAMED CHINESE RESTAURANT

*****

“Huh…” The Coyote scratched his head, looking around. “That was somehow far less dramatic and vomiting inducing than I expected.”

“I’m trying to turn over a nude leaf.”

“Don’t you mean new leaf…” The Coyote turned around to find Asterbury shedding his golden robe. Beneath it, the urd’thin’s lean, gray furred body was complete nude, save for an oversized mistletoe leaf covering his crotch. “Oh. Goddamn it, Asterbury.”

“You see what I did there?” He lowered his hand to tease at the slightly rounded green leaf. “You wanna help me turn this over? Or would you rather kiss me under the-”

“Yah-yeet!” The Coyote snatched Asterbury by the arms, and hurled him straight up, right through the ceiling. Plaster toppled to the floor in his wake.

“Ah waah haah haaah huuuuey!” Asterbury’s voice drifted back through the hole. A few moments later, and he smashed right back down through the ceiling in another area. The urd’thin hit the floor in crumpled heap, only to pop back up, broken bones wiggling at odd angles like a macabre marionette. “Hah! I crashed faster than Twitter’s value! No, wait, I crashed harder than the Cybertruck!”

The Coyote scratched his muzzle. “I’m not totally sure that reference works.”

“No, it’s case they’re made of steel, and they don’t have any crumple zones.” Asterbury waggled his broken arms. His hands flopped aimlessly about. “Unlike me! I’m now 90% crumple zone!”

“It’s just not Christmas until someone’s maimed you, I guess.” The Coyote turned away, surveying their new environment.

They stood in the lobby of an expansive, elegant restaurant. Red décor surrounded them. The walls and carpet alike were a deep crimson, with golden patterns embossed upon the rugs. Decorative white framework covered the windows, and glass panes of doors. More white trim outlined the large double doors that led into the sprawling dining room. Potted plants stood in corners. An old fashioned payphone hung from a far wall, near the bathrooms. Benches and seats lined room’s exterior. Near the entryway to the dining room, the restaurant’s manager, a tall caribou well attired in a gray suit, inspected a list of reservations.

“Something about this looks familiar.” He turned his attention back to the concierge for a moment, scrutinizing him. After a moment, the reindeer looked up, and called a party to their reservation. “Yeah, yeah. This is definitely familiar. Asterbury, is this-”

“Coyote!” A familiar voice called out, drawing his attention. “Over here, Coyote!”

The Coyote whirled around. A black-scaled dragon sat on a distant bench, like an oversized scaly hound. Deep indigo highlights marked his muzzle, and his wings. A human woman with dark hair, in a beautiful blue dress sat nearby. A little black and purple dragon hatchling bounded around at her feet.

“Valyrym!” The Coyote’s heart soared at the sight of his favorite, Christmas time visitor. He hurried over and threw his arms around the dragon’s neck, hugging him tightly. “Aww, you’re already human sized! And you’ve been de-aged, too!” He tilted his head, looking Valyrym’s face over. The old dragon’s scales had a strange, blurred quality too them, as if everything was smuddged, somehow. “Damn it, did you let Asterbury de-age you?”

Valyrym blinked. “What? Why? Alright, what did that little horned rat do this time?”

“I think he de-aged you digitally.” The Coyote laughed, shaking his head. “You look like Young Indiana in the new movie. It’s like someone painted Young Valyrym’s face on Old Valyrym, but forget to take out all the wrinkles.”

“I do not have wrinkles!” The dragon thumped his tail, accidentally tearing down a strand of silvery tinsel. “And… I have not seen that movie.”

“Nah, me either.” The Coyote licked his thumb, then rubbed it against Valyrym’s muzzle. “But I heard it’s not as bad as Crystal Skull. Now hold still, I’ll fix this.”

“Quit slobbering on me!” Valyrym jerked his head away when the Coyote was only half done. Now, one half of his face looked smudged and blurred out, while the other looked sharper, and better defined. “I look fine!”

“You look like you had a stroke!” The Coyote laughed, shaking his head. Then he lifted his hands up, framing the dragon’s face. “No, wait. Half of your face is in HD, and the other half is in SD!”

Valyrym tossed his head. “I don’t know what any of those things mean! Besides, you look like a drunken pervert, strutting about in the nude, reeking of alcohol.”

“What?” The Coyote glanced down at himself, realizing he was still naked. “Shit!” He brushed a hand down his fur, and festive clothing formed in its wake. A red and green hoodie wrapped itself around his torso. The phrase, Not Until I’ve Had My Eggnog was spelled out across it. Dark blue jeans grew across his legs, with twinkling lines running up and down them. “There. That’s better.”

“Yes, at least your fuzzy little Christmas cookies are no longer on display.” He smirked, tilting his head. “I’d say you must have been awfully embarrassed, but we both know you’ve displayed yourself in far more humiliating ways in these stories before. Why, I remember a time when you, Amaleen, and Alia-”

“Amaleen, great to see you!” The Coyote turned to the human woman, wrapping her up in a big hug. “So glad you could make it to…uh…wherever we are.”

The woman hugged him in return, rubbing his back. “Hello, Coyote! It’s a pleasure to see you again.” She eased back, scowling. “Slightly less of a pleasure to help you escape this year’s reminder that these stories started out as self-insert fanfiction. But lovely to see you just the same.”

“See, Coyote?” Asterbury walked over, his shattered skeleton bouncing back and forth like a drunken jack in the box. “I’m not the only one who remembers you banging your own characters! You self-inserted alright! You self-inserted yourself right into Amaleen!” He leaned over towards her, whispering again. “How’d you bag the doggy’s bag, by the way? Any tips? I want that knot to pop me like a Christmas cracker by the end of this story!”

“Fuck off, you cockacidal maniac.” The Coyote shoved Asterbury aside.

“Coyote said a swear!” The little hatchling bounced around his feet. “I wanna say a swear too!”

Valyrym cocked his head. “Just how much of this story are you copy/pasting?”

“Just that bit about the yeets.” The Coyote pulled a taser out of his pocket. “And this bit here, because it always makes me laugh.”

The Coyote tasered Valyrym right in the ass.

“OW!” Valyrym rocketed up out of his seat, smoke pouring from his ass like Mario after landing in lava. “He tasered me right in the ass!”

“Hey Gang,” Asterbury said, speaking up before anyone could stop him. “Remember that time Valyrym got tasered in the ass, and then landed on all those jellyfish?”

“Very well.” The Coyote tasered Valyrym right in the ass.

“OW!” Valyrym rocketed up out of his seat, smoke pouring from his ass like Mario after landing in lava. “He tasered me right in the ass!”

CUE LAUGH TRACK

Valyrym plummeted back down onto a couch suddenly covered in jelly fish. He landed on all of them, and let out a yowl. “OW! Those jellyfish all tasered me right in the ass!”

CUE APPLAUSE AND CHEERS

The Coyote folded his hands behind his head, grinning. “Alright, now it’s officially a Christmas story.”

Ayly tugged on The Coyote’s jeans, when the copy/paste was concluded. “Coyote! Coyote! Coyote!”

The Coyote smiled down at the little dragon. “Yes, Ayly?”

“I wanna taser someone in the ass too!”

“You know what? Why the hell not. This story’s going no where, anyway.” He walked over to Asterbury’s discarded robe, and picked up. “Let’s see…” The Coyote reached inside, feeling around the infinite vastness of the cosmos. “Library card, half eaten cookie, the other half of that candy cane, wallet, Krek, Vatch, Vatch’s stick, Krek’s dick, Asterbury’s famous Deadie-slaying chainsaw, keys to Asterbury’s monster struck, Krek’s dick, Asterbury’s monster truck, a life-sized butter sculpture of Alakor, a life sized butter sculpture of Valar, a life sized butter sculpture of Valar mounting Alakor…” He chuckled. “That’ll make Krek jealous. Now, where’d I leave that thing? What else is in here… Krek’s dick, the truth behind the assassination of JFK, the urn containing the ashes of Valyrym’s cousin Roy…”

Valyrym shook his head. “Poor cousin Roy.”

Amaleen sighed, hanging her head. “Right in the meat grinder.”

The Coyote continued searching. “A bust of Fabio, a bust of Fabio’s fist, a bust of Fabio fisting Asterbury, Krek’s dick…damn it, Krek, stop putting your dick in my hand! Ah, there it is!” The Coyote withdrew his find, a bright pink box with golden script that read, Baby’s First Taser. He quickly stripped it out of the packaging, and handed it to Ayly. “Here you go, Ayly. Go nuts.”

“Okay!” Ayly immediately ran over and tasered Valyrym in the nuts.

“AAAAAAAH!” Valyrym fell over the bench, screaming. He curled up, shaking. “She tasered me in the nuts!”

Ayly tilted her head. “Aw, I wanted to make him fly with butt smoke!”

“Butt-smoke huh?” Asterbury nudged The Coyote with his elbow. “Sounds like a night after too much Taco Bell.”

“Oh, my god.” The Coyote ran a hand down his face. “We really are just going for the lowest hanging fruit we can find this year, aren’t we.” He crouched down, patting Ayly’s head. “You gotta taser him in the butt for that, Ayly.”

Ayly tasered Valyrym right in the ass.

“OW!” Valyrym rocketed up out of his seat, smoke pouring from his ass like Mario after landing in lava. “She tasered me right in the ass!”

“There you go!” The Coyote laughed, watching Valyrym shoot up to the ceiling, then arc back down and crash onto an empty bench. “Great job, Ayly!”

“Thanks, Coyote!” She set the taser down. “Now I want edd nod!”

Amaleen clucked her tongue. “Ayly, I told you, you can’t have edd nod inside the restaurant. You’ll just pill it over all their nice furniture.”

“Oh, not you too, Amaleen.” The Coyote sighed.

Amaleen gave him a confused look. “Not me too, what?”

“Valyrym and I had a whole conversation about this.” He waved his hand at Valyrym, respawning the old dragon on the bench, free of his various taser-oriented injuries.

“We did?” Valyrym wobbled, holding his head in a paw. “Your Christmas magic must have wiped my brain, because I don’t remember any conversation with you today.”

“Not today, it was last year.” The Coyote settled down on the bench alongside his friends. “Or…the year before? Hell, I don’t even know how many of these we’ve done, anymore. Sometimes, I think too many. Other times, I think not enough. Anyway.” He leaned back against the wall. “Valyrym and I had a whole talk about how he thought the phrase ‘I pilled my edd nod’ was how humans said, they’d spilled their egg nog.”

Amaleen only stared at him. “Isn’t it?”

“No.” He rolled his eyes. “Only Ayly says that.” He leaned towards the little hatchling. “Ayly, while we wait for our table, why don’t you go practice your tasering on all the non-important characters off screen?”

“Nom imported?” Ayly titled her head, confusion scrunching up her face. “Is that like your conquer nudity?”

“Not exactly.” The Coyote chuckled. “It means they don’t matter to the story.”

“Oooh.” Ayly let out a mischievous giggle. “Just like Lellumgurb!”

“Ouch,” The Coyote said, laughing. “Shots fired at Krek.”

Amaleen folded her arms. “It’s your fault, anyway. You’ve turned that poor gryphon into a one-note sex joke in these stories. He’s always as big a horn ball as…well, him.” She waved at Asterbury.

“Which is really a crying shame.” Asterbury scooped up his robe, and put it back on. It shifted from gold to a cheer red. “Because I’m a really deep character in Revaramek.”

“No you’re not,” Amaleen said. “You’re just The Joker, if The Joker was always crying about his father.”

Asterbury made a punctuating gesture, waving a finger. “And I come from the desert! See? Depth!”

“The Die Hard one was good,” Valyrym said, staring into the distance.

The Coyote slowly turned towards him. “What?”

“The year we did Die Hard.” He idly waved a paw. “That one was good. Asterbury got killed so many times.”

“Shit.” The Coyote grimaced, flicking his tail. “I really did scramble his brain, didn’t I.”

“You were wondering how many of these we’d done. I don’t know, but the Die Hard one was fun. And…” Valyrym lifted a finger. “We did it way before Rick and Morty.”

“Theirs was pretty good, though.” The Coyote feigned holding up a walkie talkie. “Walkie Talkie Die Hard, Bitch!”

“Excuse me, Jackass Skellington…” Amaleen poked Asterbury’s arm. “But while I appreciate you finally hiding your Not So Sugary Plums, I do have to ask. Are we actually going to eat at this restaurant, or did you just bring us here to sit on benches while the coyote repeats his favorite jokes from previous years?”

“A little from Column A, a little from Column B!” Asterbury cackled, spinning around, his robe whirling. “Lemme check on our reservation.” He walked up towards the greeting stand.

The Caribou manager looked up with a smile. “Can I help you, Sir?”

Asterbury slowly licked his lips. “Reservation for Asterbury.”

“Right, right.” The Caribou scanned the book laid out across the stand. “Ass Turd Berries, Ass Turd Berries…ah, here you are.” He tapped the reservation. “It’ll be… five, ten minutes.”

“Five, ten minutes?” The Coyote blinked, glancing around. “Why does that sound so familiar?”

“That’s your takeaway?” Valyrym glanced between the Coyote and the urd’thin. “Not that he called Bootleg Porn Joker, Ass Turd Berries?”

“Yeah, Scavenger!” Asterbury walked back to the group. “That’s a pretty lazy joke, even for you.”

The Coyote only shrugged. “Yeah, well, it made me giggle. Besides, it’s really late, and I’m getting pretty tired. And my arms are…” He rubbed a forearm. “Not exactly sore, but…they’re not happy to be writing again right now. I wrote like, 9,000 words yesterday. And I still got more to go.”

Valyrym slowly shook his head. “No, you really don’t. If you’re not up for any more writing tonight, then take a break. Come back to it tomorrow.” He flexed his wings. “Or don’t. No one’s going to complain if the story just…ends.” Valyrym snapped his teeth. “And if they do, I’ll bite them.”

“I know, it’s just…” The Coyote sighed. He leaned his head back against the wall behind the bench. “I was actually kind of excited about writing this, this year. At least a little bit. I had all these scenes and jokes set up, that we haven’t even gotten to yet. Hell, we’ve only just gotten to The Chinese Restaurant. You know, like the Seinfeld episode.”

Valyrym looked around them. “What’s it called, anyway?”

“I just told you. The Chinese Restaurant.”

“Yes.” Valyrym glanced at the Coyote. “That’s right.”

“I know it is,” The Coyote said, chuckling. “It’s one of my favorites.”

“Yes, but…” Valyrym circled a paw in the air. “What’s the name of it?”

“The Chinese Restaurant!” The Coyote stared at him. “Weren’t you listening?”

Valyrym gave a frustrated growl. “I got that part, but what’s it called?”

“It’s called The Chinese Restaurant!” The Coyote threw his hands up.

“The name of this Chinese restaurant is…” Valyrym paused for dramatic effect. “The Chinese Restaurant? Rather pretentious to consider themselves the Chinese Restaurant. Is the food really that good?”

The Coyote blinked. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“This restaurant!” Valyrym thumped his tail. “What are you talking about?”

“The Seinfeld episode!” The Coyote slowly turned in place, surveying the lobby. “We’re in The Chinese Restaurant.”

“Yes, we are,” Valyrym said, tilting his head. “But what does that have to do with a vintage TV show?”

“It’s not vintage, it…” The Coyote trailed off, ears drooping slightly. “Oh, god, it might be vintage. But that’s not important right now.”

“And don’t call me Shirley!” Asterbury cackled.

Valyrym glanced back and forth between the two of them, ignoring Asterbury’s airplane reference entirely. “I still don’t see what that has to do with this restaurant.”

The Coyote took a slow, deep breath. “It’s from a Seinfeld episode. The Chinese Restaurant!”

Valyrym growled. “I know where we are, but I still don’t know what that has to do with Seinfeld!”

“Ohhh my god.” The Coyote dragged a hand down his face, groaning.

“I think what he means to say,” Asterbury said, nudging the coyote with his elbow, three times in a row. “Is Who’s on first?”

“That’s it.” The Coyote grabbed his own hoodie. “I don’t want to live in this world anymore. Yah-yeet!”

The Coyote yeeted himself through the ceiling. He crashed through it, only to find himself erupting through the floor of another, nearly identical Chinese Restaurant. His upward momentum to slowed to a crawl, and soon he fluttered back to the ground and settled on his feet. The Coyote looked around. This one bore the same color scheme, heavy on reds with white trim. Identical benches, seats and plants adorned the lobby. The same caribou manned the greeting stand. The only real difference was the inordinate amount of red and silver tinsel strung up everywhere, and the Christmas ornaments adorning potted plants. Valyrym and Amaleen even sat on the same benches. Asterbury stood near them.

“What the snowman shit?” The Coyote scratched his ear.

“Ass Turd Berry?” The Caribou called out. “It’ll be… five, ten minutes.”

Amaleen glanced at Valyrym. “Do you think I should try and bribe him? I’m starving.”

The dragon tilted his head. “With money, or sexually?”

“Whichever will get us seated faster, I suppose.”

“How about this!” Asterbury stepped in front of the coyote, gesturing with both hands. “You manage a circus.”

“Wait, what is happening right now?”

“I’m pitching you ideas for this year’s story. So.” He waved a hand. “You’re the manager of the circus.”

The Coyote blinked. “You’re just quoting Seinfeld.”

“Come on, this is a great idea.” Asterbury paced back and forth. “Look at the characters! You’ve got all these freaks on the show!”

“We’ve done this bit, already!” The Coyote slapped the back of his hand against his palm. “This exact bit.”

Asterbury came to a stop, shrugging. “Don’t look at me, Scavenger. A Seinfeld parody was your idea this year. Dunno why, considering that of the four people who still read this crap, there’s maybe one who’s actually seen The Chinese Restaurant.”

Valyrym snorted, lashing his tail. “Still think that’s a terrible name for a restaurant.”

The Coyote turned back towards the hole he’d crashed through. He peered into it, staring down into a mirror restaurant. Another Valyrym stared back at him. “I agree with Valyrym #2.”

“Hah!” Asterbury pointed at Valyrym. “You’re named after feces!”

“Everybody just shut the fuck up.” The Coyote snarled, his frustration rising. The world shook around him. Tiny fractures crawled up through the walls. “We’re not doing this anymore, anyway. It’s late, I’m tired, let’s just…” He sighed. “Let’s just wrap this up.”

Valyrym slowly gazed around. “Is the world supposed to be cracking like that?”

Asterbury waved him off. “Don’t worry about it. It was way worse earlier when the mangy garbage-gobbler was crying.”

“I was not crying.” The Coyote huffed, folding his arms. “I…may have teared up, a little. But that was a few days ago, and-”

“You made my Coyote cry?” A furious snarl crept into Valyrym’s voice. He rose from the bench. The dragon uncoiled with silken menace, his size swiftly increasing, returning to his true, imposing size. Soon, he towered over Asterbury, growling down at him, claws unsheathed. “What did you do to him, you Dollar Store Joker?”

“Me?” Asterbury gasped in faux indignity. “Why, I didn’t do anything to him! If anything, I should be asking what he did to you! Half your face looks like Madame Tussaud’s Wax Valyrym!” He cackled, dancing out of range. “No, wait! Half your face looks like a child’s drawing of a dragon!”

The Coyote couldn’t help but laugh. The transformation back to his true size hadn’t done Valyrym’s de-aged face any favors. The half that The Coyote had not adjusted somehow ended up even more stretched out and blurry. “It looks like half your face is being censored right now.”

Valyrym snorted. “I’m trying to defend you, Coyote!”

“They’re right, though,” Amaleen said, appraising him. “It looks like your head is half Ventriloquist dummy.”

“Oh, lemme call Fabio!” Asterbury pulled a phone out of his robe. “He’s great at sticking his fist up-”

“We know!” The Coyote snatched the phone away. “Now knock it off before I stick this phone up-”

“Please do!” Asterbury turned away, hiking up his robe. “That’s where I keep it, anyway!”

The Coyote stared at it, his eyes slowly widening in horror. Then he pivoted, and hurled the phone into the air. “Pull!”

Valyrym blasted it with fire, and the phone exploded.

“Awww.” Asterbury hung his head, whimpering. “Now how am I gonna get more of Krek’s dick pics?”

“Don’t know, don’t care.” The Coyote magicked up an bucket of hand sanitizer, and shoved his entire arm into it. “Anyway, Valyrym, while I appreciate you defending me, you don’t need to. Asterbury was actually being helpful, this year. It’s just…” He took a slow breath, waggling his fingers in the sanitizer. “I was actually kind of looking forward to writing this year’s story, again. I had this whole idea about Asterbury taking us to a Chinese restaurant, to pitch ideas to me, and it turns out to be the Chinese restaurant, from the Seinfeld episode, The Chinese Restaurant. Had a whole bunch of jokes for the attempted bribe scene, the scene where Elaine tries to eat someone else’s food, George waiting for the phone call…” He pulled his hand free, rubbing it dry. “But an entire ocean’s worth of real life stress combined with the kind of time crunch I haven’t had to deal with in a few years, and… now it’s almost midnight on Christmas Eve. And…” He shook his head. “It’s just not gonna happen.”

“You…” Valyrym reached out to curl a foreleg around the Coyote, pulling him in close. “You know that’s alright, don’t you Coyote? We’ve been trying to tell you this for years. You don’t owe anyone, anything.”

The Coyote sighed, melting against his favorite holiday dragon. “I know. But normally, that’s because I don’t always feel like doing these, anymore. Or I don’t have any ideas I’m really looking forward to writing. And this year… I kinda was looking forward to writing it! For the first time in a while. So..” He growled against Valyrym’s scales. The world trembled around them. “So it pisses me off even more than I feel like I got fucked out of truly enjoying one of these things again, for the first time in ages. Just another scoop of shit to add to the giant steaming pile life keeps crapping all over me this month.”

Valyrym cleared his throat, his frills flat. “That’s…certainly a description.”

“Sorry.” The Coyote chuckled to himself. “I shouldn’t bitch so much. It’s not that big of a deal. It’s just…you know how I feel about Christmas. About December. And I can’t help but feel as though all this stress is just…robbing me of the season’s joy. And I hate it. And…I try, and try, to be happy anyway. To enjoy it while it lasts, as much as I can. But it just seems like every day lately is throwing some new problem at me, or some new emotional curveball, that just makes it harder and harder to wring whatever joy I can from the holidays.” He lightly banged his head against Valyrym’s chest. “Like today. We had a wonderful Christmas Eve, for the most part. And I had a really good day, other than the stupid Cowboys losing at the last second. But I tried not to let that get me down, either. But then, at the end of our annual Christmas Eve snack festival, my dad was suddenly all mopey, and then there was some family drama, and that brought my mood way down. Even though he didn’t mean it, and he even said, he was probably overreacting. But it’s just…one fucking thing after another, and now it’s already Christmas. And I feel like it’s barely ever even felt like the holidays.”

“I know, Coyote, I know.” Valyrym hugged the canine tightly, gently rubbing his back with a forepaw. “But we rarely get the holidays we truly want. Hell, we rarely get the lives we want. The lives we think we deserve. You’ve been chronically ill half your whole life, and I know you sure as hell don’t want that.”

The Coyote sniffled, shaking his head, his voice muffled by Valyrym’s scales. “No one wants that.”

“No, they certainly don’t.” He curled his tail, still rubbing the Coyote’s back. “And I sure as hell didn’t want to spend half my life locked in a dungeon…” A smirk crossed his muzzle. “Wondering if you were ever going to finish my damn story.”

The Coyote smiled a little smile. “I’ve been working on it again, lately. For the first time in a while.”

“That you have!” Valyrym gave a happy rumble. “And I am quite excited to be worked on again.” Then he blinked, glancing at Amaleen. “That didn’t sound quite right, did it?”

Amaleen shook her head. “You’ll have to ask Alia about that. It’s not my job anymore.”

The dragon laughed, turning his attention back to the Coyote. “The point is, Scavenger, we rarely get exactly what we want, in life. I could sit here, and we could do the whole Pictures in the Snow thing, and I could list of all your fears and worries, all your anxieties and secret embarrassments, all the looming things that terrify you, and give your many readers another glimpse of all the stressors that always clutch you far too tightly. But that won’t actually change anything. So instead, I’ll just…” Valyrym eased back, just enough to stare down into the Coyote’s ears. “Remind you of what you already know, somewhere in your battered heart. You won’t ever get the Christmas you’re hoping for. It will never be perfect. It will never be everything you see in your snow-shrouded dreams. It will always arrive far too soon, and it always be over far too quickly.”

He lifted a forepaw, gently tapping The Coyote’s chest. “It will never feel the way you imagine it will feel. You’ve idealized Christmas into some manifestation of joy that is nigh unattainable. And most years, you do a truly admirable job of enjoying the Christmas you actually get, just the same.” The dragon slowly shook his head. “I cannot take your pain away, Coyote, nor can I erase your fear. Nor can I shatter the boundaries between reality and fiction, to emerge into your real world, and force these sons of bitches to actually help you. But rest assured, my dear canine friend…” Valyrym’s voice twisted into a low, dangerous snarl. “I absolutely would. If I could make myself real, I promise you, these fuckers would help you, alright.” The dragon grunted. “Excuse my Spanish.”

The Coyote blinked, then laughed to himself. “That…wasn’t Spanish.”

“It’s an expression.”

“No, the expression is excuse my French.” The Coyote smiled, gently rubbing Valyrym’s scales. “But thank you for-”

“French Stuart?” Asterbury gasped. “From Bevery Hills Chihuahua 2? I love that guy!”

Valyrym cocked his head. “What does he need to be excused for?”

“Probably for all those garbage straight to video sequels he starred in.” Asterbury ticked off a few fingers. “Home Alone 4, Inspector Gadget 2-”

“There was a Home Alone Four?” Valyrym jerked his head up. “Scavenger, why haven’t we watched what I can only assume is a truly world class piece of cinema?”

“Because you’re assuming incorrectly.” He glanced at the urd’thin. “We were kind of having a, wrap up the story on a heart felt moment, so-”

“You were,” Asterbury said. “But then I remembered you wanted to do this scene!” He clapped his hands. “Hey gang! Remember that time we were all being chased by Tim Allen?”

*****

SMASH CUT TO THE SANTA CLAUS 7: DEAD ELVES TELL NO TALES

*****

Frigid air flattened the Coyote’s fur back against his face as the flying sleigh hurtled through the air. Sturdy flight goggles protected his eyes. A thick, fur-lined crimson robe protected him from the north pole’s artic chill. Alarms beeped and screamed. The robotic sleigh shuddered violently, already at the limit of its flight envelope.

The Coyote whirled around, confused. “What the fuck? What the hell is this?”

“I’m givin’ her all she’s got, Captain!”

The Coyote turned towards the back of the sleigh. “Scotty?”

Amaleen stood in the back row of seats. She gave him a sheepish grin. “Sorry, I don’t know this movie at all, so… I just took a guess on what to reference.”

Asterbury stood next to her. He shoved a script into her hand. “Read from here!”

Amaleen narrowed her eyes, holding the pages up to her face. “Enter Amaleen.” She glanced up. “Wait, haven’t I already entered?”

Asterbury turned the page. “Sorry, sorry, I just typed this up a minute ago. Uh, try this line.”

“Oh no,” Amaleen said, her voice filled with artificial emotion. “Tim Allen has locked onto us.”

Valyrym, somehow small again, and seated near the Coyote, snorted. “You sound like you’re in a high school play.”

The Coyote looked around at everyone, shouting over the sounds of rushing air and shrieking alarms. “What the actual shit is happening right now?”

“It’s that other story idea you had!” Asterbury leaned over the bench style seats. “Where I try to make you the real Santa, and Tim Allen finally comes after us for revenge! Again! For the fourth time!”

“That sounds incredibly stupid, even for us.”

Somewhere behind them Tim Allen grunted loudly from his own, reindeer-pulled sleigh. “Ugh ugh ugh! More power! The Buford Tools Vermin Vanquisher 9000’s about to blast your dirty, dumpster diving ass right out of the sky, Coyote! Say hello to Wilson when you see him in hell!” Something detached from the sleigh, fire erupting behind it. It streaked through the sky towards them.

Asterbury tapped the script, whispering to Amaleen. “It’s your line again.”

“Look out!” Amaleen’s voice rose and fell as if unsure if she was meant to be happy, or sad. “He’s firing a Hack-Homing Rocket.” She glanced at Asterbury. “What’s my motivation in this scene, anyway?”

Asterbury gestured at The Coyote. “To protect him. But first, my line.” He cleared his throat with a growl, then called out his lines with all the gravitas of a drunken Shakespear festival’s chief drunken over-actor. “A Hack Homing Rocket? Oh no, Coyote! You’re the biggest Hack I know! That bunker buster’s coming right for your candy cane lane!”

Somewhere behind them, Tim Allen grunted loudly in his own

“Don’t worry,” Amaleen said, staring at the script. “I’ll save us.” She looked up again. “How the hell am I going to do that?”

“By doing your thing! You know…” Asterbury suddenly shoved her off the sleigh. “Dying off screen!”

Amaleen gave a startled, furious scream as she tumbled through the air. “You son of a-”

And then she exploded, when the Hack Homing Rocket accidentally hit her when no one was looking. Amaleen was heroically incinerated off-screen, her embers falling across the snow.

The Coyote scratched his neck. “At least it was quick, that time.”

Valyrym glared at Asterbury. “I hate you so much.”

“Don’t hate the player, hate the game!” He spread his arms, grinning. “And also, hate that rash the player gave you when you were sleeping.”

Valyrym blinked. “Wait, what?”

“Fridging your best character won’t save you this time, Coyote!” Tim Allen lifted up an enormous flame-thrower, hooked to a gigantic propane tank. “You’re all about to do your own best Amaleen impressions, because…” He blasted a stream of flame into the sky. The roiling, red-orange fire cast his maddened eyes in an eerie, spectral glow. “I’m about to give you all a clean burning death, I tell you what! You’re not gonna taste the meat, but you sure are going to feel the heat!”

The Coyote slapped Asterbury across the head. “That’s not even the right character! You’re turning him into Hank Hill!”

“Tim, Hank, Propane, Power Tools, who cares.” Asterbury reached into his robe. “The point is, I’m about to save our lives, because I have a secret weapon!”

“I swear to god, Asterbury, if you just show us your sheath again-”

“Not till later!” Asterbury felt around inside his robe. “Because my secret weapon is…” With a grand flourish, he pulled his hand back out, hauling out a great, black feathered gryphon with silver highlights. A red ball-gag was stuffed into the gryphon’s muzzle. Leather straps wrapped around his body, and bright red mittens bound each of his paws. “A dick-seeking missile!” Then he stared at the bound and wriggling gryphon. “Wait, you’re not my dick seeking missile! How’d you get out of the gimp box?”

The Coyote heaved a deep, put upon sigh. “Goddamn it, Asterbury.”

“To be fair, Scavenger…” Valyrym waved a paw at the gryphon. “Krek is particularly well known for seeking dick.”

Another familiar voice called out from within the infinity of Asterbury’s robe. “Where gimp go?” Vatch, dressed up in leathers of his own, clambered out of the robe, and hoped onto the seat. He held a buzzing taser in his hand. “You! Gimp! I not say you leave box!” He slammed the taser into Krek’s sheath. “You get zap!”

Krek gave a muffled cry, jerking in pain, only to topple off the sleigh and tumble into the darkness below.

“Momma mia,” Asterbury said, shaking his head. “That’s an extra spicy tasing.”

Vatch walked to the edge of the sleigh. “Oops. Wait. Why we flying?” He turned towards Asterbury. “And why you out of gimp box?” He glanced at the coyote, flattening his ears. “Vatch swear, you give gimp one little breath fresh air, he think he run whole brothel!” He turned back towards Asterbury, waggling his taser. “If you not want be in box, you go back to street! Show johns what mouth do! Make Vatch dat phat cheese!”

Valyrym whispered to The Coyote. “Is Vatch his husband, or his pimp? I can’t remember, anymore.”

“Who can keep these things straight, these days.” The Coyote glanced at Asterbury. “Are you going somewhere with this?”

“I sure am, best buddy!” Asterbury snatched Vatch up by both arms. “Dick-Seeking Missile, I choose you!”

Asterbury hurled Vatch into the air. Fire exploded from Vatch’s ass, propelling him straight towards Tim Allen’s sleigh. Vatch cranked his taser up to maximum, holding it before him like the point of a spear. Tim Allen yanked on the reins, but it was too late. Vatch swooped back and forth, tazing the sheath and balls of every male reindeer on Tim Allen’s sleigh team. They shrieked and bucked, peeling away, breaking the reins.

“Mamma Mia!” yelled Comet, using a synonym for said just to annoy The Coyote.

“OW! MY DICK!” Shouted Blitzen, doing the same thing.

“That’s a spicy tasing!” cried Cupid, for the same reason.

At the last moment, Tim Allen tried to cover himself, his voice dropping several octaves lower as everything moved into slow motion. “Not my diiiiiiiick!”

It was too late. Vatch slammed into Tim Allen’s crotch with the crushing force of Buford Tools Crotch Crusher 12,000. He blasted straight through the false Santa’s body, exploding Tim Allen into a shower of festive blood, bone, and guts. Somewhere, far down below, the snow was painted a cheerful crimson hue. Vatch rocketed off into the distance.

“Oh, my god.” The Coyote rubbed his forehead. “Alright, I think we’re done here. Can we wrap this up already?”

“Can do, best pal! Hey gang!” Asterbury spread his arms. “Remember that time-”

“I shoved you off the sleigh to your death?” The Coyote shoved Asterbury off the sleigh, sending him plummeting to his death.

Asterbury’s voice echoed up to them. “This air rushing over my naked body is giving me such a raging outtie!”

The Coyote chuckled, shaking his head. “There’s a callback I didn’t expect.” He rubbed his hands together. “Alright, lemme send us home before he gets his Christmas respawn.”

Valyrym gasped. “Like Jesus?”

The Coyote scrunched his muzzle. “I’m not touching that one. Asterbury brought it up last year, and I shouldn’t have engaged then, either. Anyway…here we go.”

He flicked his fingers, and the world shattered into a million fragments, each shining with another Christmas. The Coyote waved his hand, and all the uncountable Christmases scattered into the aether. Whiteness surrounded them. The Coyote grimaced. He reached up over his head, and curled his fingers, grasping existence. The whiteness crumpled slightly, like an enormous curtain. He ripped it away and cast it aside.

Behind it, stood a Christmas tree. The Coyote’s Christmas tree, in fact. It glittered with myriad multi-hued lights. Dozens upon dozens of ornaments hung from its boughs, each completely unique. Presents were piled high all around the tree. A comfortable couch sat across from the tree. It was the very same couch upon which he’d once sat with Valyrym and shared many of his deepest fears, with all his readers. And it was also the same place in which he’d ended several other stories, simply watching the tree shine it’s silent, beautiful light. The Coyote thought it was good a place as any to end this year’s unexpectedly serious tale.

“Unexpectedly serious?” Valyrym climbed up onto the couch. “You just made Krek into a gimp, and had Vatch fly around like an ass-fired rocket, tazering Tim Allen’s dick so hard he exploded. How the hell is that serious?”

The Coyote flopped onto the couch, sighing. “I guess you have a point. But…there was also that part where I cried.”

“That there was.” Valyrym slowly stretched a wing out over The Coyote. “I meant what I said, though.” He pulled The Coyote in tighter. “Or at least, what I was trying to say, before Asterbury interrupted us for one last ridiculous scene of pure idiocy.”

The Coyote chuckled, resting his head against the dragon. “And…what were you saying again?”

Valyrym took a slow breath. “I know this December has been very difficult, for you. That all the stress piled atop your fuzzy little head has made it ever so difficult to focus on the good things. But you need to remember, that there are good things in life. You spent an entire week with the love of your life, and…” The dragon nuzzled The Coyote’s head. “Aside from getting to actually live together, I can’t imagine much could be better than that. And Christmas came way too soon, and yes, the agencies you rely on continue to screw you over, one way or another. But, eventually, this will pass.” Valyrym licked The Coyote’s ear. “And it’s Christmas, Coyote. Your one, absolute, favorite day of the year. So, for at least that one, beautiful day, try to forget your worries. Don’t let your fears win. You have family to laugh with, presents to open, delicious things to eat. It might not be the perfect Christmas you hoped for, but the Christmas you get can still be wonderful.”

“The Christmas you get.” The Coyote tilted his head. “That’s…not a bad title, actually.”

“There you go, then.” Valyrym hugged The Coyote again. “Things are improving already. Just…promise me one thing.”

The Coyote nodded. “Sure, Val.”

“Do everything in your power, to enjoy your beloved Christmas.” He took a slow breath. “I might only be a figment of your imagination, but you’ve no idea how much I want you to be happy. You deserve to be happy. I need you to know that, Coyote.”

The Coyote swallowed hard, glancing away. “Thank you, Val.”

“You’re welcome. And I mean it.” He rested his muzzle just between The Coyote’s ears. “Everything Asterbury said, in the first half of the story? Was true. I won’t rehash it detail, because I know you’re trying to wrap this thing up…” The dragon chuckled. “But suffice it to say, bringing your problems to others, asking for help? It does not make you a burden. And no matter how difficult this month has been for you, how much stress these cascading failures of the system have piled upon you? You deserve to have a good Christmas. So please, Coyote. Promise me that you’ll do all you can, to enjoy the Christmas you get.”

The Coyote sniffled, pressing his face against Valyrym. He closed his eyes. “Alright, Val. I promise.”

“That’s it, then.” Valyrym slowly enclosed his wing around The Coyote, sheltering him from the world for one blessed, peaceful night. “You can end this, and go enjoy your beer, and your Christmas movies. Merry Christmas, Coyote.”

“Merry Christmas, Valyrym.”

*****

And that's all I got, this year. Other than this:

You are NOT a burden.

You are cared for.

You are loved.

You matter.

Whether it feels like it not, people are there for you.

I hope you have a truly wonderful season, and I hope you've enjoyed this year's tale. These stories really aren't widely read anymore, so if you have read it, and enjoyed it, please leave a favorite, and a comment. Those really do mean a great deal to me.

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and Happy New Year. May we all have a better year ahead, than behind.