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The Coyote stretched his arms over his head, yawning. Though it was late in the day, he'd only just awoken. With the shades drawn, and snowfall smothering the sky beyond his window, it was still dark in his bedroom. Outside the blankets, the room was shockingly cold. The Coyote liked it that way, though, especially for sleeping. He never put the heat on in the winter. Hell, living this far south he still sometimes needed to put the AC even in the midst of the Christmas season. This year, though, it seemed colder than ever.

When The Coyote's stretch ended, he rolled over, fully intent on going back to sleep. Instead, he found himself staring into the inky black eyes of a gray-furred urd'thin with a big red bow on his head. The urd'thin reached out with a single hand, and trailed a slender finger along The Coyote's muzzle.

“Hey, lover," the urd'thin said, his voice all silken charm. “How'd you sleep?"

The Coyote snarled, swatting his hand away. “What the fuck are you doing in my bed, Asterbury?"

Asterbury only smiled, perking his oversized ears up around the red bow. “What, don't you remember the wonderful night we shared together, after all that bourbon and egg nog?"

“The only thing I remember is kicking your ass, and telling you to get the hell out of my bed." The Coyote growled, pushing the urd'thin. “Speaking of which…"

“I can't believe you don't remember our night of passion!" Asterbury rolled onto his back, folding his arms over his chest. “That's it. We're fighting."

“Oh, we're gonna fight alright." The Coyote sat up, glowering at the shorter creature. “And rubbing one out to Vatch fanfiction in the bathroom while I'm sound asleep doesn't count as a night of passion!"

Asterbury turned back towards the coyote, teasing a finger along his arm. “Who says I was in the bathroom?"

“Get the fuck outta my bed!" The Coyote turned partly sideways, pushed his feet against the urd'thin, and kicked him all the way out of the bed.

“Ah!" Asterbury yelped as he tumbled out of the bed. Something crunched when he hit the floor. “Uh oh…I think I broke something."

“Hopefully it was your spine."

Asterbury sat up on the floor, wrenching a black box with a red button out from under himself. “Think it was last year's Skip to the End Button, actually." The button fell off, hanging by a few loose wires. “Oh well." He tossed it away. It thumped into a wall and dropped to the floor, tumbling a few feet, leaving broken pieces in its wake like obsidian shards. “Guess you gotta write another long, rambling adventure this year that no one's gonna read."

“I'm not writing any story this year. Maybe a scene or two, and that's it." The Coyote rolled over onto his hands and knees, crawling to the edge of the bed. He stared down at the broken device. “Uh…doesn't that thing control time and space?"

“Probably." Asterbury waved off his concern. “It's broken now though, so nothing to worry about. Now, what was that about not writing a story?"

“We went over that last year, Asterbury. Remember?" The Coyote ticked off a few fingers. “Fewer and fewer people read these every year, yet I spend more and more time writing them. I need a year off. Plus, it seems like each year half the jokes are just callbacks, or recycled from the year before. Hell, we started making jokes about how many of the jokes are recycled."

Asterbury folded his arms, smiling at The Coyote. “Now that's just bad writing."

“I'd like to see you do better."

“Can do, Old Buddy!" Asterbury rubbed his hands together. “Hey gang, remember that time Asterbury got to write the-"

“No!" The Coyote slapped his hand against the blankets, cutting the urd'thin off. “No fucking way, dude. No one wants to read sixty pages of Valyrym stepping on jellyfish, and you licking Vatch's candy cane while Jingle All the Way plays on TV behind you. Besides." He snorted, flattening his ears. “I was speaking metaphorically."

Asterbury rolled his eyes. “That's not how metaphors work. I'd have thought a writer would know that. Even a bad one." He cackled, then materialized a candy cane into his hand, and waved it about. “Besides, I was gonna do a story where you and I are best friends-"

“Totally unbelievable."

Asterbury ignored him. “-Who save Christmas by heroically helping Santa's elves and reindeer take down an entire army of non-copyright infringing Deady's!"

The Coyote rubbed his forehead, sighing. “We've already done that. That was literally the story we did a few years ago."

“Was it?" Asterbury rubbed his muzzle. “Well, what would you say were the best parts? If you were to say, pick a few scenes… 'clips', we'll call them." He stuck his candy cane into his muzzle, chewing thoughtfully. “That you planned to 'show', to someone, in lieu of having to write a new story…a sort of, show of clips, if you will."

“We're not doing a fucking clip show." The Coyote sighed, rolling over onto his belly. He stretched out to pluck his glasses off the small, wicker nightstand.

“Clip show!" Asterbury bit the end of his candy cane off, then gestured with the sharpened point. “That's a great name, old buddy! Alright, let's get this thing underway!" He cleared his throat with a growl. “Hey Gang, remember that time we did a Christmas Clip-"

“No!" The Coyote snarled, baring his fangs. “No clip shows, no flashbacks to things that didn't happen, none of that bullshit this year."

The urd'thin huffed, twirling his half-eaten candy cane through his fingers. “Why so cranky, Scavenger? Did that hobo diarrhea in your dumpster again?"

“First off, gross." The Coyote moved to the edge of the bed, then sat down on it. “Second off, I don't think that's how that word works."

“What, dumpster?" Asterbury scrunched his muzzle. “How does it work then?"

“Well, see, first you fill it with trash, and then…" He trailed off, sighing. “No. No, I'm not playing these games with you this year. Besides, I meant diarrhea and you know it."

“Hah!" Asterbury jabbed his candy cane at the 'yote. “You said diarrhea."

“Ugh." The Coyote ran a hand down his muzzle. “How is it that every year, I hate you more and more?" He glanced up, scowling. “Your thing's leaking."

Asterbury gasped and looked down at his crotch, wide-eyed. “Again? Damn it, Krampus, you told me you were clean!"

“Not that thing!" The Coyote made a face. “But also, nasty. Is there a holiday icon you haven't put your dick in, yet?"

Asterbury tilted his head, splaying his ears. “Tim Allen?"

“Not sure that counts, but-"

“One of Santa's reindeer?"

The Coyote's eyes widened. “One of them?"

“Yeah, one of 'em is a real tease." Asterbury suckled on his candy cane a little too provocatively. “Think it was Cupid. You'd think a deer named after a symbol of love would be a little quicker to open that muzzle."

“Oh, God." The Coyote buried his face in his hands. “You really do get worse every year."

“I know it wasn't Gonna." Asterbury pulled the candy cane out, twirling it around his fingers.

The Coyote snorted. “There's no reindeer named Gonna."

“Well, there should be, because…" The urd'thin smirked. “He 'gonna' show me what dat mouth do."

The Coyote jabbed his finger at the door. “Out. Out of my room, out of my house, out of my story."

“No can do, Good buddy." Asterbury hopped to his feet, still grinning. “Besides, I think your thing's leaking."

“I'm not looking at my crotch." The Coyote returned his attention to the broken Skip to the End Button. “Besides, I'm assuming you're talking about that thing. Which is what I was talking about in the first place!"

Empty space, littered with countless, shining stars, oozed from the ebony device's damaged areas like oil leaking from an engine. Wherever it touched, time was altered. Carpet rotted and decayed, a hundred years of future neglect in an instant. Nails vanished from floorboards, then those too were gone, revealing gaping holes that led down to the lower floor. A bit of spacetime dripped through the hole, dribbling onto the leaves of a potted lime tree. The tree grew old in an instant, becoming a towering behemoth that crashed into the ceiling, its roots spreading in a tangle across the lower floor. They upended decorative snowmen, unable to flee for their lives.

“I thought you said there was nothing to worry about?" The Coyote glared at the urd'thin.

Asterbury stood up, nude, and with another red ribbon around his testicles. He stretched his out at his side. “Well, guess it's about time to be hittin' the old dusty trail."

Down below, a little black and purple dragon hatchling scrambled up some of the suddenly monstrous roots. She tilted her purple-smudged muzzle up, staring through the hole. When she spotted the coyote looking down at her, she lifted a lilac-marked paw and waved. “Hi Coyote!"

“Ayly, don't stand there!" The Coyote tried to wave her away. “Move back, and don't touch any of that stuff dripping down!"

“Guess what!" Ayly ignored him completely, giggling up a storm. “Lellumgurb gibbed me edd nod, and I did a big fight with a snow mans, and then I did a Lellumgurb ride, and I pilled my edd nod, and then he was a soggy birb, and now he smells delicious!"

Asterbury strode up to peer down the hole as well. “How is it she sounds less and less coherent every year? She used to speak just fine! Now she sounds like all your, 'owo what's diss' furry friends. Ayly?" Asterbury cupped a hand to his muzzles. “Have you noticed any bulges lately?"

With a groaning sigh, The Coyote hopped out of the bed. He moved up behind Asterbury, and promptly kicked him into the hole.

“Fuck you too, Patches!" Asterbury screamed as he fell down to the lower level, slamming into the tangle of overgrown roots hard enough to break several limbs. He rag-dolled the rest of the way down, shattering his spine along the way. “Check me out, I'm Sonny Bono after he hit that tree!"

“Oh, God." The Coyote covered his muzzle with his hands. “Too dark, Asterbury, too dark."

“What, too soon?" When Asterbury came to a stop, he stood up, limbs wiggling limply, back bent to an odd angle. “Please. Like any of your readers even know who that was. Hey, check this out!" He tried to stand up, only to end up bent halfway over. He bounced in place a few times, making a wheezing, accordion-like noise. “Hah! Now all I need is a monkey!" He tried to clap his hands, but couldn't get his shattered, wildly flailing limbs to meet in the middle. “No, wait! A used car salesmen! I can be his Wacky Inflatable Flailing Arm Tube Man!"

“Will you just heal yourself!" The Coyote quickly tugged on his jeans, and a T-shirt with an MFF 2019 Logo on it. “You're traumatizing Ayly!"

“Am not! She's having the time of her life!"

The Coyote peered back down the hole. The little dragon now clung to one of Asterbury's shattered limbs. His wild flailing whipped her back and forth, and accordion undulations of his body left her rising and falling.

“Wheeeeeeee!" Ayly squealed with glee. “Hideously mangled urd'thin ride!"

Asterbury tilted his head up, smirking at The Coyote. “Boy, that speech impediment really just comes and goes whenever you want, doesn't it?"

“She talks just fine! She just does that cause she thinks it's cute, or because she's trying to annoy someone. Usually both." When the Coyote spotted more liquid spacetime dribbling down the hole, he tried to warn Asterbury. “Quit acting like a jackass and move Ayly out of the way!"

By then it was too late. A drop of the infinite cosmos plopped right onto Ayly's head, just between her little horns. She gave a little yelp, and in an single instant, aged from a tiny hatchling into a mature adult dragon. She grew so big her head bumped the ceiling, her wings and tail knocked aside snowmen and other decorations, and she crushed Asterbury completely beneath her weight. Ayly's head popped up through the hole in the floor till her silvery eyes were fixed on the coyote, and her purple-marked muzzle hovered just in front of him.

The Coyote stared at her, blinking. “A-yly?"

Ayly tilted her head, her voice now a booming rumble. “Yo, what's up, Muthafucka?"

The Coyote's eyes went wide, his ears flat. “Ayly! Don't talk like that!"

“Man, fuck you, I'm two hundred and forty four fucking years old." She stomped a forepaw in frustration, earning a squeal from the flattened urd'thin deity trapped under it. “I talk how I want, I do want I want, and if you don't like it, fuckin' catch me outside, you mange-riddled, trash-eatin', dumpster-fuckin' scavenger!"

A strangled voice called out, somewhere beneath them. “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious!"

Ayly glanced back down. “What in Santa's saggy sugar plums was that?"

The Coyote rolled his eyes. “That's Asterbury's safe word. You're squishing whatever's left of him."

“Oh." Ayly smiled, grinding her paw back and forth. “What a shame I can't hear him clearly."

“Yeah." The Coyote glanced out the window, smiling at the sight of the ever-present snow. “A real shame. Yup." He scratched his arm, then yawned, tongue curling in his muzzle. “A real, real shame."

Ayly lifted her paw, staring down. “I think he's dead."

The Coyote rubbed one of his ears. “Mhm, a real shame, yup." He turned towards the door. “Well, I guess I won't have to do a Christmas story after all."

The canine opened his bedroom door, only to find Asterbury standing behind it, now wearing his bright crimson Santa Robe of the Infinite Cosmos. He bounced on his toes, beaming. “Heya, Old Buddy, Best Friend! Long time no see! You know, you really shoulda made a 'this is Sparta' reference when you kicked me into that pit, not a Dark Souls reference."

“Aw, damn it." The Coyote hung his head, sighing. “Can't you just stay dead for one of these things?"

Ayly gave a frustrated snarl. “He's still alive? Oh, fuck Santa with a reindeer."

Asterbury pushed into the room to stare at her, seemingly aghast. “With a reindeer? Like, a whole reindeer?"

“Yeah, you know." Ayly tore more of the floor away to fit her forelegs up through the hole. Then she made a show of grabbing something immense, and pumping it back and forth in the air. “Like, stick a hole reindeer in him, and just…just go to town with it, yanno? See how he likes having something that doesn't fit forcing its way into his chimney!"

The urd'thin spun on heel, back towards The Coyote. “Ooh, I like the new Ayly!"

Ayly snarled at him. “I could fuck you with the reindeer, instead. No, wait, I'll fuck Santa with the Reindeer, and the Reindeer with Asterbury! It'll be like a turducken!

The Coyote groaned, shuddering. “Oh, Lord. Your stupid broken gizmo's made her as bad as you are!"

“It sure has, old buddy!" Asterbury thumped him on the arm. “Why, you might say, we're going to have to go on one hell of a Christmas adventure to find out how to change her back! Otherwise, Christmas is ruined! You could call it…" He waved his hand through the air, and golden letters wrapped in shimmering Christmas lights appeared in the air behind it. “Pee-Wee's Big Adventure!" He blinked, then used his thumb to erase a few letters, then added a few more. “No, wait, that's taken. Ayly's Big Christmas Adventure!" He clapped his hands once. “Get it? Cause she's big now?"

“Oh, I see what's going on here." The Coyote turned away, heading for the stairs. “You're trying to get me to write a big Christmas story, again. Well, it's not happening. I'm taking the year off from epic Christmas tales. You'll get…a really short one, at best."

“And…by you, I assume you mean…the readers."

“Of course." The Coyote pointed at Asterbury's crotch. “You've already got a short one."

“Oh, hilarious! There's that genius wordplay everyone tunes in for. No wonder you want to take a year off, writing a joke that clever must have really taken it out of you!" The urd'thin rubbed himself through his robe. “And trust me, it's bigger than yours, Scavenger."

“Magic-ing us all into a flashback where you've got an unnaturally huge dong that keeps knocking people out when you swing it around doesn't count." The Coyote stepped over overgrown roots at the bottom of the stairs, approaching the giant dragon with her head stuck in the ceiling. “Now give me a second to handle this."

“Oh, if you're gonna handle it right now, lemme watch." Asterbury pulled his robe open. “I'll get mine out, too! Let's watch each other, and see who's candy cane melts first!"

“If you're holding anything but an actual candy cane," The Coyote said, without looking back. “I'm going to have you neutered."

“Does…" Asterbury glanced down at himself. “It count if it has red and white stripes?"

“No, but you might wanna get that looked at."

Asterbury cackled, waggling something behind the Coyote. “That's exactly what I'm trying to do!"

“By a doctor!"

Asterbury shrugged. “Not really into medical fetish."

“God, I hope it falls off," The Coyote said, muttering. “Alright, let me fix your mess. Actually…" He glanced at the urd'thin over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes. “I really should just have you fixed. That would solve a lotta problems, this time of year. And Vatch could finally withdraw that restraining order."

“Oh, please." Asterbury fidgeted with his robe. “That was never officially filed. Besides, when Chocolate Strudel says restraining order, I say challenge accepted."

“Ugh." The Coyote rubbed his muzzle. “You should be in jail."

Asterbury spread his hands. “Well, I am stuck in one of your unfinished stories. Same thing, isn't it?"

“Fair point." The Coyote took a deep breath, and then summoned up his long-held Christmas magic, bestowed upon him back in the very first story.

Or was it the second? Oh, the hell keeps track of this crap anymore. This damn Christmas-verse needs its own continuity flow chart. The point is, The Coyote had magic, okay? Just roll with it, and I'll pour a little extra bourbon in your egg nog. What if you don't like bourbon? Uhh…I dunno, cocaine? A Vatch pin-up calendar? Oh, that's the one you want? How many poses? Twelve, I assume, one for every month. Is he naked? Well, yeah, of course he's naked, what kind of a pin up calendar would it be if he wasn't? Just don't show it to Asterbury, okay? Or Johnny Two Noses, that guy and his three noses creeps me out.

Oh, right, the story. So, uh, The Coyote did his magic, or whatever.

In a flash of glittering lights and twinkling tinsel, everything returned to the way it was before. The overgrown lime tree returned to a sapling in little black pot. The hole between floors knit itself back together, with the carpet restored to admittedly not-great condition. Ayly shrunk right back down to hatchling size, tumbling through the air and landing in the coyote's arms.

The Coyote gave the hatchling a gentle hug, smiling. “Hello, Ayly. Feeling better?"

“Nuh uh!" Ayly returned his hug, giggling. “I liked being all big and sweary!"

“Well, when you're really two hundred fourty four years old, you can swear all you like." He set her back on her paws, then pointed towards the kitchen. “Now go find your grandfather and make him get you some more egg nog."

Ayly smiled, nodding once. “Grandfather's old."

“Yes, he is."

“And stinky!" Ayly giggled.

“Well, I dunno about that part."

Ayly lowered her voice. “And he has pee pee problems."

The Coyote scrunched his muzzle. “That would explain the stinky part, yes."

“You know what?" Asterbury turned towards him. “I see what you mean about recycling those jokes."

“Told you." The Coyote followed the little dragon as she darted towards the kitchen.

A great black dragon with vibrant blue highlights stood in the kitchen, snacking on cookies laid out across an assortment of colorful platters. Though the dragon was usually quite old, each year at this time Valyrym was allowed to return to his youth, to spend time with his granddaughter and other friends and family for the holidays. He swung his wedge shaped head towards the coyote and urd'thin, wiping crumbs from his muzzle with the back of his paw.

“Hello, Valyrym." The Coyote helped himself to a cookie, frosted green and red.

“Hello, Scavenger! Cold in here, isn't it?" Valyrym smiled a moment, but it soon turned into a grumpy scowl. “And are you still making those tasteless incontinence jokes about me?"

“Yes, he is!" Asterbury bounced on his toes. He clucked his tongue and shook his head. “I keep telling him not to recycle the same tired old jokes form the last few years, but he won't listen."

“Go fuck a running a lawnmower, Asterbury." The Coyote flicked his nose, making the urd'thin yelp.

Valyrym ignored him, glaring at the Coyote. “I swear on Amaleen's Dragon Taming Boots if you make me piss myself again this year, I'm going rub you in it."

“Are you making a joke about rubbing dog's noses in-"

“No," Valyrym said, his voice full of silken menace. “I'm making a threat to rub all of you in whatever puddles you find it hilarious to force me to create."

“You know that was Krek's doing, right?" The Coyote picked up another cookie, shaking it. “Besides, you seem to be putting away too much thought into pissing yourself. Kinda seems like you're on the path to a self fulfilling prophecy, this year." He bite the cookie in half, and waved the rest at Ayly. “Now get your granddaughter some egg nog while I make coffee."

Valyrym sighed, popping open the fridge. In addition to his restored youth, the dragon also magically fit into whatever the scene required of him. So yeah, he can totally open fridges and stuff. And fit through doors. And sit on couches and pour egg nog. And watch porn on the Coyote's computer, late at night, when he thinks the Coyote is asleep. But really, Valyrym, who the hell else would be using a fleshlight the size of the Coyote's leg? And I've seen your web history. Bare Maidens? Yeah, we all know you're into human girls. Then again, so is Krek, but he wouldn't a toy anywhere near that size.

Hah! Shots fired at Krek. Take that, you pompous-

“You know," Valyrym said, cutting off The Coyote's rambling train of thought. When The Coyote glanced his way, he slowly poured a bottle of egg nog into a bowl for Ayly. “You really used to put a lot more effort into these."

The Coyote picked up the bowl and set it down, where the little hatchling bound over and lapped eagerly at it, purring up a storm. He straightened and wiped off his hands, glancing at the dragon. “People used to read them, too."

“Have you considered the reason you may have less Christmas story readers, year to year, is that you're putting less and less effort into them?" Valyrym settled onto his haunches, chuckling.

“Chicken and the egg?" The Coyote got the coffee maker going, and fetched a mug.

“What does Krek playing with one of his balls have to do with this?" Valyrym tilted his head.

Asterbury leaned up against counter. “Wouldn't he be a rooster? And why does the big, black-feathered chicken only have one ball? Did he lose one?" Asterbury gasped, covering his muzzle with his hand. “Was it the big C?" He lowered voice to a whisper. “Cuckolding?"

The Coyote and Valyrym both turned, staring at him. “That's not…" The Coyote sighed, returning to his coffee. “I don't even know where to begin unpacking that. And you know what, Valyrym?"

“A baby koala is called a joey?"

The Coyote blinked. “What?"

The dragon drummed his clawtips against the floor. “The chemical element for tin is Sn?"

The Coyote slowly turned around to face the dragon. “What the Christmas crap are you talking about?"

“You asked me what I knew, so I assumed you wanted random trivia." The dragon arched his neck, grinning. “Such as, did you know an echidna's penis has four heads?"

“Echidna, you say?" Asterbury leaned forward, pulling a smartphone from inside his robe. “Have…you got his number?"

The Coyote returned to his coffee once the mug was nearly full. He pulled it away from the coffee maker, and opened a fresh bottle of egg nog. “This is why I don't wanna do this stories anymore. You assholes just keep distracting me with random bullshit, and it takes me forty thousand words to write a ten thousand word story." He opened the bottle, pouring some into his coffee. “Then I spend all Christmas Eve writing it, and miss the whole day. So, I'm not doing it."

“I mean, technically…" Asterbury waved a hand at The Coyote's house, representing the story he was constructing all around them at this very moment. “You kinda are."

“Yeah, yeah. But I have a hard word count in my head, this year, and when I hit it, that's it." The Coyote sealed up the egg nog and put it away. “I'm skipping to the end, no matter what. For real this time!"

“Uh huh." Asterbury reached out and took The Coyote's coffee with egg nog, then took a long sip. “And how many times has that word count already been bumped up in your head?"

“Two, or three…" The Coyote sighed, and made himself a different mug of coffee. “Maybe four." While it was brewing, he spun back towards the dragon. “Anyway, I didn't ask for your dumb trivia, I didn't ask what you know, I asked if you know what?"

Asterbury bounced on his toes. “Isn't he on second?"

Valyrym glanced back at him. “Isn't who on second?"

“No, Who's on first!" Asterbury cackled, setting the mug down. “What's on second."

The dragon lifted a forepaw to scratch his muzzle. “I don't know…"

“No, he's on third!"

“Fucking no!" The Coyote whirled around on the urd'thin, summoning his Christmas magic. He threw his hands out, and blasted Asterbury across the house. He smashed through the wall like fragile gingerbread, twinkling lights, silvery tinsel, and fluttering snowflakes trailing in his wake. Then the walls sealed up again, sewn back together by long strings of garlands decorated with red spheres and golden bells. The Coyote turned back towards the dragon, letting out a long sigh. “Sorry, but that's like, the third or fourth year in a row he's pulled that shit. There's only so many Who's On First references I can possibly take."

Valyrym cocked his head. “But who-" Valyrym snapped his jaws shut when the Coyote lifted his hands. He lowered his head. “I'll be good."

*****

It was at this point, that in real life, The Writer dashed outside to see Santa Claus. Or at least, a fireman dressed up as Santa Claus, riding atop a fire truck. The truck crept down the street with sirens wailing and lights flashing, and a grown man laughing like a Mall Santa reject. Yet The Writer grinned and waved like an idiot, another of his little Christmas traditions checked off the list. When Santa was gone, he went back inside and cracked a beer.

*****

“You'd better be good. Or else."

The Coyote walked out into the family room, where Amaleen was sitting on a couch, reading a kindle. He leaned over the couch to give the woman a hug around her shoulders. She looked up, smiling, and returned the hug.

“Merry Christmas, Coyote!" She patted his arm, then let him go. “Bit cold in here today, isn't it?"

“Thanks, Amaleen! Merry Christmas to you too." He straightened up, rubbing his arms. “Yeah, I noticed that. Gonna find my hoodie I think." He gesturing at the device. “Whatcha reading?"

“A Kindling, I think it's called." Amaleen turned it over in her hands, marveling at it. “I don't know how your people can fit so many books in so tiny, slender a thing." She set it in her lap, glancing up. “Are they all shrunken down, and then viewed via a powerful set of magnifying lenses inside this thin little box?"

“Uhh…sure." The Coyote licked his nose, chuckling. “Let's go with that. But I mean, what book are you reading?"

“Yours, actually." Amaleen poked him over the back of the sofa. “Catching up on what's happened in Valyrym's word, since you so ignominiously kicked me out of it." She scowled. “Not to mention trying to keep up with all your other unfinished stories." She tapped the screen. “You've squeezed so many emotional crescendos into all these other tales, I owe you about a hundred swift kicks right in the sugar plums."

Valyrym glared at The Coyote's back. “Pat yourself a little harder on the back with that dialogue, why don't you?"

The Coyote ignored him. “Yeah, speaking of kicks…"

Amaleen quirked her brows. “You're ready to admit you want to let all your maidens taken turns nailing you in the fuzzy nuggets? Ready when you are, my dear canine."

“Not…exactly…" The Coyote gulped, rubbing the back of his neck. “No, what I was gonna say is, if Valyrym or Asterbury or anyone else starts up that Who's On First bullshit this year, I want you to put their eggs so hard you nog them."

Amaleen giggled, shaking her head, curly hair bobbling. “I don't think that's how that word works, but I'll do my best, Coyote."

“Thanks, Amaleen." The Coyote turned away, padding towards the living room. “I'm gonna go enjoy my egg nog coffee in peace for at least ten seconds before Asterbury somehow finds his way back in."

“Oh, that reminds me." Valyrym joined the coyote, walking alongside him.

The Coyote sighed, fetching his drink. “Of course it does."

“Asterbury was working on something while you were asleep." The dragon curled a foreleg around The Coyote's waist, steering him towards the dining room table. “Out here. You might want to see it."

“Pretty sure I have no interest in seeing anything that horned-up little deviant has a hand in." The Coyote grimaced, glancing around, nervously flicking his tail.

“What's the matter?" Valyrym pulled out a chair of the coyote, alongside the table.

“I was just expectcing him to suddenly show up, with his hand literally in something." The Coyote set his drink down, then flopped into the chair. “You know, like, elbow deep in an elf or something worse, like…" He glanced at the dragon, trailing off.

Valyrym yelped and tucked his tail protectively. “Not only no, but restraining order no!"

“Hah!" The Coyote shook his head. “Used it last year, for Vatch, but still a good joke." He picked up his coffee, took a sip, and smiled. At least he amused himself, even when he didn't really feel like writing these things anymore. “Better sit down, just in case."

“Good idea." Valyrym eased onto his haunches, then gestured with a wing at The Coyote's mug. “Don't you normally go to Starbucks for those?"

“Yeah." The Coyote took another sip, grinning. “But I've written that scene before, and…I'm getting tired of these retreads." He set his mug down, then shivered, his fur bristling. “Besides, it's cold in here."

“Is it?" Valyrym scratched his neck with a wing tip talon. “Hadn't noticed, to be honest. Thought you liked the cold, though?"

“Oh, I do." The Coyote stood up long enough to snatch a gray hoodie from a nearby chair, and put it on. “But I'm a bit less interested in feeling like I'm stuck outside in a blizzard." He sat back down, eyeballing the ominous stacks of papers, notes, manuscripts and printed documents scattered across the table. “Dare I ask what all that is?"

“Well, let's see." Valyrym pulled the papers forward, looking them over. “Huh…I thought Asterbury was working on a present for you, but…I guess he was just reading Krek's fanfiction. This one is Krek's story where Valar blows him." He sat it aside. “And this one's Krek's fanfiction where he meets Smaug, and…" Valyrym flattened his ears back. “Smaug blows him." He pushed the story aside, too. “This one's Krek's fanfiction where the Queen dislocates her jaw…and then blows him."

The Coyote dragged a hand down his muzzle. “Are there any that aren't Krek's fanfiction about getting blowjobs?"

Valyrym paged through a few stories. Then he paged through a few more. “Well, this one is…no, wait, nevermind." He pushed those off the table, then skimmed a few others, tossing them aside. Finally, he read one for a few moments, smiling. “Oh, here we go. It's basically that Tim Allen movie you're always riffing on, where he becomes Santa Claus. Only in this one, Santa Claus blows…oh, nevermind." He tossed it aside, and picked up another. “Oh, here's an alternate version where Krek becomes Santa Claus instead of Tim Allen."

The Coyote folded his arms. “How many pages until Tim Allen blows Krek?"

“Oh, that's just stupid. Not even Krek would stoop that low." Valyrym rifled through the pages, then came to a sudden stop, his ears drooping. “Four. Four pages. And then Krek says, and I quote, 'now show me what dat mouth do, Tim Allen.' And it appears that yes, he does in fact show him."

“Oh, here's one written by Asterbury!" Valyrym picked up a small notebook, gazing through it. “I knew he was writing something. It begins, Hey gang, remember that time I blew Kr-"

The Coyote slapped the book out of the dragon's hand. “Are you insane? You want to get us all stuck in one of his stupid fake flashbacks?"

“Right, right." Valyrym pushed a few more papers and documents aside, then picked up a new one. “Oh, here we are! This one's called, A Royal Nutcracker Christmas."

The Coyote perked his ears. “Cautiously optimistic."

Valyrym scanned it, a grin spreading across his muzzle. “This one appears to be the Queen's fanfiction, wherein she ties up Krek and paddles his balls all Christmas long, as punishment for all that fanfiction he wrote about himself getting blown by everyone."

“All Christmas long, you say?" The Coyote reached out and delicately plucked the manuscript from the dragon's grasp. “I'll just…safe guard this one myself. For…safekeeping." He folded it up, and put it into his pocket.

“Right." Valyrym curled his paw and made a stroking motion. “Safekeeping."

“Oh, stuff Korvarak's cock in your stocking." The Coyote leaned back into his chair, folding his arms. “I've seen your RP logs with Alia. Dragon-taming, indeed."

“Those are private!" Valyrym slapped his jaw against the table. It creaked ominously, a crack opening in the middle of it. “Oops. That was…uh…there already." Valyrym wadded up a bunch of Krek's fanfiction, and crammed it into the crack till it was full. “There, at least we have a use for those, now."

“Yeah, stuffing Krek's bad fanfiction into a crack sounds about right." The Coyote took a drink of coffee, then waved at all the remaining papers. “What's all this stuff doing here, anyway? Wait…" He set his mug back down, sighing. “You said Asterbury was working on something out here? Don't tell me he's trying to come up with more Christmas story ideas."

“A few, yes!" Valyrym arched his neck, smiling. “We worked on some together!"

“Okay, first?" The Coyote held his hands up. “I'm not doing a big story this year. Period. You've got like, maybe 4K words left to work with, and that's it. And second? We did this bit already, like two years ago I think? The year we did the Die Hard parody, with the Easter Bunny trying to murder everyone?"

Valyrym tilted his head. “Wasn't that also the year where you were starting to get tired of doing these?"

“Yup. That's why it turned into next year's theme, me not being sure if I wanted to keep doing these."

The Coyote set his jaw, staring out the window. It was cloudy, lightly snowing. It was nice that here, in this world, it was always snowing. It might not snow in reality, but here, in this world, it snowed as much as he wanted. And he could stay as long as he liked.

…As long as you like…

He shivered again, unsure why. Someone's voice echoed in his head, familiar yet not quite graspable. As soon as he tried to remember who had said that, what they were talking about, the memory was gone, like snow melting beneath his pads. He licked his nose, and realized Valyrym was waving a paw in front of his face.

“You alright there, Scavenger?" Valyrym set his paw down when The Coyote focused on it. “You sort of zoned out for a moment."

The Coyote sat up straighter, finishing off his coffee egg nog. “Yeah, I'm fine. Must need more caffeine." He swirled his finger over his glass, magically refilling it. “So what were you saying?"

“Actually, you were saying." Valyrym shuffled a few papers. “About how you'd already done this bit before?"

“Oh, right." The Coyote scratched his muzzle. “Asterbury and I did a whole scene with him pitching me story ideas…really bad story ideas…while you and the others were off on vacation, at that horrible resort where you got all the jelly fish stings."

Valyrym cringed. “Oh, god, don't remind me."

“Sorry," The Coyote said, holding up his hands. “The last thing I want is to flash back to-"

*****

Two Years Earlier:

*****

Ayly's muzzle dropped open, and she gaped at the coyote with wide eyes. “You're gonna beat up Lellumgurb?" Then she giggled, bouncing on her paws. “I wanna help!"

“No, a different gryphon. What are you hoping Santa brings you?"

Ayly scrunched her muzzle. “I thought Santa shot himself?"

The Coyote rubbed his forehead, ears flattened. “I've got to stop bringing you to these stories. Just tell me what you want."

Ayly took a breath so deep her whole black and purple body seemed to expand. She wiggled in excitement, and the little silver spots on her haunches glittered. Then she started hopping up and down, blurting out her reply in a single, long, breathless answer. “I want the Turbo Man action figure with the arms and legs that move and the boomerang shooter and his rock'n roller jet pack and the realistic voice activator that says 5 different phrases including, It's Turbo Time! Accessories sold separately. Batteries not included."

With every word, The Coyote's ears pinned back further and further. By the time Ayly was finished, she flopped over, wheezing and panting for breath. The Coyote glanced back at Amaleen. “We've got to start cutting down on her TV time." He patted the little dragon's side. “You okay there, Ayly?"

Ayly staggered back to her feet, nodding. She sucked in a few more breaths, then pawed at the Coyote's hands. “I want that! Turbo Man! But you gotta go look for it! Every time The Terminator tries to find it, it's always sold out!"

“It's a movie, Ayly, and that's not The Terminator, it's-"

“Uh huuuh, it's the Terminaaaator!"

“No, it's Arnold Schwarzenegger, but he's playing a different character, and…wait." He scooped Ayly up in his arms as he stood. The bells on her snack harness jingled. “How do you know about The Terminator?"

“I seed it on your TV, with grandfather!"

The Coyote grit his teeth as he carried the hatchling to the cabana. “It better have been the edited for TV version, then."

“Nuh uh!" Ayly giggled, swishing her tail as it hung over his arms. “It had swears and blood and dead people and sassy kids and motorcycles and robots and Lellumgurbs and Conan The Barbarian and Tony The Librarian and butts and Turbo Man and boobies and Batman and Saving Ryan's Privates and Gryphon Sluts 6 and-"

“That's it!" The Coyote followed Amaleen into the cabana. An entire wall had been removed, and then leaned back up against the building. “No more TV unless I'm there to supervise what you're watching."

“Coyote, is that you?" Valyrym's voice echoed from the back of the dark cabin. “About time you got here! Did you bring me some ointment for my paws?"

“Ointment?" The Coyote scowled, splaying his ears. “Did you age another hundred years while I was away?"

“No, but he must have stepped on at least that many jelly fish." Amaleen moved aside to let the Coyote past.

Valyrym was sprawled at the back of the dingy room, with his head resting on a Christmas wreath and a few moth-eaten santa hats. The Coyote walked up to him, smiling. As usual this time of year, Valyrym's youth had returned to him. Hints of blue edged his jaw, his frills, and his wings. The gray was mostly gone from his scales, and his gaunt body was once more full and strong.

Just as The Coyote was about to greet his old friend, the black dragon lifted a forepaw to wave it. His paw was swollen and red, all the scales cracked or fallen off completely. His pads looked ready to split open. Dozens of tiny red marks lined each toe, and all across his paw pads.

“Baaaahh!" The Coyote stumbled back. “What the hell, Valyrym? Your forepaw looks like an infected balloon!"

“Nice to see you too, Dumpster Diver!" Valyrym snorted, dropping his paw back down. “You were supposed to bring me some jellyfish-sting ointment."

“First, there's no such thing. Second, most of Amaleen's messages were lost. Third…how in Santa's fat Christmas c-" The Coyote cut himself off when he realized the hatchling in his arms was staring at him. “Candy…cane…did you step on so many Jelly fish?"

“How should I know? Every time I went near the water, there they were again!"

“If you saw them, why would you step on them!?"

“I didn't do it on purpose! I'd try to avoid one, and there was another one, right where I set my paw down! Then I'd yelp and stumble back and step on six more!" Valyrym shifted his weight. “I can barely even get up to go outside to take a piss!"

Ayly stretched his neck to whisper into Coyote's ear. “Grandfather has pee pee problems."

“I do not have pee pee problems!" Valyrym thumped a forepaw against the ground, only to yowl in pain and clutch it to his chest. “OWWWW!"

Ayly whispered again. “Grandfather's inconsequent."

The Coyote smirked. “You mean incontinent."

_Ayly gave a solemn nod. “Because he's old." _

*****

“What the hell, Valyrym!" The Coyote slapped the table, snarling. “I told you already, no fucking flashbacks!"

“It wasn't me!" Valyrym jabbed a finger at The Coyote. “You're the one who just fucked up your own wordcount limit by adding in a bunch of words that don't count. If you wanted to dwell on old successes that badly, you should just finish Dragon in the Dungeon!"

The Coyote threw his hands up. “Oh, there's a hot, fresh take!"

“I…urp…" Valyrym clutched his belly. “Sorry, I suddenly don't feel very good."

“Oh…well, I guess I can forgive you-"

Valyrym suddenly pitched over onto the floor, gagging and coughing. Blood ran from his muzzle. He trashed and writhed as The Coyote jumped to his feet, calling out his name. Suddenly, the dragon's chest heaved upwards, scales cracking. Blood spurted across the fanfiction strewn table. The Coyote sighed when he realized what was happening. Amaleen ran into the room with a spoon, and shoved it into the dragon's muzzle to try and keep him from swallowing his tongue.

The Coyote stepped back, counting down. “Three…two…one…"

Asterbury erupted from the dragon's chest in a shower of blood, gore, and torn viscera. Amaleen screamed and stumbled back. Asterbury screamed back at her. He hopped out of the dragon's body, but instead of sprinting across the room, materialized a cigar and lit it. He put the cigar in his muzzle, took a few puffs, then turned to the camera.

Asterbury took the cigar out of his mouth, beaming. “Now that's what I call a Bob's Burgers!"

The Coyote flopped back into his chair. “That's not going to make any sense, to anyone, in this context. Or any context."

“It makes perfect sense, assuming your readers actually read the last two stories, and remember all the references. Of course, if they didn't, the confusion is their fault." He popped the cigar back into his muzzle, took another puff, then turned to another camera. He slowly took the cigar out of his mouth. “And if you haven't read the last few Christmas stories? You're making the Coyote sad. Shame on you!"

The Coyote snorted. “Don't read-shame my readers."

“Well, if they've reading this, they probably read the last few as well, right? So it shouldn't matter. But if they haven't, well, they're making you sad!" He tossed the cigar away, bouncing on his toes. “So, you like my Valyrym skinsuit? Been watching a lotta Good Place lately."

“Oh, my god, The Good Place is so good." The Coyote leaned back in his chair. “Do you think Chidi is really going to be able to save existence?"

“Probably." Asterbury licked his nose. “And he's got that whole army of Janets to back him up."

The Coyote scratched his ear. “That's not exactly what was happening when they left off. Though…that reminds me." He waved at Asterbury. “You're basically Bad Janet, but without being funny. You've got the powers and the potty mouth, but instead of making me laugh, you just piss me off."

“But I do use your stories to wipe my ass, so that's pretty Bad Janet."

The Coyote scrunched his muzzle. “Anyway, you weren't wearing a Good Place style skinsuit. That was actually Valyrym."

“Oh, shit." Asterbury nudged the bleeding, half-gutted dragon with his foot. “I thought it smelled funny in there."

“Still…alive…" Valyrym wheezed and twitched.

Asterbury helped himself to Valyrym's chair. “So, what I'd miss?"

“Mostly just Krek's bad fanfiction." The Coyote glanced at Amaleen. “Hey, do your thing, will you?"

Amaleen blinked a few times. “My thing?" Then she glance down at Valyrym. “Shouldn't we help him?"

“Yeah, don't worry, I'll fix him up in a second."

Valyrym lifted a trembling paw. “Time…is of…the essence!"

“Yeah, it really isn't, in these stories." The Coyote ignored the dragon's plea, grinning at Amaleen instead. “Yeah, you know. Your thing. That thing you're best known for."

“Oh. Right." Amaleen cast her eyes down. “If I must."

Suddenly, Amaleen spontaneously combusted.

“No!" The Coyote shrieked, jumping up out of his chair. “Not that thing!"

“Oh, you're right," Amaleen said, still on fire, her voice flat. “I'm doing it wrong, aren't I? Let me do it the way you did it."

Amaleen walked out of the room and out of frame. She waited for a happy moment in the story, and then heroically died off-screen.

“Yowch," Asterbury said, shuffling through all the stories on the table. “Too soon, Coyote, too soon."

“Yeah, maybe I had that one coming." The Coyote rubbed the back of his head. “I meant her, kick you in the balls, thing. But..now she's giving me the finger from the other room."

“I guess you could say…" Asterbury made finger guns at the canine. “Her anger still burns?"

“Oh, no, we're not starting that shit either." The Coyote glanced away, mumbling under his breath. “Wish you'd die off screen, Asterbury."

“You might say, she's still carrying a flame-"

“Vatch!" The Coyote called out into the ether. Luckily, he had a backup plan. “Time to do that thing we talked about!"

Suddenly, Vatch ran out from another room. The handsome, brown-furred urd'thin was wearing a festive green and red Christmas sweater, with battery powered twinkling lights. He also wore pale khakis, cut to fit digitigrade legs. And, he carried his Big Stick…an immense, white-oak mace with gold-painted flanges. A crimson Santa hat perched on his head, just over his horns.

Asterbury hopped out of his chair, sucking in a breath. “My Chocolate Strudel! You made it this year after all!"

Vatch ran straight up to Asterbury. Then, by both reader request, and Vatch's deep desire, he swung his Big Stick between the taller urd'thin's legs so hard that both fuzzy eggs were immediately nogged. Asterbury squealed so loudly The Coyote's glasses shattered, and toppled over.

From the other room, Amaleen called out. “I hope that noise was what I think it was!"

The Coyote only smiled. “It was."

“Good! But the 'eggs are nog' jokes were overplayed three stories ago." Laughter drifted through the house. “You really should have gone with, hit his chestnuts so hard they roasted, or something. I mean, you were already making all those terrible jokes about my little, shall we say…"

Asterbury lifted his head, his voice meek. “Barbecue?"

Vatch waved his mace. “You shut up! You want Vatch do again?"

Asterbury blinked away years. “Afraid…there's not much left to hit."

“That fine." Vatch shrugged. “You not need anyway! Vatch find out last story he pansexual power top! You just…" He waved a hand at Asterbury. “Gimp in closet."

The Coyote rubbed his head, groaning. “Oh, I forgot about that power top joke from last year…that wasn't supposed to be canon, Vatch."

“Too late, you put idea in Vatch head. He use internet, find many new experiences." Vatch leaned over to stare at the dragon with the gory hole in his chest. “Vatch also find sexy fanfiction where Vatch and dragon have real good time. He maybe…need dragon alive, yes?"

“Oh, shit, Valyrym, right." The Coyote lifted his hands, and waggled his fingers. “Hocus Pocus Choke Us, Bippity Boppity Cop-A-Squattity…Shaq Fu, I heal you!"

The Coyote slapped his hands together. In an instant, Valyrym's words were healed, and all the related mess was cleaned up. The dragon slowly sat up, groaning. He held his chest with a paw a moment, then glanced down at Asterbury, still writhing on the floor. “Did that little vermin 'Alien' me?"

“I don't think that works as a verb, but yes." The Coyote leaned back to put his feet up on the table. “I'm also going to assume he was behind that little flashback escapade. So we should probably just end this bit, now, before he heals himself manages another one."

“Awww…" Valyrym's ears drooped. “But we didn't get to the one I worked on, yet."

The Coyote sighed, rolling his eyes. “Where is it?"

“Let's see…" Valyrmy tossed notepads and printed manuscripts aside. “Everything's all jumbled up. Hmm…Is this it?" He picked on up, reading the title. “A Charley Browne Christmas, by Krek."

“Oh no."

“Relax," Valyrym said, glancing at the Coyote. “He spelled the names differently, so you won't get sued."

“That's not…" The Coyote grit his teeth. “Please tell me he doesn't…you know."

“It's a Christmas classic! There's no way Krek would…" Valyrym trailed off, reading through part of the story. “Huh…well, now I why all the adult's voices are always so muffled."

“God damn it, Krek."

Valyrym tossed the pile of papers down onto Asterbury. “Here, that one's about your speed." Then he spotted his own, his golden eyes lighting up. “Ah! There's my story!" He pulled it forward and flashed The Coyote a smile. “Now, don't be too harsh on this, I'm an amateur, but…I did work really hard."

The Coyote smiled, nodding once. “Go on."

“I call it…" Valyrym waved a paw as if illustrating an illuminated billboard. “The Three Christmas Ghosts."

The Coyote flattened his ears. “That sounds suspiciously close to A Christmas Carol. Which Asterbury tried to do to me last year."

The dragon shook his head. “Nonsense, there's no one even in this story named Carol."

“That's not-"

“So, in this story," Valyrym said, talking over The Coyote. “There's a bitter, decrepit, crusty old miser." He looked the canine over. “That'd be you, Trash Puppy."

“What?" The Coyote sat up straight, growling. “Why would that be me?"

Asterbury dragged himself up into a chair opposite Valyrym. “Well, you are pretty crusty. I blame the dumpster diving. And the trash baths. And the recreational refuse. And that time you hooked up with the Crack Fox."

“I am not crusty." The Coyote growled at Asterbury. “And stop watching my Mighty Boosh collection."

“So anyway," Valyrym said, ignoring the other two. “The Coyote would play the Miser. I'd play his lovable employee, Bob-"

“Burgers?" Asterbury slapped the table. “I'm in! I didn't know you were writing a story about Bob Burgers!"

“Cratchit." The Coyote snorted. “Bob Cratchit."

“Bless you." Asterbury glanced his way, then turned his attention back to the dragon. “So if you're playing Bob Burgers-"

“Belcher." The Coyote took a deep breath. “Bob Belcher."

“I did not." Asterbury rolled his eyes. “If anything, I think it was Amaleen, you should have seen how much Christmas sausage and Christmas Broccoli she put away, earlier. She's going to be stinking up the house for sure."

The Coyote stared at the urd'thin. “There's no such thing as Christmas Broccoli."

“Well, sure there is." Asterbury folded his arms. “What do you call it?"

“What do I call what?"

Asterbury shrugged. “Christmas Broccoli."

“I don't call it anything!" The Coyote picked up his coffee, draining half of what was left. “I'd just call it broccoli."

“But then how do you know it's for Christmas?" Asterbury thumped the table again. “Hah, got you there."

“No one eats broccoli for Christmas!"

“You're telling me," Asterbury said, leaning forward. “That no one, in the vast history of humanity, has ever eaten broccoli on Christmas day? Not once? Because I call bullshit, my friend."

The Coyote slammed his mug down on the table. “I'm sure someone has eaten broccoli on Christmas!"

“Then I rest my case, Christmas Broccoli does exist!" Asterbury sat back in his chair, grinning smugly.

“I've really got to ween you off of Seinfeld." The Coyote shook his head, chuckling. “You're starting to talk like them."

“The point is," Asterbury said. “Amaleen's eaten way too much Christmas Broccoli. Now she's gonna fill up her stockings with a bunch of Christmas Farts."

“Oh, come on!"

“Well, what do you call them?"

“What do I call what?"

Asterbury shrugged. “Christmas Farts."

“I don't call them anything!" The Coyote picked up his coffee, draining the last of it. “I'd just call them farts."

“But then how do you know they're for Christmas?" Asterbury thumped the table again. “Hah, got you there."

“No one farts for Christmas!"

“You're telling me," Asterbury said, leaning forward. “That no one, in the vast history of humanity, has ever farted on Christmas day? Made a joke about it being a Christmas gift? Not once? Because I call bullshit, my friend."

The Coyote slammed his empty mug down on the table. “I'm sure someone has farted on Christmas!"

“Then I rest my case, Christmas farts do exist!"

The Coyote dropped his head into his hands. “I can't believe you're making this argument."

Valyrym stared at the canine. “And I can't believe you just copy/pasted that entire section."

The Coyote smirked. “I changed a few words. Anyway, your story is clearly Dickens."

“Excuse me?" Valyrym pulled his head back, his neck arching.

“Three ghosts, on Christmas? A grumpy old Miser?" The Coyote tapped the paper. “Anyone can tell that story is Dickens."

Valyrym hung his head, ears drooping. “You know, I worked really hard on that. You don't have to call it names."

“Geez, Coyote, Dickens is right." Asterbury clucked his tongue, shaking his head. “Cause that's where you just kicked poor Valyrym's ego. He spent all morning writing that story!"

“What are you talking about?" The Coyote threw his hands up. “It's clearly Dickens!"

Valyrym snapped his jaws. “Well, this story you're writing right now is a big load of dick, too! So there!"

“Not dick, you deaf old lizard." The Coyote rubbed his temples. “Dickens! Dickens!"

“Okay, okay, you don't have to rub it in?" Valyrym lashed his tail, batting aside a few decorative snowmen. “Calling it dick was bad enough, you didn't have to make it plural!"

“Are you shitting me right now?" The Coyote groaned, pulling his hood up till it smothered his head, his ears flat inside it. “The plural of dick is not dickens!"

Asterbury cackled, rubbing his hands together. “It is now! Boy, I can't wait for the Christmas orgy later, so I can see all those dickens!"

The Coyote banged his head on the table. “I can't believe I'm wasting my word count on this."

“And I can't believe you're being so cruel to my story." Valyrym crossed his forelegs.

Asterbury twisted his voice up a notch. “And I can't believe it's not butter!"

The Coyote reached out and snatched Asterbury's muzzle, holding it shut. He fixed his gaze on the dragon. “Valyrym, your story has a crotchety old-"

“It is not about an old crotch!" The dragon snarled, thumping his tail.

“That's not…" The Coyote sighed, took a deep breath, and held it as long as he could. “Just…tell me about your story."

“I've been trying!" Valyrym snorted. “I shall try again. So, the old miser is wealthy, but always mistreats his employees." Valyrym waggled his fingers. “Especially Bob Crackass."

The Coyote nearly choked on his tongue, but forced himself not to interrupt.

“And Bob Crackass has a son he's trying to afford a Christmas yam for."

“Just…a yam?" The Coyote blinked. “One yam?"

“They're very poor!" Valyrym snorted.

“Alright, alright." The Coyote rubbed the back of his hand. “So, his son. Would you say he's…especially small? Tiny, even?"

“Well, in a way." The dragon shuffled through a few pages. “He's short, but more lithe than scrawny. They call him Twinky Tom."

The Coyote burst out laughing, ignoring the dragon's fiery glare. “You're either fuckin' with me, or you have no idea what that word means."

Valyrym forged on. “So, Twinky Tom makes a living working down at the Abercrombie store."

“What?" The Coyote laughed even harder, shaking his head. “You know what? You're right. This isn't Dickens."

“Thank you." The old dragon bowed his head. “I appreciate the respect. So, back to the Miser, let's call him…Jim Carry as Doctor The Eggman."

The Coyote blinked a few times. “Am I losing my mind?"

Asterbury reached out and put his hand on the Coyote's. “Always a distinct possibility."

“So, Jim Carry as Doctor The Eggman is visited by three ghosts." He shuffled through the papers again, moving ahead a few pages. “They're the ghosts of Christmas, starting with The Ghost of Christmas Past, moving onto The Ghost of Christmas Presents You Wanted But Never Got, and finally, The Ghost of Christmas Past 2: Die Harder."

“I am losing my mind." The Coyote looked around as if expecting the world to melt away around him any moment.

“Uh oh…" Asterbury lowered his voice, leaning across the table towards the dragon. “I think we're about to get Thanos snapped away, again."

“Hmm…" Valyrym turned a page over, looked at the back of it, then turned it back over. “Actually, I may have been writing this while watching TV last night."

The Coyote reached out to push the pages of the dragon's story back together before they got lost. “I'm sure it's a lovely story, Valyrym. But…You're going to have to borrow Amaleen's kindle, so you can read Dickens."

Valyrym jerked his head up. “She gets porn on that thing?"

Asterbury waggled a finger at the dragon. “Well, she's got your first few stories on there, doesn't she?"

“Oh, stick that finger up your Christmas ass, you bootleg Joker." Valyrym snorted at the smaller urd'thin. “Your jokes are bad and everyone hates you."

“He's like syphilis," the Coyote said, laughing. “Everyone tries not to acknowledge his existence, but they're always taking precautions to avoid him."

Asterbury waved them both off. “Oh, we're all best friends and everyone knows it. Say gang, what's this story?" He reached out and picked up another piece of paper. “A Very Pledged in Blood Christmas."

*****

It was at this moment that The Writer paused to take the weekend before Christmas off from writing this story. He'd finish it later.

Those days, like most things in life, were a mixture of good and bad. Saturday was a lovely evening. Along with his family, he went to his favorite place to see Christmas lights and decorations this time of year. It was an old downtown main street where every store and building was decked out in layers of cascading color. Shining white lights edged rooftops and surrounded windows. Another building was smothered in flashing waves of red lights and crimson tinsel. Giant candy canes adorned another. Wreaths of all shapes and colorations decorated doorways and light posts. Christmas trees were everywhere. They had dinner, they walked the street, and as usual, he took way too many pictures. It was a lovely night, and another Christmas tradition checked off his list.

Sunday was more of a mixed bag. The first part of the day was fun. They went shopping for the last things needed for their infamous giant platters of snack foods of all kinds that made up Christmas Eve dinner. They'd been doing that every Christmas Eve for his entire life, and if he ever had the chance, it was a tradition he'd happily carry on later in life. They also picked up the rare, Christmas spiced Belgian ales he preferred to drink on Christmas Eve and Christmas, and had a beer in a local pub.

The second half of the day, his beloved Cowboys played, with a chance to win their division and secure a playoff berth. All they had to do was beat a division rival, a team decimated by injuries. And instead, they shit the field. Just took a huge, messy shit, all over the field.

As Asterbury would say, it was a huge shit on the floor.

It certainly did not knock The Coyote's glasses off.

It put him in a sour mood the rest of the day, but, like all things, the worst of it slowly passed.

The next day, he tried to get himself to finish the story.

Where had he left off? Oh, right.

With a Pledged in Blood parody.

*****

At long last, Nesh placed the shining, golden star atop the ornately decorated pine tree. By then, my dear companion had fully transformed an ordinary tree into one of the most beautiful things I'd ever seen. Coils of shining, silver tinsel ran all around it. Swirls of red ribbons encircled the tree, as well. Red and gold bows hung from many of its boughs, while ornate golden bells decorated others. Mirrored sapphire spheres dangled from random limbs, with figurines of crystal and porcelain swaying beneath others. Nesh stepped back, hands on his hips, appraising his handiwork.

“Well, Ella?" He glanced back at me, a smile warming his face, even as the chill wind reddened his cheeks. “What do you think of your first Christmas tree?"

I settled on my haunches, looking it over. I curled my tail around my paws, considering it. “It is, admittedly, quite stunning. And it does possess a sort of…" I circled my paw in the air, searching for the right word. “Peacefulness, I suppose."

“That it does, Ella, that it does." Nesh approached me and put a hand upon my neck. He gently stroked my scales, smiling. “That's part of what Christmas is all about, actually. Peace, and love, and good will towards…" He pulled his hand away, chuckling. “Well, the saying is, good will towards men, but…I should think 'all' would be more appropriate. That we can find it in our hearts, one and all, to show love and good will even towards dragons, gryphons, urd'thin, gnolls, and so on."

I lowered my head to nuzzle at his chest. He wore his long, black winter coat, adorned with the blood drop emblems that symbolized his status as a medic amongst his army, along with the golden marks of rank he'd earned. Even through the coat, I could still feel his warmth. I could still hear his heartbeat. “I like that idea, Nesh. It's a little too optimistic, but perhaps…perhaps it is the season for optimism."

“Oh, it is, Ella." Nesh hugged my head tightly. “It absolutely is. That's the real meaning of Christmas, after all. Hope. That and love, and friendship, and all other things that are good, and kind, and true."

“And, as I hear it told" I said, returning his hug with a foreleg curled around his back. “To spend time with those we hold most dear."

Then he leaned in and placed a gentle kiss just between my nostrils. “Merry Christmas, Ella."

“Merry Christmas, Nesh." I hugged him a little longer.

“Actually, Ella," Blue said from nearby. “Do you remember what else I told you, about Christmas?"

I glanced at the indigo and black gryphon, and gave him a smile. “I certainly do, Bird." I turned my attention back to Nesh, licking my muzzle. “I am told that the real meaning of Christmas, is human-on-dragon sex." I rolled over onto my back, and spread my hind legs before Nesh, unwrapping my own glistening Christmas gift for him. “So, Concubine! Get over here and show me what dat mouth do!"

Nesh grasped his coat in both hands, and ripped it in half, tearing it and all his other clothes off in a single motion. He cast them aside and stood naked before me, unbothered by the chill. Even though he'd been bundled up for winter, his impeccably muscular body glistened with oil. He posed, showing off his guns, his abs, and his triceps. Blue Jay awarded him a medal with a picture of a weightlifter on it. I looked down at his genitals, and found the strangely placed hair around his genitals was also decorated for Christmas. Tiny strands of tinsel were woven through it, with even smaller ornaments hanging throughout. His erection, standing proud, was painted like a Christmas tree, and his balls like two ornaments. He strode towards me, all sexual swagger, all swiggity swooty and coming for my booty.

*****

“Nope!" The Coyote scrunched up the manuscript, and tossed it onto the floor. “Not doing that. Not doing any of that."

“Actually, Coyote," Asterbury said, leaning forward with a grin. “I think-"

“And…" The Coyote glanced at the word count indicator at the bottom of his screen. “That's word count, so we're done." He leaned back in the chair, hands behind his head. “Merry Christmas everyone, see you next year."

“What?" Valyrym jerked his head up. “But we haven't even gotten to the scene with my cousin Ding Ding's funeral in it."

“Poor Cousin Ding Ding." Asterbury bowed his head, respectful.

The Coyote shook his head. “Still can't believe he came to save us from that Super Meat Boy trap Tim Allen made for us…only to fall right into the meat grinder."

“Right in the meat grinder," Valyrym said with a whimper, wiping a tear from his eye. “He was so confident too!"

“He really was." The Coyote folded his arms, swallowing hard. “Let me show you all how to make this jump, he said. And then he just ran off the end of the ledge."

“Forgot to jump." Asterbury rubbed his nose. “I'll never forget his last words."

The Coyote lowered his voice to a booming, draconic tone. “Oh, fuck me, I forgot to jump! Oh no, I'm falling! Ah, I'm in the meat grinder! It hurts sooo much! Wait, it's grinding me up very slowly, and I can see the power switch. Could someone just turn it off, please? Hello? Is anyone there? It's only ground me up to my ankles, but it's excruciatingly painful! If someone could just turn this thing off, you can pull me out! There's even a ledge, there. And a stairway to it, from the platform we were just on. Not sure how we missed that before, but…hello? Hello?"

Valyrym scratched his muzzle. “I suppose those might not have been his last words."

“That's true," Asterbury said, shrugging. “Valyrym's radical cousin Roy showed up, and showed us where the shortcut door was. We all just…assumed DingDing was dying, anyway, so…"

The Coyote swirled a finger around his mug, magicing some more egg nog coffee into it. “Well we couldn't just wait around all day, turning off meat grinders."

The old dragon heaved a sigh. “Shame about Cousin Roy, though, on the way back to his home planet, after the party."

The Coyote sniffed. “Right in the meat grinder." He took a drink, then stood up from his chair. “Well, see you all next year."

Just then, there was a horrible crashing noise from the kitchen. The Coyote whirled towards it. “What the hell was that?"

“C'mon, Gang, let's check it out!" Asterbury hurried into the kitchen, with Valyrym hot on his heels.

“Nope." The Coyote sipped his egg nog coffee.

Asterbury skidded to a halt. “What do you mean, nope? Something just crashed through your kitchen window!"

The canine shrugged, swishing his tail. “Don't care. Trying to end the story!"

“Coyote?" A vaguely familiar voice called out from the kitchen, along with the sound of hooves scrabbling against tile and broken glass. “Coyote? Hello!"

“Well, if it isn't our old pal Rudolph, from two stories ago!" Asterbury made his way into the kitchen.

With a sigh, The Coyote begrudgingly followed him. “Three stories ago. That was Christmas 5."

“Oh, who can keep these things straight?" Asterbury padded over to the red-nosed reindeer, struggling to get his footing amidst all the shattered class. Snow blew in through the broken window, swirling around. “You know, the coyote might be a filthy, trash eating, dumpster diving, garbage can fucking trash puppy, but he does have a front door." He folded his arms, glaring at the deer. “Even I don't break in through his kitchen window, that's just bad manners."

“No time…for doors!" Rudolph finally made it to his feet, wobbling as he stepped away from all the broken glass. “Must…save…Comet! And…if time allows, Christmas!"

Asterbury clasped his hands. “Awww, something happen to your blowjob buddy?"

“It's Tim Allen!" Rudolph's desperate gaze wondered from one disinterested onlooker to another. “He's escaped Elf Prison, and taken over the North Pole!"

The Coyote groaned, rubbing his muzzle. “Of course he did."

Rudolph went on, his nose glowing like a fearful ember, little deer tail twitching. “He used highly advanced knowledge of power tools, craftsmanship, and boundary pushing stand up comedy to craft an army of robot reindeer and Terminator Elves!"

“Boundary pushing?" The Coyote scrunched his muzzle. “Maybe in 1982, or whenever he was regularly doing stand up. I mean, have you seen Tool Time? Sure, I loved it as a kid, but…I was a kid! That's kinda the point. It was about as safe and family friendly as it gets. Last Man Standing's got a bit more bite, granted, but it's been a long time since he was pushing any boundaries. If anything, the edgy stuff in his stand up now's just uncomfortable."

“That's the part of his subplot's backstory you're worried about?" Valyrym swung his head around to glare down at the canine. “The boundary pushing part? Not the fact that he somehow used stand up comedy to build robots?"

“No, no, you're right." The Coyote waved the dragon off. “The whole thing's stupid, and I'm not doing a Tim Allen revenge plot."

“Yes! Revenge!" Rudolph quickly nodded. “He wants revenge on you for framing him for Santa's murder, near the end of Christmas 5: The Christmasening, Or, How The Coyote Almost Saved Christmas!"

“Huh." Asterbury folded his arms. “Whaddya know. Someone does keep track of this crap."

“Doesn't matter, not doing it." The Coyote sipped his drink.

“Will you stop sipping that damn thing?" Asterbury whirled to glare at the Coyote, growling. “Who the hell are you this year, Bill Lumbergh?" When everyone just stared at him, Asterbury stomped a foot. “The boss from Office Space!"

Valyrym shrugged his wings. “I don't think he's gonna break any printers."

“No, the boss, the boss!" Asterbury smacked the back of one hand into his other palm. “He's always sipping from a coffee mug, and saying, yeaaaaaah."

Rudolph tilted his head. “Is he the one with the red stapler?"

“No!" Asterbury balled up his fists. “He's the fucking boss!" He finally sighed, and hung his head. “How come when the Coyote makes a reference, everyone things it's clever, but when I do, everyone acts like I just shot Santa at the mall?"

Rudolph gasped. “You shot Santa? And what was he doing at the mall?"

“You know what?" Asterbury glanced up at The Coyote. “I don't wanna do this either."

“Amaleen!"

“On it!"

Amaleen hopped off the sofa and hurried to the kitchen. She ran up behind the reindeer, and kicked Rudolph in the balls as hard as she could. Rudolph squealed, his eyes popping out. His legs all went in different directions and he flopped to his belly, writhing around, hoofs scrabbling at the tile.

“Ooooooh, my gumdrops, my gummmdrops!" He took a few deep breaths, groaning. “I'm…a beloved…holiday icon! Why do I…always…get kicked in the testicles…in these stories?"

“Because you're annoying." The Coyote turned away, heading back towards the front room.

“Yeah, that's why," Asterbury said, sarcasm oozing from his voice. “And definitely not because you're…" He made air quotes. “Into it."

“Coyote!" This time, it was Ayly's voice calling out, and from the living room. “Santa's here, Santa's here!"

The Coyote grimaced, his tan-furred ears flattened back. “Which Santa?"

“All of them!"

Just then, someone kicked the door in. Tim Allen dressed as Santa Claus strode inside, strapped with a tool belt filled with power tools. “Interrupting your Christmas Party, you fucking Scavenger? That's too bad, because…" He drew a power drill from his belt, and revved it up. “It's Tool Time! Ugh ugh ugh!"

“Oh, god." The Coyote slapped a hand over his muzzle. “You've had three years to plot revenge, and that's the best you could come up with?"

“Well, you never give me any screen time! I'd say that makes you a real…" Tim Allen revved the drill again. “Tool! Ugh ugh ugh!"

Asterbury cackled, rubbing his hands together. “Hey, I like this guy!"

“You would."

Valyrym walked up alongside him. “What's that noise he keeps making? Is that a medical condition? Is he having a stroke?"

“No, he used to do this weird, grunting thing to punctuate his jokes about…tools, and mancaves, and…manliness."

“To answer your earlier question," Tim Allen said, flourishing his hand towards a whole army of other Santas in the front year. “This is the best I could do! Allow me to introduce the League of Evil Santas!"

“Oooh!" Asterbury clapped his hands together. “We get to fight a whole league of weird references? Now that's a real holiday adventure! It's about time you kicked this story into high gear!"

“No! No, no, no!" The Coyote thumped his mug down on a nearby end table, next to a plush snowman. “I'm already way over word-budget. We're done."

Tim Allen ignored him completely, gesturing to several of the wicked Santas waiting outside. “Prepare yourself for the Evil Santa from American Dad! Billy Bob Thornton from Bad Santa! The killers from every version of Black Christmas! The Santa from that book you skimmed through, years ago, where all the Christmas icons are real, but evil! You know, the one where the Tooth Fairy is a woman, and she fucks the easter bunny, who's basically a big, evil anthro bunny? And she squeezes his balls? And he gets his balls kicked by some human women?"

Valyrym's eyes widened. “That's a real book?"

The Coyote chuckled, running a hand back over his hears. “It is, yeah. I forget what it's called. Though…some googling tells me it's probably, “Santa Steps Out", by Robert Deveraux. Saw it in a store, many, many years ago, skimmed through it…a few parts caught my eye, and…I regret not buying it ever since."

“Yeah, I can tell what parts were caught, alright." Tim Allen waved his drill around, grunting like a horny yak again. “And now to introduce squad two, of the League of Evil Santas." He turned towards them, only to find that the front yard was now empty. “The fuck? Where'd they all go?"

“Oops." The Coyote shrugged, walking towards Tim Allen. “Seems I sent them all back to their own respective universes by mistake. Guess we won't have to do your shitty subplot this year, after all. And…now you're stuck here." The Coyote jerked his thumb at Asterbury, smirking. “With him."

Tim Allen glared down at the little urd'thin dressed in the crimson robes. “You wanna join my League of Evil Santas, too?"

“Love too!" Asterbury hooked his thumbs into his robe. “But I'd be the one running. Though, that's not why The Coyote says you're stuck with me."

Tim Allen blinked. “Why then?"

The Coyote smiled. “He's been reading Krek's fanfiction."

Asterbury spread his arms out. “Time to show me what dat mouth do, Tim Allen!"

A closet opened, and Asterbury yanked Tim Allen into it, slamming the door shut behind them.

Valyrym glanced down at the canine. “Are you trying to say his name so many times it bumps this story up in the search engines?"

The Coyote laughed, shaking his head. “No, but that'd be hilarious. Welp, I think we're good." He dusted off his hands. “Let's call that the ending!"

“Not so fast!" Through the open door, two foxes dressed in black suits entered. Each wore sunglasses perched upon their muzzle, and each carried a black tablet in one hand, held close to their chest. “You've some questions to answer first, Coyote."

The Coyote folded his arms, scrunching up is muzzle. “Who the fuck are you little knot-suckers?"

Fox One glanced at his companion. “Add that to his tally."

Fox Two nodded, tapping something into his tablet.

“What are you, some kind of Men in Black parody?" Valyrym sighed, dropping onto his haunches.

“Hardly." Fox One snorted. “We're legally distinct, original characters."

Fox Two looked up, tilting his head towards the other. “Agent Donut, Agent Steel."

The Coyote snorted. “Original characters, Donut Steel." He rolled his eyes. “Got it."

“Oh, is that the joke?" Valyrym tapping a claw against the floor. “I thought you were making a joke about foxes and donuts and-"

“For the love of Christmas, stop right there." The Coyote held both hands up.

“Yes, that's partly we're here about." Agent Steel looked up from his tablet.

Valyrym tilted his head. “Fox donuts?"

The Coyote thumped the dragon's shoulder. “What did I just tell you?"

“Profanity! Adult themes. Sexual innuendo. Violence." Agent Donut glared at the two of them. “Need I go on?"

The Coyote only shrugged. “Yeah, why don't you wait till Asterbury's done with old Tool Time himself, and then tell him? You basically just named his entire F-list."

“Your bad sense of humor and middling ability to write parodies won't get you out of this one, Coyote!" Agent Donut waved his own tablet at him. “I'm from the Agency for Securing Space Time's Infinite Continuity!" He snorted, flattening back his reddish ears. “The A.S.S.T.I.C! I'm sure you've heard of us."

“Ass tick?" Valyrym nudged The Coyote with his paw. “That's the funniest abbreviation you could come up with?"

“It's late, whaddya want." The Coyote magiced himself some new egg nog, this time with plenty of brandy in it. He took a long drink, grinning. “Besides, I got another one coming up."

“That your drink of choice for this year's tale? Egg nog and brandy, instead of strong Christmas beers?"

The Coyote shrugged. “Nah, those are for Christmas Eve, and Christmas. Got a growler of Delirium Noel, for Christmas Eve, and a big bottle of St. Bernardus Christmas for the big day itself."

“If you can tear yourself away from your alcohol fixation for one moment, and focus on the matter at hand?" Agent Donut turned his tablet around, pointing to a series of threatening looking graphs. “Your antics have caused some profoundly serious alternations to the continuity of space-time as we know it! Every since you allowed your characters to create a hole in space-time itself, things have been spiraling out of control!"

“Oh, yeah!" The Coyote gave a half-drunken laugh. “Asterbury totally fucked that thing, last year."

“I sure did, best pal!" Asterbury's muffled voice rang out from the closet where he was getting mouth whoopie from The Santa Claus.

“And speaking of!" The fox waved his tablet towards the closet. “That little sex-muppet's fake flashback and rewind-the-story antics have created a number of new and unintended timelines! If we don't curtail these immediately, the entire Christmas universe you've created could collapse in on itself…and take every other universe with it!"

The Coyote sighed, glancing at the other fox. “And what's your deal?"

Agent Steel glared at him, then jabbed a finger into the Coyote's chest. “You swear to much."

The Coyote batted his hand away. “Excuse me?"

“I'm with the Mythical Yuletide Bureau for Alleviating Lewd and Lascivious Slander!" He bared his fangs. “You're in big trouble, buddy."

The Coyote slapped his hands to his cheeks, eyes wide and ears flat. “Not M.Y. B.A.L.L.S.!"

The fox smiled, smug amusement written across his face. “The very same. Wait, wait are you being sarcastic?"

Valyrym rumbled laughter, thumping his tail. “Hah! My balls." He glanced down at the canine next to him. “You're right, that is funnier!"

From the closet, Asterbury called out again. “I dunno, coyote, a joke about balls? Even for you that's…wait for it…low-hanging fruit!"

The Coyote tried not to laugh, looking the fox up and down. “I dunno, he's just a little fox. They can't be hanging that low."

Agent Steel glared at him through narrowed eyes. “I'll have you know that the folks at M.Y.B.A.L.L.S. do not look kindly at those sort of jokes."

“Oh?" The Coyote flicked an. “Got a lot of good folks down there, do you? Visiting the B.A.L.L.S. for the holidays? Touring the facilities? Doing a little sight seeing, are they? Showing them the sensitive work you do with M.Y.B.A.L.L.S?"

Valyrym nudged the Coyote. “I hope they don't have to do any clean up work while they're down there."

The fox stomped his foot. “It does not spell my balls!" He shoved his tablet into the other fox's arms, then made a show of ticking off his fingers. “M, Y, B, A, L….L…" He slowly trailed off, ears drooping. “Shit."

His tablet beeped. “One credit deducted from your salary for banned language."

“You guys use credits?" The Coyote reached out for the table, only for the fox to duck away. “What universe did I pull you from? Wait, fined for bad language? It was Demolition Man, wasn't it?" He folded his arms. “How do the three seashells work?"

“I've no idea what you're talking about!" Agent Donut stepped out of reach. “We're wholly original creations!"

“Yeah, okay." The Coyote rolled his eyes. “Well, enjoy your three seashells and your lack of toilet paper, and your fine dining version of Taco Bell. Anyway, you shoulda showed up a story or two ago, when I still had the energy and desire to write really long stories. This one's already like, twice what I planned. So…I'm just gonna ignore you, and your dumb subplots, and go for a walk. And just so you don't try to stop me, I'm scheduling a meeting between my knee, and the bureau."

The little fox narrowed his eyes, glaring up at the taller canine. “The Bureau doesn't accept appointments!"

The Coyote only shrugged. “Guess it'll just be a walk in, then."

With that, The Coyote stepped up and kneed the little fox in the balls as hard as he could. Steel gave a loud, canine yelp, doubling over. His eyes crossed above his muzzle, his ears flattened back, and with a long, lingering groan, he crumpled to the floor. Soon, he was rolling back and forth, clutching himself and crumpling up his suit.

“Ooooh, my balls, my fucking balls!"

The tablet beeped.

“Ooooh my fucking balls!" The fox squirmed back and forth. “I can't…fucking believe…you kneed me…in the goddamn fox balls!"

The tablet beeped a few more times.

“Hah, he's gonna be broke, and have broke balls." The Coyote stepped over him, moving towards the second fox. “Should I schedule a meeting with you, too?"

Donut dropped both tablets to cover himself instead. He backed away, wide-eyed. “N-no, I…I can come back at a more convenient time…or year. I'm sure the universe won't collapse just yet…probably."

“Oh, perfect." The Coyote walked past Donut to the front door. “Amaleen, get these foxes some egg nog." He glanced back at Steel, still writhing on the floor. “And some ice. Then, set up the Christmas Eve snack feast however you want, this year. I'm gonna go for a walk."

Valyrym suddenly came up behind the Coyote, and gave him a tight hug around the middle. “It's been good seeing you again, Coyote. I'm always here, if you need me."

The Coyote smiled, patting his hand. “I'm just going for a walk, Val. And not in a, a daddy went out for cigarettes sort of way."

“I know, I know." The dragon kept hugging him. “I just wanted to hug you, while I had the chance. Since you're done with the story, and all. We didn't really…talk…this year."

The Coyote looked down at his feet, scowling. “Yeah. I…I didn't really feel like writing that kind of scene. Things are going…okay, though. By my standards. A lot of things didn't work out the way I hoped, the month went too quickly, didn't get to do all my Christmas traditions, body and health are shit as always, but fuck it, live your life while you can, right? Still holding off on the transplant, hoping nothing else goes wrong. And…compared with last year's multiple funerals, and my mind set then? I'm…doing alright, right now. Thanks." He squeezed the dragon's paw to his chest.

“You're welcome." Valyrym rested his muzzle between The Coyote's ears. “And…things are going well with the boyfriend?"

“Very well, thank you." The Coyote smiled, patting Valyrym's foreleg. He reached up and rubbed the dragon's nose. “I'm…more than done with this story now, though. So…can I go?"

The dragon laughed, and released The Coyote. He nosed at the canine's lower back. “Of course, Scavenger. You're always free to leave, anytime you want. And you're always free to come home."

“That's a weird thing to say." The Coyote opened the door, peering outside. It was silent, cold, and snowing. He smiled, his ears up.

“Merry Christmas, Coyote."

The Coyote glanced back. “Merry Christmas, Valyrym."

He stepped out into the cold, infinite whiteness.

*****

It was cold outside. Colder even than The Coyote expected. He zipped up his hoodie, smiling. The cold always made it feel more like Christmas. Back home, though, it was rarely cold enough. Hell, this year it was going to be 70 damn degrees for Christmas. That was just wrong. A warm Christmas day stole some of the magic, stole some of the feeling. But here, in this place, it was always cold.

Here, it was always snowing.

He liked it here. The Coyote perked his ears up, wagged his tail.

Ears up.

Tail wags.

The two phrases echoed through his mind, a strangely familiar refrain he suddenly couldn't place. Why did he keep thinking that? And…why was he thinking about 'home', as if he wasn't already there? He…He was home, wasn't he?

Of course he was. He'd just stepped out front, to go for a walk in the Christmas snow. Such a rare treasure, snow on Christmas. Or…or was it? Wasn't it…always snowing here? Then when did it seem so strange to think about the rarity of a White Christmas? The Coyote shrugged, pushing aside his momentary confusion. It was just easily not to think about questions like that.

The Coyote padded down the front path, to the sidewalk. Snow crunched beneath his feet. He always loved that sound, the gentle crunch beneath the smothering, peaceful silence of heavy snowfall. He tugged his hood up, popped his ears out through the little flaps, then turned into the breeze. Snowflakes crusted his muzzle. He spent a few minutes, snapping at them like a pup. When he was sure no one was watching, he even frolicked like a clumsy, more awkward version of a real coyote, hopping and skidding through the freshly fallen snow.

When his nose was a little too chilly, The Coyote turned away from the breeze. He glanced down the street, wondering which neighbors had their Christmas lights on. There was a lot of them, this year, the neighborhood looked better and more festive than ever. Lights of every color and size, shining packages, animatronic reindeer, inflatable Santas and Snowmen, and on and on. At least…that was how he remembered it.

But now, there were no lights. There were no houses, there was no street. There was only the infinite whiteness of freshly fallen snow. He turned back the way he'd come, looking the other direction. There was nothing in that direction either, only his own footprints in the snow. He followed them a few paces, till they turned towards his house. The Coyote looked up, and found there was no house. Instead, his footprints led on further than he could see. It was as if he'd just been wandering a snowy landscape all day long.

“But…wasn't I just…" He lifted his hand as if grasping at a door handle that wasn't there. He'd just come out of a house…hadn't he? Suddenly, that all felt like ages ago, faint memories that were fading by the moment. He lowered his hand, staring at clouds of his own breath drifting away in the cold. “Where…where am I?"

Memories, older still, drifted through his head. Last year, at the end of the story, Asterbury and Valyrym had…had…

*****

He turned towards his friends, again. “So…I'm in a memory?" The Coyote gave an incredulous laugh. “You really did Christmas Carol me."

Asterbury gave a slow nod, smiling. “You gave me the idea, actually. I knew the snow would make you smile, and I hope it makes it feel a little more like Christmas.

“It does." The Coyote rubbed his arms, ruffling up his fur. They were so delightfully cold. “Are you sure I'm not just…losing my mind? Or…or…lost in some dream?"

Asterbury shrugged. “Well…gray area."

Valyrym only smiled at him. “As long as you're happy, does it matter?"

“I guess not." The Coyote sniffled, wiping at his eyes. “How…how long can I stay here?" He took a step towards his friends. “Please, I…I don't wanna go back! At least, not yet. Just let me a stay a while?"

“You can stay as long as you like, Coyote." Asterbury smiled, waving him onwards. “Now…go on. You've got snow to frolic in, and pictures to paint in it."

*****

The Coyote turned a slow circle, puzzle pieces struggling to click together in his head. He'd been cold, all day. It was snowing, all day. Things sometimes made even less sense than usual. He licked his nose, then lifted a hand to scratch his head through his head.

“I…I never left, did I?" He trudged through the snow, muttering to himself. “I'm…I'm still in that…that snow dream, from last year. How long have I been here, now? But…but there were…trees, there was a street…there…there were lights."

All around him, existence sprang into being from the snow. Houses edged in twinkling lights. Trees done in up in tinsel and ornaments. A wintry street, with tracks from sleighs and reindeer hooves. Golden bells hanging from Victorian-era lamp poles. Wreaths on every door, presents piled under trees, indoor and out. Reality bleeding into dream, and melting back into snow.

“That's better," The Coyote said, his voice little more than a mumbled whisper.

Something called to him, and he turned around. In the far distance, the faintest silhouette of a doorway stood upon the horizon. The door, he somehow knew, led out. But the Coyote turned away, and strode deeper, deeper, deeper into the dream. More lights rose all around him, along with trees bedecked in ornaments, lining his path. Guiding him ever onward, towards the sounds of carols and bells, and laughter. The Coyote sang too, off key, but joyous, happy.

Ears up.

Tail wags.

For another year, and maybe forever, The Coyote surrendered to the dream, and Christmas, and let himself be lost onto the Christmas snow.

*****

Somewhere, far away, Asterbury placed a snow globe on a shelf. Snow swirled inside it, day and night.

“Is he still in there?" Aylaryl, a lilac dragon and his long time companion, watched him from a place near a warm fire.

“He is, he is." Asterbury turned around, joining the dragon alongside the hearth. “A year now, at least, and he still doesn't want to come out."

The dragon cocked her head, narrowing her silvery eyes. “You didn't trap him, did you?"

“Of course not." Asterbury waved off the idea. “He can leave any time he wants, but…" He moved to the fire, warming his hands. “I don't think he wants out."

“But…" The dragon turned her head, gazing into the flames. “Doesn't he have…family?"

“Oh, The Writer does, yes." Asterbury rubbed his hands. “But…I think every year, The Writer and The Coyote drift further apart. They're…separate entities, now. The Writer's got things to do, family to see, presents to give and smiles to share. The Coyote…" He glanced up at the snow globe, smiling. “The Coyote's happy right where he is."

“He's not going to go insane, is he?" Aylaryl curled her foreleg around Asterbury's waist. “I shall be very upset with you if you've driven our creator mad."

“Technically, The Writer is our creator." Asterbury patted her paw. “But…The Coyote's basically mad already. I mean, have you read these stories?" He slipped her grasp, wriggling free. “Now come on. In the Coyote's absence, it falls to me to host his annual Christmas party for all his characters."

“I think he put Amaleen and Valyrym in charge of that."

“Oh, please," Asterbury said, fetching his Santa robe. “They're terrible hosts. Besides, someone's gotta show his party goers what dat mouth do! We've got to get there before Twinky Tom does."

Aylaryl cringed, then glanced up at the snow globe. “You know, if he ever gets out of there, he's going to be quite cross with you for making that this year's recurring joke."

“A problem for another year." Asterbury went to the shelf, patting the snow globe. “Until then, he gets to be lost in the snow for as long as he wants." He stroked the glass gently, smiling. “Merry Christmas, Scavenger."

*****

And Merry Christmas to you, beloved readers. I hope you have a wonderful holiday season, whatever you believe in or celebrate. Thanks for making this silly escapism a part of my own holiday traditions for the last 8 years.

May your new year be bright, and better than the last.

And if you've enjoyed, please hit the FAVE button, and leave a comment.