Tis the Season

By K. D. Wentworth

It was Christmas Eve and that nasty, strung-out feeling of anticipation clotted the air like a cheap deodorizer. I hate Christmas the most–all that insincere, pious yap about “peace on
earth, goodwill towards men.” I was cruising down the expressway, on my way back from dismantling an illegal manger scene someone had erected at the river park, keeping an eye out
for graffiti, you know–“Where will _you_ spend eternity?” or “Buddha lives!”–that kind of crap, spray-painted on underpasses right where impressionable schoolchildren could see it. The last rays of the setting sun were painting the highway a faint rose when I spotted a broken-down van with the metal outline of a stylized fish just above the back bumper. The short hairs crawled up the back of my neck. Them fish guys have been some of my worst busts.