Revenge for Christmas

Santa gripped the cold stone tightly, even as it cut into his flesh. He looked up. The sky was a grey and flat. Snow fell down on him as he made steady progress upward. Each tug, each step, each grunt brought him higher and closer. The air was cold and felt sharp in his lungs, but it was fresh too. To him this was hope or the closest thing to it.

He gritted his teeth and yanked himself up one step higher. Hot blood ran down his bare arms. Some fell into his eyes. He kept climbing. Vengeance kept him moving. Fury was his anesthetic.

His steps became a snowball of progress. Each one grew upon the other. Finally, after what felt like days of climbing, he reached the summit and pulled himself from the pit. His eyes burned from the light. He winced and covered them and let them adjust. Then he stared out at the flat, white wasteland around him. The air was colder, sharper, and cut into his skin. Despite this the bloody gashes on his hands burned.

He tugged on his beard to keep it down. This left a bloody streak in the billowing white. Slowly, with the uncertain gait of a man well past his prime, he stepped timidly into up to his knee into the crunchy snow. The ice beneath his didn't move, didn't crack. It was solid, more solid than steel.

He wrapped his hot hands around his cold arms and started wading through the snow. He had no direction, only a destination, and he had no fear of death. Death was far off for him, because no matter what happened to him he always had vengeance.

The workshop was not how he left it. It was a hollow place filled with rot and shadows. The chill of the north had invaded every space. The building had long since fallen into disrepair. Doors were collapsed. Windows were shattered.

He pushed his way inside, hoping to find respite from the icy winds. It was no warmer inside, simply absent of a breeze. His breath appeared in small plumes of fog between his cracked, blue lips.

Inside the building was filled with ghosts. Dark smears marked the floors and walls. Bare bones lay out in the open to remind him of what he lost. His face darkened and a flame so fierce burned inside of him that even the cold was forgotten.

He moved slowly through the work shop, feeling the machinery, remembering its form. There were still good memories here, memories of the workshop in full operation. There had laughter here. Laughter and joy.

In his office he found what he was looking for. Slipping his arms inside of the thick, red coat, he felt immediately warmer. He fastened the belt tight around his waist. All the weight he had put on was off now. The jacket fit loosely, but that suited him.

He went to his desk and checked all the drawers. A photo caught his eye. He picked it up, looked it over, and sunk into his old office chair. It groaned decrepitly. Long had it gone without use.

His hands shook. Biting back a sob, he folded the photo and stuffed it inside of his pocket. The years had taken so much from him. The times changed so quickly, so roughly. It was more than just a workshop to him. It was a home, and now it was a graveyard.

He stood quickly and stomped out of the office, down the stairs, and to the floor. First he would collect his thing, his bag of tricks. Then he would go to the stables and find a way out. In his opinion the world had waited long enough for his return.

Kevin Martin wrapped himself up tight to keep the cold at bay as he stepped out of his limo. Winters in New York cut deep. That was why he usually spent them in Los Angeles, but duty called this December and he couldn't be pulled away.

The door man let him through, and Kevin passed without giving a tip. The man was going to get a Christmas bonus, so tips were unnecessary in Kevin's opinion. That was how he kept his fortune, a dollar at a time.

He made his way to the elevator and road it to the top floor, high above the clouds. Then he walked through the hallway, his hallway, toward his office. The pretty young secretary greeted him with the same look of awe and envy that his employees always wore. A delivery man passed him on the way out.

"Merry Christmas," Kevin said with a smile that cost him thousands of dollars. His secretary stopped him as he passed.

"Mr. Martin, you have a package waiting for you inside of your office."

"Thanks…" Kevin looked down at her nameplate. Denice. He could have sworn that he had fired Denice. "Thank you," he said after some contemplation, and then he went into his office.

Kevin's office was huge and took up nearly the entire floor. He wasn't the sort to go without luxury and could afford any expense to have such luxury. His office had an enormous television, a killer view, and a private bathroom, among other things. Waiting on his desk of solid mahogany was a small, nondescript red package. Whoever had sent it to him was meticulous in the wrapping and left not a single crease out of alignment.

At first Kevin smiled at the unexpected gift. He liked getting things, and often spent money for just that reason.

He threw his jacket and scarf-each name brand-on the sleek leather couch against the wall and went directly over to pick the package up. The paper gleamed in the pale winter light as he looked it over.

Kevin's smile faltered. He liked getting things, but people rarely seemed to like giving him things, for whatever reason. This box was suddenly setting off all kinds of alarms for him. He set it back down on the desk and stared critically at it.

He had guards and metal detectors at the doors. For the delivery to make it to him it would have to be safe. There would be no explosives, nothing dangerous at all, of that he was sure.

Maybe, he thought with an overabundance of confidence, people were finally tired of being jealous of his success and had decided to celebrate it instead. That idea warmed his heart and brought a smile to his face. He decided right then and there that he would buy a new car to celebrate.

Picking up the box, he felt the rough paper in his hands. It was light, far too light to house anything of importance. He shook it and heard no rattle inside. He heard nothing at all to signify anything of value.

Tearing ravenously at the paper, like a wolf at meat, he found a plain box inside. He then tore the box open and found only a plain, white card inside. It was folded in half and had a small, red finger print on it. To Kevin it looked almost like the color of dried blood.

He picked up the card and dropped the box.

Turn around, the card said.

Kevin had hardly turned before he felt the hand on his throat and the hard glass against his back. His head rattled and spun. It felt like his brain was sloshing around inside of his skill, bumping off the sides. Everything twirled for a moment, aside from that icy, scarred grip around his neck.

Slowly, with effort, Kevin's vision settled. When it did he could hardly breathe or think at all. The face that greeted him hadn't smiled in years. In all probability the face had forgotten how to form a smile. It did, on the other hand, know how to form a scowl, and did so with such fury that Kevin's entire body shook.

Kevin pressed his expensive shoes against the glass. He clawed at the red-clothed arm of the man holding him just above the ground. The man would not relent and would not stop staring. Kevin tried to swallow but couldn't get it past the enormous palm pressed against his windpipe.

"Ho-how'd you get out?"

The man's face contorted into something that would have been a smile were it not for all the rage and hurt inside of him. "Consider it a Christmas miracle, Mr. Martin!"

The man jerked forward, placing a broad fist into Kevin's solar plexus. All the air Kevin had managed to collect was forcefully expelled in a moment. Then Kevin was tumbling to the ground. His feet hit first but couldn't hold, and he collapsed to the floor, a ragdoll of a man in an expensive suit.

The man stomped away, leaving Kevin immobile and sobbing on the floor. He went to Kevin's desk, where sat a large, dirty brown bag which had not been there previously. From inside of the bag the man extracted a large wreath and a lump of coal.

Kevin managed to catch his breath by the time the man returned. His legs still didn't work for fear of the pain he may suffer. So he looked up sadly at his tormentor.

"Why," Kevin asked quietly. "I…I wasn't involved. I…"

"But you are no less corrupt, are you?"

"But…It's Christmas."

"It is, and I have big plans for this year. There's a lot of suffering people who are in need of a lot of cheer because of you."

"But…you were gone…," Kevin said while the man gingerly lifted his left arm and slipped it into the wreath. He gradually worked the wreath down, being firm but never forceful with it. Once the wreath was fastened firmly around Kevin's chest the man slipped the coal into Kevin's breast pocket and stood up straight.

"I was, and now I am back," the man said. He walked back to the desk, leaving tinsel trailing in his wake. At the desk he fastened the tinsel to the floor with red and white hooks.

"You don't want to do this," Kevin said, suddenly fearing for his life. "I can pay you. I can make you rich, buy you anything you want. You could live in a mansion, never having to work a day for the rest of your life. Just relaxing with the polar bears. You like polar bears, don't you?"

"I love polar bears," the man said as he made his way back to Kevin. Before him the man kneeled and looked him in the eye. Almost no one looked Kevin in the eye. Having this enormous, red, bearded man do it made Kevin sure that he didn't care for the experience.

"I don't want you money, Mr. Martin. I don't want your relaxation either. You see, that is the problem with your people. You think in figures and finances. You think joy can be bought, but it can't. It can only be given, and from the heart, too, not the wallet."

The man stood and seemed towering to Kevin now. "I've made a list, Mr. Martin, and I've checked it twice. I know what I'm going to be giving people for Christmas. To you, I'm giving a wakeup call, a chance to turn this all around and repent."

"I will repent. So let me go and have mercy! It is the holidays, after all…"

The man wore the smile again. It was a baboon's smile, a threat. "Oh, you will repent, given time, but for now there can be no mercy. No, you're far too important. You see, I need you, to send a message to these people. To tell them that they've been naughty, not nice, and that I know it. To tell them that I'm coming for them. To their towns. To their houses. Down. Their. Chimneys."

The man moved like lightning, faster than anyone his age should ever move. He struck the window with one of his bony elbows and shattered it like a walnut shell. Cold, New York winter air whipped around the paperwork in the room. Kevin looked an absolute mess in his billion dollar haircut and suit.

In a last, desperate plea, Kevin scrambled and grabbed at the man's worn, red paints and smudged leather boots. The man looked down almost pitiably at him.

"You…You can't do this," Kevin whined over the roar of the wind.

"Of course I can," the man said while stuffing his hands into his jacket. "You should have read the fine print. Such action is clearly spelled out in my Santa Clause," he said just before pressed his foot against Kevin's chest and giving a good, solid push.

The CEO stared absently at the paper in front of him. The cover had the image of a well-dressed man hanging from the shattered window of a sky scraper. His spine had been broken when the police took him down but he had survived. Coal was found in his breast pocket.

The CEO knew what that meant. They entire board did, and the board was frightened. They were the sort to be frightened easily. The CEO knew the score though. He knew how economy worked, and he knew how people worked, and he knew that both were his to twist and tie up however he wanted.

He sipped at his scotch.

"What are we going to do," asked one elderly board member. "He's back, and he's clearly quite angry."

"Of course he's angry," the CEO said in a smooth voice. He sounded like the best friend you never really had, the dreams that could never quite come true, and the lies that you tell yourself just before you go to sleep. "We stripped away everything important to him. We took his home. His friends. His pets. His wife. His purpose. Now he's just a ghost, haunting us like an old regret, and I don't know about you but I never regret anything Ido."

A rat-faced board member at the end of the table looked at the CEO anxiously. "Then what do you propose?"

"I propose we do nothing," the CEO said. "He wants to make his stand then we let him, and we make damn sure it's his last."

"But this is him that we're talking about," said an elderly man who looked like the years of lies and manipulations had eroded his bones. "You weren't there on that day. You didn't see what we did, and you didn't see the look in his eyes. He won't stop, and he won't forgive."

The CEO smiled a trillion dollar smile, one that he had bought with the sweat and struggles of an entire nation. "You're right on one account, my good man. I wasn't there. Had I been then I would have put him down personally."

"We had no way of knowing," another member snapped defensively.

"A word of advice, gentlemen. Never bury your skeletons. They have a way of resurfacing." The CEO picked up his scotch and went to the window. He looked out at the vast, empty land, and then he sipped at his scotch. "No, first you twist the knife to make sure they're dead, and then you burn the body and scatter the ashes."

"So…We wait," the rat-faced board member said after a long, uncertain silence.

The CEO finished his scotch and turned to them. "Isn't that what I just said," he asked while setting his glass on the board table. "I will handle everything. Now then, how are the tests going?"

A tall, gaunt board member with thick lensed glasses took stood and slapped a folder down on the table. "The programming is nearly finished, and production is kicking into its final stages. Very soon all employees will be replaced with the WalBot, and then customer satisfaction will be at an all-time high."

The CEO took the folder and looked through its contents. Then he smiled a genuine smile. This one wasn't a trillion dollars well spent, and it wasn't so sweet an illusion. It was war, plague, famine, and death. "Good. Well, our meeting is adjourned. You all have safe trips home, and tell your families that I wished them happy holidays."

"What will you do," one large man who looked more like a boulder than person asked.

"I will stay up and meet our little Christmas visitor personally." He took his glass and poured another scotch. "Maybe I'll set out cookies and warm milk for him."

Finding the building was easy for Santa. Breaking in was even easier. There were no guards waiting for him, only cameras tracking his movements. This surprised him, but Santa would never let it show. He would never give his enemies the satisfaction.

He worked his way to the heart of the building, moving through empty, darkened halls. The offices grew gradually larger and more personal. At the very heart of the building he found the board room and the hidden passage in the wall.

Santa slipped inside and went down a darkened stairwell. Steel clanked under the weight of his heavy boats. He kept his hand against the wall for steadiness.

At the base of the stairs he stopped and waited. Up to this point everything was too easy. It was a trap, and he knew that, but he also knew that fear was not an option. They had taken nearly his entire life from him. It was time to return this horrible gift by force.

"Welcome, Santa," said a voice was as oily dark as the shadows themselves. Shortly after there was clicking, and the lights turned on one by one, revealing the enormous room to Santa's bleary vision.

Santa was in what looked like an airplane hangar only much larger. He was suspended on an enormous bridge that hung high above and lead to an office that was made entirely of glass panels. Inside of the office was a simple desk and a chair, nothing else, nothing more.

Below was what looked like thousands and thousands of checkout lines. Humanoid robots stood at each one and, using the scanners on their hands, rang up invisible customers with inhuman efficiency.

Standing on the suspension bridge with Santa was a trillion dollar man in a trillion dollar suit who swore a smile that betrayed his truest, darkest, most inhuman conditions.

"Or do you go by Saint Nicholas? Or Chris Cringle? You've changed your names so many times over the years."

"So, you're the new face of big business. Where are your friends now when you need them most? Nowhere to be seen! This is the loyalty that money buys you: none at all."

"I let them have the night off."

"How kind of you," Santa said.

"Kind? Hardly. There simply isn't any reason to pay them for work that I can do myself."

"I see. So greed fuels even your most heartwarming actions. How ho-ho-horrible!"

"You should have stayed in your pit."

"I couldn't. Not this time. Not this year. It's too important. I have a gift that needs to be given."

"Oh," the CEO said while unbuttoning his trillion dollar jacket. He stripped it off, folded it, and set it neatly on the bridge behind him. "What? And to whom?"

"This year Santa is giving peace of mind to all of the people whose lives you've destroyed. Your company, your greed, has destroyed the season of giving. Turned it into the season of spending and the season of violence, with people fighting and dying in black Friday sales. People struggling to live and give, when in the days of old a simple gesture was a gift in and of itself."

"A noble thought," the CEO said while unbutton his undershirt and revealing a body that only money could buy. Movie stars wanted his musculature. Some would even kill for it. "Don't you know that chivalry is dead in this world? There's no place for it. It's been replaced by a price tag."

"No, not quite, not yet," Santa snapped back at him. He reached into his big, brown bag and pulled from within a diamond candy cane that stood nearly as tall as him and nearly as thick as his burly arms. "As long as I breathe I'll never allow that to happen!"

"Then I have just the solution," the CEO said viciously while pulling out his wallet. From within he pulled out steel plated dollar bills, four to each hand.

Santa stretched his body, letting his neck crack ominously. "Tonight I believe that I'm dreaming of a red Christmas!"

The CEO started it off, sprinting toward Santa with Olympic speed. He hurled four steel dollar plates at the cords holding up the bridge around Santa. The plates cut clean through as if the cords weren't even there and the bridge gave a metallic groan before collapsing under the old man's weight.

Santa went spiraling through the air. He looked up to see the CEO looking down at him, a triumphant smile on his inhumanly perfect face.

"That was quick," the CEO muttered.

"Not so fast," Santa barked. From within his red jacket he pulled out line of green, shimmering tinsel. Attaching it to a red and white hook, he threw it up at the bridge and caught himself nearly three fourths of the way down. The bridge gave a grunt and strained under his weight but held. Santa went speeding through the air, barely twenty feet above the robot cashier's beneath him.

The CEO scowled. "You're resourceful and persistent, I'll give you that, but you're also short…sighted!"

He threw another plate, cutting the tinsel and sending Santa bulleting through the air. Father Christmas spiraled and landed on a checkout belt, crushing the machine with his burly mass and then tumbling into a nearby robot which collapsed under his momentum.

He was barely down very long before three more steel plates came raining down from above. Santa was quick and had his diamond cane up to block the attack. The plates imbedded themselves in the hard, striped crystal with a forceful snap.

"Is that all your money can buy you," he said while standing to his full height. The belt on his jacket had come apart in the fall and revealed his enormous chest now. Even from the CEO's height Santa looked quite imposing.

"Hardly, I'm just getting started," the CEO said. "WalBots! Run Customer Service Program Omega: Annihilate!"

All at once every robot in the room jerked and let out stream of deafening electronic gurgles. Then they turned toward Santa, raised their scanners, and started firing.

Santa wasted no time in going into action. His cane diffused the red beamed of light that shot from their laser hands, and he used it to block as many incoming attacks as possible. While doing this he spiraling through the metallic horde, attacking where ever he could.

Swiping his cane, he crushed the leg of one WalBot just before deflecting one nearby blast into another. One bot placed a hand on his arm only to lose it shortly after. Its head was rolling on the floor after only a second more.

Santa was a tornado of robotic death, crushing, rending, and melting anything that got to close. Dozens of robots fell to him as he moved through them. He punched through robotic heads, collapsed robotic knees, and stomped on robotic hearts as he worked his way through the room.

The CEO watched in astonished horror as his hundreds of thousands of robotic slaves proved to be no match for one very old man with a very old grudge. He didn't let this crush his spirit though, because he knew that no matter how strong Santa was, and no matter how determined, and no matter how hard he fought, in the end Santa was a ghost of Christmas past. The CEO, however, was the only viable Christmas future.

Santa cut and tore his way through robot after robot. An army that started out as a sea of indistinguishable robotic faces turned into a field of bent and broken parts in his wake. He struck one after another down and even sometimes used one of their flimsy metallic bodies as a weapon along with his cane.

There were less than one hundred left, and Santa showed no signs of fatigue. He was being driven by adrenaline and fury. The scars on his palms burned in a familiar way. A trail of spark burns ran down his arms and chest and face. He spun the cane over his head dramatically and then crushed ten robots with one mighty swing.

The cane gave, cracking around the center, but Santa hadn't noticed. He was too busy putting his foot through a robotic torso and then collapsing one hardened metallic skull with a well-placed strike off his forehead.

He swung once more, with the might of twenty men that were man years his junior. Nine more robot bodies joined their fallen kin with robotic squeals as their dirge. Oil and smoke stained his flesh as he tore through, a vicious, wire hungry snarl written on his face.

Parts of the cane splintered and went flying. Santa was spiraling around and hadn't caught their gleam as they fell. He elbowed one bot so hard that it flew into another and knocked it to the ground. Then, stomping on the fallen machine, he planted his feet and before charging through two more.

He leapt through the air, ten feet in a single push, and jammed the sharpened edge of his crystal cane through a robotic head. It collapsed to the ground beneath him. Twelve robots swarmed him, all preparing to fire their deadly blasts at point blank range, but they never had the change. Santa stood and swiped at them with his cane with lightning speed, taking all their guns and arms in a single motion.

Diamond dust filled the air. Santa grabbed another robot preparing to fire and hurled it into a group of three, destroying all in a small scale explosion. Only one was left. It had Santa in its sights and was already unleashing its glaring red fury just as he turned to face it.

Santa charged with his cane up. It caught the beam at its fissure and sent the blasts through the air. Light seeped through, running along Santa's cheek and shoulder and burning the flesh off. Santa growled in horrible pain but pushed through, making his way to the last robotic foe.

He swung.

The cane shattered, the hook spiraling through the air while shards of it were embedded into the steel carapace of his foe. It stood there a moment longer, sputtered, and fell to a smoking heap before him. Santa sagged a bit, feeling for the first time in days that his age was catching up with him.

This didn't last long. Only a few short breaths passed before Santa stopped feeling old and started feeling a cold, piercing pain in his left side. It was quick, in an out, and then he was on his knees.

The CEO sauntered around, walking on a mountain of his fallen toys. He had collected his dollar plates and assembled them into a two foot long blade of metallic money. He wore a wolf's grin while regarding his wounded opponent.

"Oh, what a holy, holy night," the CEO said. "Had you forgotten me in all this trouble?"

Santa glowered. "This is just the beginning."

"This is the end," the CEO spat. "This is no victory. This is nothing. The WalBots can be rebuilt, but you…Once you're dead it's finished. It's over." The CEO pointed the blade at Santa's head. He lifted Santa's chin with the sharp tip. "Good will, peace on Earth, all of those dreams...They can only exist if we are willing to spend enough for them. With enough money and enough power I can make the world whatever I want. I can make people whatever I want, but first we have to stop your type: the dreamers, the righteous." The CEO snorted derisively. "Not hard though. With a big enough boot you can crush any vermin."

"Are you finished yet?"

The CEO froze in place. His perfect eyes were full of fury. His perfect body was tight with hate. "What did you just say, old man?"

"You young people, you certainly do like to go on."

"That's it!"

The CEO lunged forward, putting his entire weight behind one final move. Santa moved sideways, catching only the very tip of the blade against the side of his neck. There was a pinch and blood, but he would survive.

He leapt over, toward his bag of goodies. He reached his hand in as the CEO stood and stalked over.

"There is nothing in there that can save you now! There's nothing in the whole damn world that can save you! You're finished, dead, forgotten, out of season, out of stock!"

The CEO lunged forward again, aiming once again for Santa's vitals. Santa turned and lunged forward himself. The blade sunk in only a few inches and stopped, unable to go any further. Santa jerked slightly and the blade snapped in two. He closed the gap between them and punched the CEO hard in the face, knocking him down a mountain of fractured robotic limbs and into a prone position on the floor.

"Wh-What," the CEO asked as his trillion dollar blood leaked from the trillion dollar bruise on his face.

Santa smiled and held up his weapon. "Diamonds are pretty hard, but there is nothing in this world or the next that is harder than a Christmas fruit cake." He tossed the cake with the chunk of broken sword it in it down to the CEO. Then he picked up the bag. "Now then, I think it's past midnight and officially time for me to give you your gift. It's been a long time since I've had the chance, but if I remember correctly naughty boys like you are supposed to get coal, am I right?"

The CEO's eyes went wide as Santa dropped the bag and showed him what he had earned. "No…No! NO!"

Officer Don hadn't expected much. Bentonville wasn't too big of a place. There wasn't too much crime there, and it being Christmas Eve he thought most people were spending a comfortable night at home, resting up for the big day. All month he had been looking forward to an easy shift and catching up on his John Grisham novels.

Never in his wildest dreams had he expected the fire.

It was a blaze unlike anything other, and no one had a clue how it had started. There were some pops, like fire crackers going off, and then the sky was lit up like-of course-a Christmas tree.

Officer Don had set up the caution tape to keep people out. The fire fighters said that there wasn't much they could do but let it burn. So he sat with them and he watched.

"A company like that," began one soot-faced fire fighter as he put his things in the truck, "They'll be fine. Probably got all kinds of back-ups and whatnot. You ask me, they got what they deserve the way they treat their people."

Officer Don didn't know about the last part, but he agreed about the first part. In his opinion it was impossible to make that much money and not keep back-ups of all their records. If it had happened to anyone else they would be out of business for good. Officer Don didn't think it was going to be so simple with them though.

He also didn't think it was his place, and he didn't care to watch for long. The fire, which remained an inferno in its own right for nearly the entire night, lost its grandeur early on for him. So he returned to the warmth of his police car, which he felt the light of the burning corporate office gave a homey light to read by. He opened his John Grisham novel to the page he was on.

A letter fell out. He unfolded the letter, and it said…

People have forgotten and that is fine. For so long Christmas has been about such hateful things. It has been about greed and the luxury of taking, rather than the simple and true joy of giving. The Holidays have been corrupted by those would profit from them. The corporations deprive their workers of time with their family simply because they have a fiscal leash around their necks. People have forgotten, and this year I am back to remind them. Never forgot the true spirit of giving, never forget the joy that laughter can bring and the power a smile can have.

This year I give two presents:

To the people of the world I give a reminder and to the businesses that would use them a warning.

I am back.

Officer Don read the note. Twice. Then he set it down on his lap, atop the novel, and stared out at the fire. He rolled down his window and shouted to the nearest fire fighter.

"There's not much for me to do, yeah? So, I'm going to go home and see my wife and kids."

The fire fighters were silent. They nodded and watched him pull out and drive away.

On the way out Officer Don thought he saw an enormously tall, broad man in red walking down the street. He smiled in passing at the man and then stopped. When he looked back there was no one there.

"Just your imagination, Don," he said.

Santa watched Don drive off. For him Christmas was just beginning.

Merry, merry Christmas, everyone, and a very happy new year!

The End

A/N: My brother, girlfriend, and myself decided that for Christmsa we'd give everyone a zine. This is what I contributed to it.

You can also read it at:

My Blog: .

My DevArt Page: art/Revenge-for-Christmas-350178752?ga_submit_new=10%253A1358987048

Or check out my girlfriend's bitchin' cover at: #/d5r40ex

-RedWhaleStories