DrewWritesStuff

It was pouring outside. The kind of storm you tie down anything you don’t want blowing away and pray your home is the sort that doesn’t leak. Peter’s trailer sat on the precipice of acceptable in that regard - the rain hammered down on its exterior and the wind howled around it, but he’d chosen a reasonably sheltered place this time, surrounded by large trees that absorbed the worst of what the little camper couldn’t handle on its own.

He just hoped his generator didn’t stall out. It was going to be a cold night, otherwise — and, yep, there it went. Piece of shit.

Funny, I thought, I wouldn’t have taken the Prince of Hell for being dyslexic. But I wasn’t about to point out the mistake - it couldn’t have been a more perfect loophole.

What a fool I was.

I signed my name at the bottom - the ink was deep red, and a sharp pain in my fingertip told me it wasn’t ink at all. It hadn’t even finished drying before I felt the change taking place - my skin tightening and smoothing, the aches of age fading, my scalp sprouting new hair.

“The contract is sealed. Eternal youth and vigor in exchange for your soul and eternal service.” The contracted rolled itself up and disappeared in a burst of red flames, and for the first time in years, I was able to jump out of bed, to walk without pain in my joints. I hurried to the nearest mirror, turning my face this way and that, admiring the way my cheeks filled out again with strong, white teeth.

Such plans I had, and thanks to single, misplaced letter ’n’, I was beholden to no one for it.

And then he added, “And your ride should be arriving any moment.”

“Ride?”

“Of course — you read the contract, did you not?” The Devil was still smiling. I decided it was time to wipe that look off his face.

“I did. You ought to have your servants check it before handing it off to mortals - you gave me immortality but my soul isn’t yours.”

I must have looked like such a smug jackass right then, smirking like I’d pulled off some impossible feat. Satan’s expression didn’t falter - instead his grin spread to a disconcerting width.

“No - it’s Santa’s. You have been indefinitely indentured to the great Mr. Claus.”

I heard it now. There was a jingling of bells outside, faint at first but growing louder by the moment.

“What?”

“It’s the deal we have, he and I - I supply him with his Naughty List and whenever a soul is foolish enough to try to cheat death and escape punishment for their wicked ways — and you, my friend, have been very, very naughty — well, he always needs more help in his workshop.”

“I thought — I thought Santa used elves —?” I stammered weakly.

“Not in ages. The fair folk paid their debts off to him a long time ago - and anyway, it’s much more poetic having the souls of the damned making toys for children, isn’t it?”

“Fear not, I come…”

*Screaming*

“I said, fear not I…”

*Even louder screaming*

There was a group of fierce-looking mice, armed with small spears and wearing armor made of acorn shells and tree bark, gathered at the base of the Mousetown mound. While the townsmice squeaked in fear and fled, these stood fast against the intruder, holding a line formation with their weapons up and ready to — well, annoy at most, if he was going to be completely fair. There was a particularly large, gray mouse at the forefront of their rank, who could easily have been half rat by the size of him.

Reynard strode carefully through the tiny town, tip-toeing past homes that came to his knees, till he towered over the small regiment.

“Stand strong, Mouse Guard!” Their commander piped, holding a toothpick-sized sword high. “Ready yourselves! This is what you’ve been trained for! On my order— Att—”

“I surrender.” Reynard flopped to the ground and rolled onto his back.

“—Ahh— Hmm.” The commanding mouse faltered. There was an uncomfortable silence as the Mouse Guard shuffled and exchanged shifty-eyed glances, waiting for their orders on how to proceed. When the commander spoke again, he couldn’t quite keep a disappointed note out of his tone. “….Surrender? Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. I am outnumbered and overwhelmed. Anyone can see this would end terribly.” Reynard stated, adding, as an afterthought, “For me, of course.”

“Oh… of course.” The mouse commander lowered his weapon, though he kept it drawn - just to be sure. He stomped over to the prone fox, determined to take back control of the situation and his dignity. “Out with it, then, Fox! Before I slice your treacherous snout a new breathing hole!”

“Whoa!” Reynard rolled again, into a sitting position, keeping his forepaws up in the air in a display of appeasement. “Easy there — Captain—?”

“General!” The Mouse harrumphed, drawing himself up to an impressive four inches in height. He’d even managed not to flinch when the fox moved, and, with a bit of practiced decorum, slid his sword into its sheathe and fell into a full salute. “General Atticus Quillwhiskers, of the Mouse Guard Foot Brigade.”

“Ah, well.” The fox returned the gesture with a twirl of his toes, which ended up more resembling the tip of an imaginary hat than a proper military salute. “Reynard Whitetale, at your service.”

There were some gasps and a rumble of high-pitched whispers and muttering from the Guard. Quillwhiskers passed a stern glare over his shoulder, before narrowing his eyes at the fox’s tail. “That’s a name of notoriety, in this forest and many others. Reynard the Fox, of the one hundred tricks, The Cheese Thief—”

“I tharght his tail was e’t by a bear,” piped one of the Guard, a young recruit if the fox was any judge of mouse age.

“That was my ancestor. And only part of it. Plenty of foxes have white tips these days.”

“And I was under the impression you’d met your end,” the General continued skeptically. “Some business about a cat and some hounds.”

“Mm. Nasty creatures, cats,” Reynard said solemnly. He managed to hide his smile when he saw some of the Guard relaxing and Quillwhiskers nodding in agreement.

“Treacherous, the whole lot of them.” The General scratched his chin thoughtfully. “And yet, here you are before us, so clearly that story was false. One has to wonder - why?”

“Well, General, I’m so glad you asked! You see, I have a proposition for your Queen, and a plan that will keep all our bellies full this winter…”

“Gustav, my friend, why so glum?”

The penguin in question looked up from his half-eaten sprat, shaking his head in disgust.

“Not glum, Sebastian. Affronted, outraged - I had the most perturbing encounter with one of the Beakless Ones.”

Sebastian nodded solemnly. “Yes, they are often perturbing. What happened, my friend?”

Gustav sighed heavily, looking up to the sky and holding his flippers wide, as if to ask the gods “why?”, before mournfully retelling his experience, “I was on the beach where the Beakless sometimes wander, contemplating names for this year’s chicks, when one of them approached. It seemed harmless enough to greet - they’re cute, in a strange, bald and flat-faced way, are they not?”

“Oh Gustav, you kind-hearted fool.”

“Such a fool, I am!” Gustav’s moans had gathered a small crowd already - the only thing penguins love more than a bellyful of fish, is a story. A good storyteller was always guaranteed a warm spot to huddle in the winter, surrounded by bored friends longing for entertainment.

“What did it do, Gustav? Did it kick you?”

“No! When it got close, I called out to it, ‘hello, friend!’. It stopped and returned the greeting - awkwardly, but it was rather sweet, like a chick learning it’s first chirps. ‘Hollow fren,’ it said back to me. I was charmed, but not wanting it to learn poor pronunciation, I repeated the greeting, and so did it! Getting clearer each time, till it could almost pass for a true penguin itself.”

“Gustav is a wonderful teacher,” Adelina, his mate, stated with a proud nod of her lovely blue head. “You remember how well our chicks could enunciate, before they even caught their first fish.”

“But what of it, Gustav? What happened to sour this experience so?”

“We went back and forth, till I was satisfied. It lowered itself near the ground, and I moved closer, carefully, not wanting to alarm it. I was just about to tell it how pleased I was, that it learning so quickly, when all of a sudden, it looked me right in the eye and said ‘Fuck off, freak.’”

There were avian gasps all around.

“Oh no!”

“How rude!”

“I was so appalled, I could not bring myself to even chide it.” Gustav bowed his head in shame. “I turned and left without another word.”

“It said that to you? Oh dear.” Sebastian tilted his head in a piercing glare towards one of their fellows, focusing on the only one who was slapping his sides and chortling. “Björn, you scoundrel! What have I told you about yelling obscenities at the Beakless?”