The first week of December had passed and still no substantial snow had fallen on the mountain town of Brickhedge. A first, many have said, in decades.“Why you could set your watch to it back in the 1960s!” One old-timer had declared loudly. “A foot of snow at the very least by December fifth! Nowadays, we’re lucky to see a single snowflake by New Year!”
The older woman beside him rolled her big eyes, a feat easily accomplished for a Chameleon. “Stop over-exaggerating, you old coot; we got snow back in November.”
Desmond sat on the stool beside the old couple, listening as they argued like the old married couple they were about how drab and grey the holiday season had been this year. He used his newfound social abilities to egg the conversation on, finding a place within and cajoling the old couple into talking more about the town’s past.
Brock’s Butcher & Bistro was bustling with activity on this December afternoon. The lighted wreaths hanging outside from the street lamps cast a festive, multi-colored glow through the large windows that had screened the troll's attack just a few months ago as it lumbered into town to a herd of mortified beasts within.
WHAM!’s ‘Last Christmas’ played gently through the diner’s Bose-powered sound system. It bled into ‘Christmas Vacation’ by Mavis Staples after that, reminding anybeast who was anybeast in the diner of the “jolliest bunch of assholes this side of the nuthouse”.
“So you were saying?” Desmond spoke up, forcing his tentacles to remain motionless out of fear of sending the old salamander off-topic.
The old beast described to Desmond of past holiday seasons, full of impossible amounts of snow and equally impossible Christmas decorations. The salamander made the sleepy town of Brickhedge sound like a major city block being done up, with every square inch filled with a decoration of some sort. All the while, the chameleon that had been the old lizard’s wife grounded the tales in reality, contradicting her mate every step of the way.
When their dinner was done, the old couple thanked star-nosed Mole for the chance to reminisce, patting the fat little beast on his head and taking up his check. To Desmond’s surprise, they had never once made a remark or even alluded to his namesake feature.
He sat at the table going over his notes when then came a rapping at the pane of glass to his right. The old lizard couple were there, the old man with his fist balled up against the glass. His other hand pointed towards the sky as snowflakes began their downward dance with gravity.
“Snow!” He yelled, “It’s late, but it’s here!” Grinning, he pulled up his parka’s hood over his scaly bald head and followed his wife down the road.
The mole smiled and waved, then wiped the foreign expression off his face the moment the couple were out of sight. The simple matter of fact had been that snow was in the forecast for this evening and plenty of it from the looks of it. A slow-moving pocket of moisture was coming up from the south, positioning itself directly above the little mountain town with the promise of at least two feet!
Not wanting to trudge through the accumulation, the mole grabbed his own parka from the back of his stool and made a beeline for the door, just in time to avoid a whole family of geese that piled in, screaming babies in their arms.
Accuweather’s own forecast had the snow set to fall closer to midnight when it would be much colder. The morning’s forecast, read by none other than Brickhedge’s favorite disembodied voice, whom both Advrik and Desmond agreed sounded a whole hell of a lot like Jean Shepherd, stated in his forecast that snow would begin to fall shortly after the dinner hour.
“Motherfucker was right after all, huh,” Desmond bit off, mesmerized by the steadily increasing amount of snowfall against the abundance of Christmas decorations. It was a familiar sight that felt oddly alien at the same time. The sights, the sounds, and hell, even the smells coming from the various bakeries and nearby Christmas tree lots set up in vacant alleys and the places where buildings once stood had managed to spark a dull tinge of nostalgic joy in the tentacled beast. He wasn’t used to feeling things.
He slowed his pace ever so slightly, wanting to take in as many sights as possible. He’d be damned if he ever admitted that to anybeast, however. The cold, uncaring exterior wasn’t a put-on as most seemed to suspect.
All had been merry and bright until another beast had rounded the corner. A female, tall and leggy. A wash of agitation came over the mole at the sight, fear that the damned lion was back to harass him some more.
As the beast drew closer, her identity became less and less apparent. It was a canid of some sort, not a lion. Her legs were longer than he was tall, and her body, though wrapped in a black trench coat, was frighteningly slender and lacking. The beast stopped beneath the next street lamp before the cross-section. She looked up, unblinking, allowing the falling snow to smatter her face with a sort of uncaring negligence that the mole couldn’t help but feel a bit of jealousy towards. Who or whatever she had been waiting for, she didn’t mind doing so in the snow.
The mole doubled his pace as he attempted to cross behind her and to the other street. What little joy he’d felt had been dashed against the pavement at the arrival of this unfamiliar beast.
“Desmond Mogu.” She hissed, her voice scratching and irritable. Hearing his full name froze him dead in his tracks. “What’s a hole-dweller like yourself doing in this weather?” The leggy creature turned to him, allowing her coat to open and revealing the naked body beneath.
“The fuck you say to me?” Calling a mole a ‘hole-dweller’ was a specist phrase, something Desmond had been particularly sensitive to. “And why the hell aren’t you wearing any clothes—“ The beast’s claws latched on to Desmond’s fat neck at an incredible speed and with the force of a vice grip. Her species had become evident at last: She was a Maned Wolf, with golden-brown eyes and black hair that lay flat against her head in moisture-laden strips. Thick freckles covered her snout where her glasses rested.
As the snowfall increased, the lack of life on the streets became more and more apparent. Particularly now when the mole felt he could have really used the help of another.
The maned wolf pulled Desmond closer, the smell of her pheromones tickling his senses but doing little to elicit a hormonal response from him. “The fuck do you want, bitch?” He spat, attempting to kick and claw at his capturer, but her arms were just long enough to keep him far enough away.
“I just want you and the citizens of this dump to—“ A fist caught her square across the muzzle, shattering her glasses and sending her flying across the snow-covered sidewalk. The Maned Wold lay splayed, her body exposed to the snow, which had increased in intensity with every passing minute.
“Normally, such a sight would entice me,” the newcomer said, glancing at the maned wolf’s bare body as she shook the impact from the punch out of her fist, “But you are far too skin and bones for my liking.” Callista Reigns, local GP and Desmond’s now second least-liked citizen of Brickhedge.
The downed wolf laughed as she regained her footing, allowing the blood from her busted lip to stain the snow below. “Well fuck me then. I was just here to make threats, but you had to go and assault me. That won’t end well for you, Miss Reigns.” She growled as she closed her coat around her, tucking her hand back into the pockets and fleeing down the alley she’d initially come from. Leaving the mole and the lion in a short-lived silent bout of contemplation.
“You all right, Desmond?” She said, kneeling, placing both hands on the mole’s neck, lifting the fat, and inspecting places the beast had grabbed. “I don’t see any damage. Who the hell was that anyway?” As the shock from the event wore off, Desmond swatted the lion away.
“I’m fine, I’m fine! Get your perverted claws off me.”
“I’m going to walk you home the rest of the way—“
“Like hell you are, I’ll be fine. The mugger is gone. Just leave me alone!” He said as he took off in a weird little jog towards the Dawning Sunrise Boarding House.
Callista stood amidst the intensifying silence caused by the impacted snow. She reclaimed her ear muffs from the ground as Leif and his boyfriend caught up to her from behind, their faces flush with surprise and fear.
“What on earth just happened?!” Leif’s boyfriend, a raccoon, asked.
The lion shook her head, pulling her long coat closed and smooshing her breasts together. “Just had to bail a friend out of a problem he caused for himself,” she lied. Chewing her lip as the trio cut across the street together, headed for the bakery.
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