You never forget the smell.

It's like a combination of gasoline and hamburger, but that doesn't do justice to how it assaults your senses. For one thing, the odor changes from minute to minute: You might get a whiff of antifreeze, followed by the scent of hot metal, and maybe a little bit of perfume mixed in. The scent of perfume sometimes the easiest way to determine the gender of the victim, although these days it isn't as reliable a measure as it used to be.

On that particular night, two Saturdays before Christmas, we'd been operating the tools--hydraulic jacks, cutters, and spreaders--for almost an hour. The victim had long since been pronounced deceased, but even that was a formality: The fact that the front eight feet of the Camry were now in its back seat turned the rescue operation into a recovery operation from the moment the first of the rigs arrived. That's actually a difficult transition to make, going from lights and sirens and anticipation and hope to...well, to empty disappointment.

At least there wasn't a fire.

The tools are heavy and the work is hard. It's one thing to operate them under the influence of adrenaline, with the hope of a rescue coursing through your veins. In a situation like this one, it's pure drudgery. It's hard physical labor in the middle of the night. It's dangerous, too, with undeployed airbags and battery acid and gasoline, not to mention broken glass and razor-sharp metal. And blood. So we take our time, and work much more slowly and systematically than we might with a victim that might still benefit from the ministrations of a trauma team.

Usually in a case like this, it works better to go through the undamaged parts of the vehicle, and that was our initial plan. A surprising amount of this work uses reference books: We can't just cut anywhere; we have to look up the location of the side curtain airbag deployers and the boron-reinforced structures and other dangerous elements so we can avoid them. We popped the trunk and cut the C-pillars between the back door and the rear window, and removed the rear window and then the rear seats. We have a guy who's a wizard with the power shears, and he was able to cut away a lot of the body work surrounding the trunk, leaving us with access to what was left of the back of the front seat. Then it got harder.

The physical effort is predictable; the psychological impact may not be. We used to say that it comes with the territory, until we realized that there are a lot of post-traumatic stress cases among us. It's not a matter of being able to tough it out, although some folks seem better able to deal with it than others. It's a matter of being able to process the emotions in a healthy way, and being willing to ask for help when we need it. A lot of guys need that help, but not all of them are able to ask for it. Some of them turn to drinking, which just starts a cycle that could put us to work again.

One way to avoid overdoing it is to spread the work around. We take turns, and we have mandatory breaks in between shifts on the tools. We cover up as much of the victim as we can see, as much to preserve our sanity as their dignity. We talk about sports, or recent fires, or the politics in the Chief's office--whatever it takes to stay sane. We try to stay safe: It's one thing to have to get hurt when there is life at stake; it's just dumb to have to spend time in the ER because we weren’t careful when it didn't matter. Or, even worse, when someone else has to go there because we weren't paying attention. So every worker with a tool has a spotter, and there are incident commanders with an overall view of the plan of action and control of the resources necessary to execute that plan. That's why there may be several rigs on scene, and the highway will be closed. Keep the highway open, and we're liable to be run into by one drunk while cutting another from his car.

It's a little easier to operate when we don't have to worry any more about the health of the victim, but respect for the remains nevertheless demands that we be as gentle as we can. In this case, we were able to cut the back of the driver's seat off to gain access to the body. We cut the B-pillar at the top and the bottom, and then used a jack to push the driver's side door away from the rest of the wreckage. Then we could begin to disentangle the body from what was left of the car.

One problem with long extrications is that loved ones often end up at the scene. The police do everything they can to keep that from happening, but it's hard, especially with cell phones these days, to keep family members from being notified outside of police protocol, and they are often dead set on going to the scene of the crash. It has never been a good thing for family to arrive on scene when a crew is working. It's not good for them, and it's not good for us. We usually stop work and stand there, as respectfully as we can, while an officer persuades the family to go home, or at least to wait out of sight. Either way, the department shrink is going to have a long day.

I untangled her hair from the remains of the dashboard as carefully as I could. It took longer to get her legs out from under the engine, but we managed. Her face had mercifully been spared major trauma, but don't kid yourselves--the dead do not look like sleeping angels in real life. The family could opt for an open casket, but the morticians would earn their fee. I zipped up the body bag and turned her over to the medical examiner. We found out later that her blood alcohol content came back at three times the legal limit.

She was lucky, as strange as that may sound under the circumstances, and so were we. She died instantly, and didn’t have to endure, and we didn't have to witness, a prolonged agony that would end with the same result. She passed out at the wheel of her car while driving on the Interstate, and never woke up. Her parents are the ones that will be, for the remaining days of their lives, cursed with the memories of that night.

Her parents, my crew, and me.

"Are you sure it will work?"

"Yep." At that time in my life, I was sure everything would work. I was 15 years old, and self-confidence was a core competency, justified or otherwise.

Michael and I were on the way to our Friday afternoon Science Club meeting. "Science Club" was a bit of a misnomer: There was only middling science involved, and it was not so much a club as an excuse for me and my buddies to fool around. My parents, to the extent that they were aware of it at all, thought it was a supervised after-school activity. While I didn't lie to them, I did little to disabuse them of their misunderstanding. In 1957, anything associated with the word "science" had to be good.

"You thought the vodka would work," Michael said.

"It would have, if it had been stronger."

Michael was great to have around when we needed something, like tools from his father's workshop or liquor from their liquor cabinet. But he wasn't exactly the brains of our operation.

We approached the fort that served as our clubhouse. It was deep in the woods, and it gave us shelter from the elements and a retreat from prying eyes. The four of us had built it two summers ago, and we'd just finished a two story tree house above it the previous month.

"Who goes there?" called a voice from the observation deck on the tree house above.

"Just us, Alan," said Michael.

"What's the password?" asked Alan. As usual, he was into the lookout role a little too much.

"Vanguard!" said Michael. I winced. We'd have to change that password.

"You may proceed," said Alan, and he climbed down to the fort to meet us. Fred was there, too.

I called the meeting to order, and we dispensed with the news quickly. The news of the day was that the Vanguard rocket had blown up on the launch pad, so we were still behind the Russians in the space race. Fred announced he was going with Alan's sister, and we all gave him noogies. Then it was time for the day's business: Making rocket fuel.

"OK, what did everyone bring?" I asked. "I got the cigarette lighter and some firecracker fuse."

"I brought the hydrogen peroxide," said Alan. "My sister won't miss it."

"I have the beaker from my chemistry set," said Michael. "And some acetone to clean it with."

We all turned to look at Fred. He was a little different than the rest of us. He'd moved here from West Virginia just a few years ago, and had brought with him a few idiosyncrasies, but he was a loyal friend.

"I got me some moonshine!" he grinned, and held up a little glass mason jar. "Dad will never know."

"So, what's the plan?" asked Alan.

"We're going to test my rocket fuel recipe again," I told them. "Ethyl alcohol and hydrogen peroxide."

"What makes you think that will work this time?" asked Alan.

"The alcohol is purer. Moonshine is at least 85% alcohol," I said. I opened the jar and made a big show of sipping some of it. "Maybe 90%," I said, my eyes watering. I'd never tasted moonshine before. That stuff was good.

We cleaned the beaker with the acetone, and added equal parts of alcohol and hydrogen peroxide--just an ounce or two, total, for the first test.

Nothing happened.

"Nothing's happening," said Fred.

"Didn't expect it to," I said. "We have to light it, first."

"Then what will happen?"

"It'll burn really fast. But not in here. Let's move it to the observation deck."

I carried the beaker up the ladder to the tree house, and up the second ladder to the roof of the tree house. I set it down on the edge of the roof, put the firecracker fuse in, and then climbed down. "I need a long stick for the lighter," I said.

We got a long stick and tied the lighter to the end. I stood on the roof of the clubhouse, lit the cigarette lighter, and carefully lifted it up overhead to the fuse. We all watched as the fuse burned down to the surface of the liquid. A tiny, almost invisible flame started burning on the surface of my rocket fuel.

"Wow!" said Alan, sarcastically. "Some rocket fuel. It's almost as bright as a votive candle!"

I was disappointed, to say the least. We watched it for a little while, but the guys got bored.

"Who's up for a game of Monopoly?" asked Michael. The three of them were quickly engrossed in a game back inside the fort.

I stayed outside, watching the little flame, and sipped some more of the moonshine, just to make sure it was strong enough. I remember trying it a couple of times. Maybe three or four.

By then the flame had gone out, and I went back inside to watch the Monopoly marathon. Alan had the edge, as usual, but the other two kept missing his properties and landing on Free Parking.

I was in the middle of taking another evaluation sip of moonshine and contemplating my failure as a rocket scientist when I heard the biggest bang I'd ever heard in my life. The roof of the fort caved in, and Monopoly money fluttered everywhere. Ears ringing, the four of us crawled out from under the remains of the fort and looked around. The observation deck of the tree house was smashed to splinters, and leaves were fluttering down all around us from the neighboring trees. By some miracle, none of us had so much as a scratch. In an even bigger miracle, our parents never found out what happened. But that was the end of our rocket fuel experiments. We rebuilt the fort and the tree house, and had lots of other great adventures there, until a housing developer turned the woods into a subdivision.

But I'll always remember that particular day. It was special for two reasons. First, it marked the beginning of my career in fireworks and pyrotechnics. I design new shells and effects for Fireworks by Grucci now, and we do some good stuff, but nothing has ever been as loud as my failed rocket fuel explosion. And I can categorically state that you'll never find me making a peroxide of acetone, accidently or on purpose, ever again.

Second, it marked the beginning of my relationship with alcohol.

My name is Steven, and it's been 40 years since my last drink.

February, 1859

John and Buford McGee were sitting by the wood stove in their ramshackle cabin, warming their hands and preparing to play another hand of faro. John was currently up, having won most of Buford's chips on the previous game. But it didn't really matter who had the most chips; this wasn't a contest for real stakes, as neither of them had a nickel to his name.

Their cabin was in a small mining camp on the outskirts of Denver City. Green Russel's discovery of gold in the South Platte River had lured thousands of prospectors across the Great Plains, and John and Buford had settled just east of the Rocky Mountains in the hopes of finding their fortunes.

Today, however, the majestic peaks were blanketed in snow, and the McGee brothers were hunkered down in the foothills, waiting for the spring thaw.

Neither of them had seen so much as a drop of whiskey in more than three weeks. Their last bottle of Old Crow sat empty on a nearby shelf, and for several days they had taken turns placing the bottle's neck near their noses to smell the lingering fumes. But now the bottle had been all sniffed out, and they were desperate. John had even come up with the notion of filling the bottle with creek water and swigging it, as though the glass would somehow transform the murky liquid into Kentucky bourbon. This was a stupid idea, and Buford liked to remind his brother of this often.

Their initial attempts at panning for gold had been a huge bust. Aside from a frightening encounter with a group of Cheyenne scouts, and a bout of dysentery that had temporarily put Buford on the brink of death, the only marginally interesting thing their efforts had produced was a large mound of geodes. These geological curiosities, their rough, stony shells giving no hint of the sparkling, jewel-like formations concealed within, were piled between the brothers' cots. The first time John cracked one open and saw the crystals glittering in its interior, he had been convinced the rock was full of diamonds. The revelation that what he had thought were gems were actually a worthless variety of quartz, and the deep depression that resulted, were what had killed their next-to-last bottle of whiskey.

Although they wouldn't have said it aloud, either of the men would probably have killed the other for just a mouthful of the precious amber-colored elixir. To raise the glass to your lips, to take that first wonderful whiff of those bitter, malty fumes, to tilt the glass back and let the fiery nectar trickle down your throat ... Buford's mouth began to water, and it was suddenly more than he could stand. He hated this cabin, hated Colorado. In fact, in his current frame of mind, he hated the country, President Buchanan, the world, and the entire known universe.

"Damn it all!" Buford roared, leaping to his feet. He upended the barrel and the wooden plank on top of it, sending Samuel Hart playing cards and grimy faro chips into the air. John watched as his brother tore through the tiny cabin, cursing at the top of his lungs. Buford snatched up the empty bottle of Old Crow and flung it against the wall. When it didn't break, he decided to throw something more substantial and picked up one of the worthless geodes.

He was just about to hurl it right through the flimsy cabin wall when he heard something gurgle inside. He stopped, his tantrum forgotten.

"You all right?" John asked.

Buford said nothing for a moment. He held the large stone in his hand and gave it another shake. Yes. There was definitely water or some other liquid trapped inside. He could hear it sloshing around in there.

"What is it?" his brother said.

"Somethin' inside," Buford drawled. "Like a watery sound. You remember when we was little, that big brown nut at the general store, the one they said was from the islands? Cokey nut or somethin' like that? They said there was some sorta milk inside, and you could shake it and hear the milk in there. That's what this sounds like."

He handed the stone to his brother, who shook the geode and looked at it curiously.

"You're right. I ain't never seen water when we broke open the other ones."

Buford walked over to the large pile and began shaking the geodes, one by one. Most of them he tossed aside, but then he found another that made the sloshing sound. And another. And two more. He brought these large specimens over to the makeshift table, which John had righted again.

"I reckon we should break one of 'em open," he said.

"Yep," John replied. "I reckon we should."

Buford retrieved his hammer and began delicately tapping at the geode. Rhythmically he hammered its surface until he created a small crack. Then he turned the geode and tapped it some more, wanting to split the stone cleanly in two so that the mysterious liquid inside wouldn't splash to the floor. At last he broke the geode open. John quickly grabbed the halves and turned them upright so that nothing would spill.

"My lord," Buford said, looking inside.

"It's beautiful," John agreed.

The mineral deposits inside the geode were the deep crimson of rubies. Both halves of the stone were brimming with a clear liquid, and the lantern's light threw dancing red reflections across the dirty, bearded faces of the two bewildered brothers.

"Is it water?" Buford asked.

John lifted one half to his nose and sniffed it experimentally. Then he exhaled and took a long, theatrical whiff. A look of sublime happiness came over his face. Without a moment's hesitation, he pressed the rough stone to his lips and downed the liquid in one gulp.

"What do you think you're doin'?" Buford exclaimed. "Could be poison, for aught you know."

"It's hooch," John said, his features flushed and his eyes aglow. He handed the other half of the geode to his brother. "I don't know how, but this stuff is top-shelf firewater."

"Can't be. Nobody ever drank liquor out of a rock."

"Try it for yourself," John said, seizing up the hammer and going to work on the second stone.

Buford sniffed the strange fluid. A heady, intoxicating aroma filled his nasal cavities. He took a sip, then quickly gulped the geode's contents. It was liquor. He didn't know how it could be, but it was. A delightful warming sensation blossomed in his stomach and spread quickly to his extremities. The room began to swim all around him.

He realized, with utter amazement, that he was drunk. Thirty seconds ago he hadn't been, but a single swallow of the stuff was all it took.

"I'm as stinko as a sailor," John declared, breaking open the second stone. "This stuff kicks like a mule." He handed half to his brother. They clicked the geode halves together, then drained the potent spirits within.

By the time they got to the fourth geode, they had taken such a seasoning that neither could stand upright. They laughed and sang bawdy drinking songs and struck up another game of faro, toasting how rich and prosperous they would be when McGee Brothers' Rockwater hit the saloon shelves.

They still had smiles on their faces when one of their neighbors discovered them the following afternoon. A local newspaper reported on the strange account of the two prospectors who had been found in their cabin, grinning and sitting up, each clutching a geode in his hand.

They were no longer men, but statues. Their flesh was as hard and gray as granite ... as cold as a freshly quarried slab of Colorado marble.

The mining camp became a tourist attraction for a time, with people from miles around paying ten cents a head to see the mysterious Petrified Men of Denver City. Then the month of May came to the foothills. The mountain snows began to melt, the other prospectors set out in search of gleaming riches in the rivers, and John and Buford McGee passed into folklore.

"You got here right on time. The moderator has brought the participants up to speed on the issue and she's about to begin the push testing. Take a look."

Frank Andrews shook the older man's hand and then gestured towards the one-way mirror that both separated and concealed them from the focus group on the other side.

The participants, all Caucasian and over 40, were an accurate reflection of the voting demographic of the small, rural county in western Pennsylvania. An offer of $150 to spend an hour on Saturday sharing political opinions had found many takers in the area with its 14% unemployment.

The 20 citizens were collectively anxious. Many sat with arms crossed and pressed tightly against their overalls. The telephone invitation hadn't specified what issues they'd be asked about, and they were instinctively suspicious and defensive.

Frank turned a small knob, increasing the speaker volume so he and George Dickerson, president of the Cameron County Retailers Association, could hear the group's discussion.

"I'm going to read to you a series of statements," the focus group moderator began. "If the statement makes you more likely to vote to allow Sunday liquor sales in the referendum next month, raise your hand.

"What if you knew that tax revenue from allowing Sunday liquor sales would increase money available for local schools and their athletic programs?"

One third of the hands slowly went up and a man wearing a Philadelphia Eagles jersey cheered . Those who left their hands down looked around to size up those who did, and those who raised their hands pretended not to notice their gaze.

"What if you knew that county businesses were losing money to businesses outside the county when people go there to buy alcohol on Sundays?"

This time, half of the hands went up.

"What if you knew that allowing Sunday liquor sales would create as many as 100 new full- and part-time jobs for currently unemployed county residents?"

A participant, the same one wearing the football jersey who had cheered earlier, shouted a question. "How do we know the jobs will go to real Americans and not illegal Mexicans?"

The moderator replied without pausing. "Only legal Americans will get the jobs because employers will check and the verify documents of every new hire."

Satisfied, the questioner nodded and raised his hand.

Only one hand in the room wasn't raised. An elderly woman, seemingly emboldened by her isolation from the otherwise universal opinion in favor of legalizing Sunday liquor sales, sat stoically like a political prisoner waiting to be executed for a cause she knew was just.

As the eyes in the room focused on her non-compliance with their newfound consensus, she felt the need to explain herself. "I just think it's nice to have one day a week when people aren't drinking."

The football fan, enjoying his newfound comfort with speaking his mind in a room full of strangers, decided to speak again. "But people can get liquor, they just need to drive to the next county to get it."

"That's a long drive. Maybe they'll just decide it isn't worth it and spend the day with their family as the Lord intended," she responded defiantly.

The room broke into a chatter of disagreement. On the other side of the one-way mirror, George Dickerson nodded towards the older woman. "I guess we're not going to win her over."

Andrew chuckled. "You never get them all. But what matters is she didn't turn the room back to her side."

"What now, fancy D.C. consultant man?"

Andrew grinned. "Well, I think we know what our winning argument is. We hit the likely voter universe a few times with some mail pieces focused on the jobs angle. A week out from the referendum, we'll run a phone canvass to see where each household is leaning. All those going our way our way will get an automated call from you the night before, and another one the day of the referendum reminding them to go out and vote. It's pretty straightforward."

"You forgot the part where the association has to cut you a huge check."

"How can I forget? I'll drink to that!" The men laughed.

It was football Sunday during the playoffs, and Andrew sank deeply into his leather recliner, sipping a glass of Scotch. His eyes scanned the four flat-screen televisions mounted on the living room wall of his loft overlooking D.C.'s trendy H Street neighborhood. The televisions were a gift to himself, paid for in part by the substantial win bonus written into his contract with the Cameron County Retailers Association.

Three of the TVs were tuned to football games, leaving the one on the far right set to a 24-hour news channel. Andrew occasionally glanced away from the games to scan the news feed or inspect the cleavage and long legs that seemed to be the sole qualification for female cable news readers.

A fly-over shot of a highway scene on the news channel drew Andrew's attention away from a kickoff when the text under the image of an accident caught his eye. "Cameron County, PA. Sunday School Van in SUV Collision."

Andrew muted the other televisions and increased the volume of the news channel.

"A tragic accident took place this afternoon in Cameron County. An SUV ran a red light at a busy intersection and t-boned a church van carrying a group of Sunday school students. We're being told by the local police department that of the seven children on the bus, three were pronounced dead on the scene and four others, along with the van's driver, are in critical condition. The driver of the SUV was uninjured and, this is what we've been told so far, failed a field sobriety test and is currently in custody."

Andrew turned off all the televisions. In the silence, he could hear himself breathing a little too quickly. He noticed his heart beginning to race. What was he just thinking about? He couldn't remember.

He looked around his apartment as if he didn't recognize where he was. Over the years, he had always considered it his fortress of solitude, his calm eye in the center of the hurricane. It was where he could retreat from the world and lay down his burdens. But now, it made him feels anxious and unsettled, like a nervous parent in a hospital waiting room.

What was he just watching on TV? He tried to remember. The accident in Cameron County. Maybe the SUV driver bought the alcohol the day before? Or maybe from another county? Could the sobriety test have been inaccurate? Did the news channel corroborate its source?

Andrew felt the leather recliner growing warmer, trapping his body heat. His neck began to berth small beads of sweat. Why hadn't he bought a chair that breathed more easily? Leather is so uncomfortable. He stood up and began to pace.

Sunlight from the floor-to-ceiling windows illuminated a patch of dust on the liquor cabinet. Why did the cleaning lady miss that? How hard is it to dust a cabinet? Andrew closed the room's curtains.

"100 full and part-time jobs, 100 full and part-time jobs, 100 full and part-time jobs," he muttered to himself repeatedly.

Andrew's stomach churned painfully. That was the last time he'd order a pizza from there, he assured himself. What did he expect, ordering from a non-chain shop that he was only aware of because they'd slipped a leaflet under his door? He made a mental note to write a negative Internet review.

Why were none of the works of art hanging on his wall level? Someone would never know by looking that one of them that was off by just five degrees. But seeing two of them together added up to a ten degree difference, and that was noticeable and frustrated him. He spent the next 10 minutes adjusting and re-adjusting each frame.

Then he noticed the true source of his irritation: the liquor cabinet filled with bottles of wine and Scotch and whiskey. He looked at each of the bottles frantically, checking them for expiration dates. None of them had any. Why he hadn't ever noticed this before? Could they have gone bad? He wouldn't want to poison a guest with an expired drink, but if he did, it would only be an accident.

Only one safe solution he thought, nodding reassuringly to himself in a mirror above the cabinet. He gathered the bottles in his arms, took them into the kitchen, and poured them all down the sink.

I took one final look around the workshop before I turned off the light. The tools of my trade hung on the walls, freshly cleaned and ready for the next job. A few more hours and Santa would be on his way, then my wife and I would be off to our annual sabbatical in St. Thomas.

The door opened as I turned to go.

"Thank goodness you're still here," JoJo declared as he rushed in.

"Oh my. Oh my, yes. So good you're here. Oh, my." Nicky pushed in behind him, a bit more flustered than normal.

"Did we catch him? Are we too late?" Francis demanded.

I looked at the curious trio crowding my workshop. "I'm here, but not for long. To what do I owe this pleasure?"

Francis frowned at me. "Pleasure? Not sure I'd call this a pleasure. More of a crisis."

"Oh yes, a crisis. A serious, serious crisis," Nicky elaborated.

"You have to help us," JoJo declared. "Santa's in trouble."

"Bad trouble," Francis growled.

"If you don't get him out of it, there may not be a Christmas this year," JoJo continued.

"Oh my, well, technically there'd still be a Christmas," Nicky interrupted. "There's always a Christmas, isn't there? But if you don't help, it won't be a normal Christmas. Oh my, all the little girls and boys will be so disappointed. So disappointed."

This sounded serious. "What happened?" I asked.

"Umm...well...that's a really good question," JoJo replied. "We're not exactly sure. Nobody's seen Santa since the Night Before the Night Before party."

"Not the eggnog again..."

We're always busy at the North Pole, but the weeks before Christmas take crazy to a whole new level. The elves frantically work to put the finishing touches on the toys while the support staff scurries around helping. The sleigh packing deadline is noon on December 23rd and post-Christmas sabbaticals don't start until noon on the 25th, so what's a town of busy elves to do once the work is done? Mrs. Claus, never one to miss an excuse to party, uses this downtime to host the Annual Night Before the Night Before Christmas Party.

JoJo's sigh pulled me back to the present. "Could have been the eggnog. Or the rum balls. Or the rum. We're just not sure. All we know is that Santa and the trainer sleigh are missing and Christmas deliveries start in 12 hours. We need you to find him."

"Why me?" I asked.

They all looked at me in surprise.

"Because you're The Fixer, of course."

"I fix broken toys!" I exclaimed, gesturing to the tools on the walls. "Do you see anything there that would help me find a missing Santa?"

Three faces fell. Their dejected looks triggered a twinge of guilt.

"Well, I guess I could give it a try."

Before I could say Christmas in July, three elves had bundled me into my coat, grabbed my travel toolbox and were pushing me out into the snow.

"Santa took the trainer sleigh and the good one's full of toys, so you'll have to take Old Rumbleseat," JoJo explained.

In front of my workshop sat the oldest jalopy of flying sleighs that I'd ever seen. Bits of chrome stuck stubbornly to rusted runners, once-plush velvet seats were threadbare and suspiciously lumpy. And the three swayback reindeer attached to it looked like they could backfire at any moment.

"I think I'll walk."

Elves are small, but all that work making toys gives them muscles of steel. Francis practically threw me into the seat of the jalopy sleigh and JoJo tossed my toolbox in next to me. Before I could find the seatbelt, Nicky had smacked the lead reindeer on his hindquarter and we were flying down the street.

"Where am I going?" I shouted as houses sped by.

"Don't worry!" I heard JoJo yell. "This isn't the first Santa hunt these reindeer have been on!"

Francis yelled something else, but it was lost in the sound of twelve hooves crunching deep into the snow. It sounded suspiciously like "Bring him home sober," but I couldn't be sure.

My reindeer trio might have been past their prime, but they took off into the night like the seasoned pros they were. As soon as they reached cruising altitude, Old Rumbleseat turned towards the nearest town. I leaned back into the sprung velvet bench and enjoyed the chilly ride.

Soon we were on our final approach. The flight had been smooth as silk, so I wasn't surprised at the perfect landing. I was, however, surprised to find myself on the roof of a very impressive building.

I clambered out of the sleigh and evaluated my options. There was one small chimney, more for looks than function, way too small for me to slide down. Flashing lights caught my eye and I peeked over the roof, hoping to see a nice, soft, inflatable snow globe or snowman to land on.

Instead, I saw sea of bright, shiny police cars. I was on top of the Police Station.

I looked around for the trainer sleigh and spotted it on a house two blocks away. It shared the roof with a now-headless Santa cutout and a couple of legless reindeer, but the real reindeer seemed fine.

Now I had to find Santa.

Using a rope from under the seat, I grabbed my toolbox and rappelled down the building. I was passing the second floor when I saw a flash of red in a window. I was in the right place.

Minutes later, I walked through the front door of the police station.

"Hey Frank, we've got another case for County," the desk sergeant shouted, looking at me. I realized that my North Pole chic was attracting attention.

"Got a call about something needing fixed in a hurry." I hoisted my toolbox into view. "Caught me at my kid's Christmas party. Can I head on up?"

"Frank, you know anything 'bout this?"

"They said it was something about a big guy on his way to County, they thought the cot was too wobbly for somebody his size. Asked me to tighten it up." I added helpfully.

"Yeah, that last Santa they brought in had plenty of jelly in his belly," Frank guffawed at his own joke. "Send him up."

The guard on the second floor led me past three cells of sorry-looking Santas before opening a door. One glance at the cot confirmed it was the real Santa; a sniff confirmed that Mrs. Claus had outdone herself with the eggnog.

"Just rattle the cage when you're done."

As soon as the guard was out of sight, I sprang into action.

"Santa," I called as I rushed to the window.

"Snow-ho-ho-ho. Snow-ho-ho-ho." His snores rattled the windowpanes.

I flipped open my toolbox and pulled out a screwdriver.

"Come on Santa, time to get moving."

"Snow-ho-ho-ho. Snow-ho-ho-ho."

A few twists of my screwdriver popped the flimsy window frame. I eyed the opening and then Santa's generous girth. This was going to be tight.

I ran over to the cot and shook him. "Santa, gotta go. Come on big guy, time to wake up."

The tempo of his snores stayed the same.

I shook harder, watching as his belly jiggled like a bowl full of jelly. "Santa, we have to leave now. The kids are depending on you. All of those little boys and girls..."

That got a response. One blue eye opened and looked at me.

"Whatcha doin' in my bedroom?" he slurred.

"We're not in your bedroom. It's only a few hours before Christmas eve and we need to get you home."

"Christmas eve! Why didn't you say so?" Santa leapt from his cot, eggnog overdose forgotten. He quickly spotted the disassembled window.

"Looks like you have our exit ready." He moved towards the opening.

"Yes, but I'm not sure it's big enough..."

"Fiddlesticks! I've been in chimneys half this size. Why, there was this time in Warsaw..."

"Santa, we really need to get moving. I'll go first and help you up the rope, then you can..."

I watched in amazement as Santa scrambled out the window and grabbed the rope. Before I could say anything, he put his finger alongside his nose and disappeared upwards.

By the time I grabbed my toolbox and climbed up the rope, the roof was deserted except for the clunker sleigh and reindeer. As we rose into the night, I noticed that the only residents on the neighboring roof were the decapitated Santa and his legless team.

Mrs. Claus's eggnog might be powerful, but nothing could keep Santa down.

The County came for Janie on her second birthday. Her party started well but ended badly. Someone called the police and Protective Services arrived, packed a bag for the child, and took her away. Her mom and dad were too drunk by then to know or care what was happening. They woke up later to find themselves alone in the house.

The notice left by the County lay on a pile of unopened presents. John and Susan read it, and Susan began screaming, in spite of her headache and nausea. John sat on the sofa and watched her as she ran around the house and out the front door onto their dead lawn, and then through the gate into the street. She ran up and down the block shrieking, while the neighbors watched from their windows. The drink still talking. She dropped to the pavement in the middle of the road and lay on her back, weeping.

John found the County's phone number on the notice but was still on hold when Susan cycled back inside. A shouting match broke out between the two of them, stopped, started, and stopped with John still holding the phone to his ear. Susan ran out of the house again, ran back in. John never got through to anyone on the phone. Neither he nor Susan could think straight.

They agreed to have one small drink apiece to help settle them down. They needed to focus. Presently they were both drunk again and John joined Susan in alternating sobs and fury. John knew that Susan loved Janie. He supposed that he loved Janie too, but the strength of his sorrow and remorse surprised him, even if most of it was supplied by the alcohol.

They slept and when they awoke, they were too sick to drink or argue, save for a nip each and some mild sniping. They showered, made coffee, and drove down to County Health and Welfare. An AFDC intake worker passed them along to a social worker, who listened to them until Susan began to get strident. The woman left them in an interview room and came back fifteen minutes later with a hearing date. She advised them to engage legal representation. They were escorted out of the building after Susan started the screaming again. This time, it wasn't the drink's fault.

The legal department in John's company recommended a lawyer. The lawyer shocked them with his rates, considering that he was situated near the bottom of his profession's food chain. He called them later, after looking into the matter, and told them to stay clean and sober for the thirty days before their hearing and he'd get their child back. He guaranteed this.

Susan and John swore an oath to each other. No drinking. Not one drink for a month, for either of them. Their family depended upon it. Their child depended upon it. Tears followed.

A tough first week crawled by. The couple woke up each morning facing a day with nothing in it to look forward to. They chose separate AA groups and each attended two meetings a day. Neither liked their sponsor. Both lost weight, developed the shakes, alternated between depression and anger, and skipped some work. Their managers and John's union rep were glad to see the two finally in a program.

The couple tried prayer. That seemed to help. They attended church on Sunday for the first time in years. They signed up at a gym. Began to feel better, physically.

John came home one night and found Susan sitting on the couch with an open bottle and a glass in front of her. The glass had not been used. The bottle was full. John sat down next to her. Susan put the lid back on the bottle. There followed a long, agonizing fight between them that featured blame. They went to bed mad.

The second week was better. At times, the two of them felt almost giddy. They talked about their health. They talked about the future. They talked about Janie and how it wasn't too late to erase any bad memories that she might have had, any insecurities caused by their behavior. They congratulated themselves.

The weather warmed a little. Both sponsors, knowing how important the couple's sobriety was, stopped by often. John and Susan assured each other, and the sponsors, and their coworkers, over and over again, that this was real, this was for life, not just for a month. At the same time, each had the thought, without sharing it, that moderate drinking, a drink every once in a while, once the baby was back , would be OK.

John's brother stopped by the house for the first time since Christmas and Susan's parents called her several times from Minnesota, all of them offering encouragement.

In week three, John and Susan both felt as if they had come to their senses. Routine took over. The two of them sometimes went for hours without thinking about taking a drink. They liked their sponsors. They made plans. They researched preschools. They made an album of baby pictures. They gave the house a thorough cleaning, in case a social worker dropped by unannounced.

In week four, they both experienced surges of sudden excitement and anxiety. John was invited out for a drink after work by a friend who knew better but wasn't thinking. John told himself that he'd just have a coke, that maintaining work relationships was important. He found himself inside the bar before he knew it, realizing that a coke would not be enough. He managed to turn himself around and walk out on trembling legs, sweating through his shirt. On the way home, he pulled into the parking lot of the liquor store nearest his house. He sat in the car with the motor running and pounded the steering wheel. Three days left before the hearing. He could hold on. He had to. He pulled out of the lot.

When he got home, he found Susan sitting in the dark. He checked her breath with a quick kiss. She had not been drinking. They sat side by side, and then argued. Bitterly. After the anger died down, they went into the bedroom and made love for the first time in months, and for the first time sober in a year.

On the day of the hearing, they took care dressing. At the County building, in the hearing room, their lawyer sat waiting for them. No sign of Janie. John and Susan craned around, asked their lawyer, demanded. No child. The County presented reports from a pediatrician and a psychiatrist. The child Janie, in their opinion, had been damaged by her two years spent with an alcoholic mother and father. A month of parental sobriety proved nothing. The child remained at risk.

The judge suggested to the couple's lawyer that he have both John and Susan evaluated by a competent therapist. He scheduled another hearing. Everyone stood up. Members of another broken family filed into the room. Out in the echoing hall, their lawyer again promised John and Susan that he would get their child back, if they kept clean and sober. His heels tapped on the wood as he walked away.

The couple drove home, to change for work. They argued on the way, but without energy. Familiar accusations, recriminations, soon fading into silence. Both of them had an AA meeting that evening. They agreed to meet afterwards at a local cafe for a late dinner. And then home for a little TV before bed.

The carollers were off key again. Hank took a swig from the bottle in an effort to drown the exuberant caterwauling coming from next door. He glanced at the label 'Laphroig' it said, twelve years aged in oak casks. It didn't matter. Hank had stopped tasting anything after the first bottle. It was his father's booze anyway, or at least it had been before tonight. Now it was Hank's.

Marge would be furious. She would say that he should have kept his father's scotch collection as a souvenir and sipped careful drams on special occasions. Marge wasn't here either. The love that had burned so hot twenty years ago had slowly dissipated until all that was left was a cool regard and a reluctance to spend money on divorce lawyers. Marge had gone to her sister's right after the funeral. Candace did have cancer. She needed her older sister's help to manage her house and four kids. Candace's husband had no qualms about paying divorce lawyers.

Hank could hear the carollers laughing and talking as they walked past the front door. They wouldn't stop at this door. Hank's father hadn't believed in Christmas. To be truthful, Hank's father hadn't believed in much of anything except his own correctness. That he was right in every argument was as much an article of faith with him as transubstantiation was for the Pope. Hank swallowed the last of the Laphroig and carefully dropped the bottle in the blue recycling bin. Hank had brought it from home. His father didn't believe in recycling either.

Hank staggered out of the kitchen and just managed to catch himself on the doorjamb. He was drunk. Hank hadn't been drunk since.... well he couldn't actually remember the last time he got drunk. He had seen all those bottles of scotch and it seemed like a reasonable response to the old fart's death. He manoeuvred himself over to the couch and half sat, half fell onto it.

His father wouldn't have got drunk on scotch. He was too full of life to waste it getting drunk. He would have walked ramrod straight out to the top of the line Mercedes Benz that he drove and started it up. He would have revved the big eight cylinder engine to hear the roar and feel the power in the steering wheel. Then he would have driven away at speeds that made lesser men pale. (He didn't believe in speed limits.) He would have raced in and out of traffic keeping up a running commentary on the shortcomings of the other drivers, until he hit that tiny patch of black ice. The law of physics didn't care whether Hank's father believed in them or not. The bridge abutment cut the car in half. It pretty much cut his father in half too.

Hank lay on the couch and felt tears leaking from his eyes. For all the old man's faults, Hank would miss him. They had never celebrated Christmas; not all of his wife and family's pleadings would change his mind. But he wasn't a miser. At each graduation of Hank's children the old man had quietly handed his grandchildren a check that would pay their tuition for university. When Hank's youngest had spent it on carpenter's tools, Hank had expected an explosion. Instead the old man had laughed, then hired his granddaughter to work on the house.

Hank's tears flowed harder and sobs wracked his body. He was alone in the world. Marge had her life taking care of the kids and her large family. The kids were all independent. They tolerated their mother's meddling, but Hank didn't know how to talk to them any more. His father was the last person who Hank could pretend needed him. The alcohol that brought out his tears carried him into a merciful sleep.

Hank woke to the sound of singing at the door. He pushed himself to his feet and listened. This wasn't the raucous carolling from earlier. It was a single, pure voice. Hank could hear each word clearly, but understood none of them. He thought maybe it was Latin. He looked at the clock on the mantle. It was two o'clock in the morning. Who sings Latin at two in the morning? Who sings Latin at all?

Hank through the door open and looked in astonishment at a young child who stood singing with his eyes closed. Hank half expected an angel chorus to leap out, or maybe a camera man. He recognized the tune of one the Christmas carols they sang at Marge's church. The boy finished the tune and smiled at Hank.

"Merry Christmas," he said.

"Merry Christmas," Hank said, "What are you doing here?"

"Singing."

"It's two in the morning. Shouldn't you be in bed?"

"Yup," the boy said, "but I felt like singing. Mom said this was a sad house. I thought I could cheer it up."

"Sad," Hank said, "Yes, it is sad."

"Why?"

"My father was buried yesterday," Hank said, "He didn't believe in Christmas."

"That is sad," the boy agreed, though Hank wasn't sure whether he meant the death or the lack of Christmas. The boy started another song and Hank stood listening as it washed away anger he didn't even know he felt. The tears started again, but Hank didn't care. He remembered how his father came to all his school concerts and games. He remembered the great booming laugh. The unbelief only became hard and uncomfortable when Hank's mother died. She had believed in a great many things, but mostly in her husband. Without her love, his father had become uncompromising. Hank realized his tears were as much for his father's pain as his own. He thought of his father at the grave side saying 'Well that's it then,' and just walking away.

The boy's song finished and he beamed at Hank again.

"Thank you," Hank said.

"Merry Christmas!" the boy shouted than ran away through the snow. Hank looked to see that he left footprints behind.

"Well that's it then," Hank said and closed the door.

He walked through the house letting it tell him stories. At first they were of the unbending man that was Hank's father, but gradually they took him further back to when his mother and father would read to each other from books with long and boring titles. Hank didn't remember what they said, but he remembered the passion his parents' voices held. He remembered arguments too. His mother and father often shouted at each other trying to make the other see. The only time Hank remembered seeing his father cry was after one argument when his mother had walked out in mid-sentence. When she returned later, his father had held her tightly and cried unashamedly.

Hank realized that his father did believe in something. He dialed his sister-in-law's number that Marge had given him before she left.

"Hello?" Marge sounded barely awake.

"Hello," Hank said.

"What time is it?"

"About four."

"What do you want?"

"I just needed to talk to you," Hank said.

"Alright then," He heard Marge settle herself more comfortably.

"How's Candace?"

"She had a rough day," Marge said, "I made her unplug the phone in her room. She needs her sleep."

"How are you?"

"I don't know," Marge sighed, "I'm scared to death that I'll lose my sister, but I can't let her see."

"Dad was scared of losing Mom, but he showed it."

"I always thought he never recovered after her death."

"No, he didn't," Hank sighed, "Maybe you should let Candace know you don't want to lose her. It is easy to let people drift away because we assume they know."

There was such a long silence that Hank wondered if Marge had fallen asleep.

"Are you coming home today?" she said finally.

"I thought I would come by Candace's and give you a break."

"That would be nice."

"See you later."

"Later then." Hank heard the click of the phone hanging up.

He hung up the phone then went to find his bed. He decided that he believed in Marge. Hank lay in bed trying to find the words he would use to explain this to her. Just as he was falling to sleep he whispered.

"Thanks, Dad."

Kane Plate stood at the door of a bar on the outskirts of New Albuquerque. The little flat-roofed building was the last watering hole on the way out of town. This particular bar was indistinguishable from countless others that populated the edges of these border cities, where the pavement gave way to dirt or gravel. Such dirty little dives thrived on such dirty little roads not because their clientele resided on the edge of civilization, but because their merchandise originated there.

Kane reached for the knob of the bar's avocado-green door, he paused to calmly scan the horizon behind him.

A sea of golden grain flowed with the gentle wind that accompanied the sun's decline from its apex. He saw no signs of anything amongst the grasses to disturb the lazy waves that coursed across the plain. As the tensed muscles across his back loosened slightly, Kane rotated the brass knob and pulled open the door, revealing darkness within.

Initially the contrast between the sunlight and the meager amount of light generated inside rendered the interior pitch black. After shutting the door behind him more by feel than by sight, Kane could see that the dim lighting of the cantina was beginning to pierce the veil of darkness, as well as a haze of what his nostrils indicated was cigarette smoke.

“Bring the lady another round, and leave the bottle this time.” Said a voice hidden from Kane's sight by the bar that stood in the center of the room. A woman's inebriated giggle accompanied the man's rude tone. Her jubilation was not shared by the rest of the patrons. Now that Kane was accustomed to the light, he could see in fact that many of them were examining their drinks intently in order to avoid staring at either the man and woman behind the bar, or Kane himself. He recognized many of these faces, and they recognized him. They were his clients today as much as they were patrons of the bar.

Kane rounded the bar to approach the boisterous man who wore the dark blue uniform of a federal official. There was a hook-and-loop patch on his arm that read “FTCA.” Tax Collector.

The woman fawning at him from across the circular booth had certainly not been a woman very long. She was a blonde, buxom, local girl with all the naivete of one who was experiencing her first harvest away from daddy's farm. A bottle of liquor was placed upon the table as Kane approached and he eyed the label.

“80 Proof, 40% Alcohol by Volume. FTCA Certification No. 0117.”

Above that information there was a series of Cyrillic characters spelling out the Russian name of the spirit. Kane was always bemused by such liquors: posing as classic recipes with authentic names. Factory Vodkas were the worst offenders as Russian had been nearly a dead language for generations. It probably wasn't even distilled on Earth.

There was, however, a price to be paid for such “authenticity.”

“That's a mighty fine bottle of likker you've got there officer.” Kane spoke in a friendly voice.

The other patrons of the bar were no longer attempting to avert their gazes.

The tax collector stared blankly at Kane for a moment through tidy little glasses that rested atop his flushed cheeks. Recognizing that he was indeed being addressed, he smiled a toothy grin and responded: “Just one of the perks of civil service I suppose.”

Seventy-six percent of that bottle's cost contributed directly to his substantial salary.

Kane took a seat next to the hapless girl.

“Officer, my associate spoke to you earlier this week.” Kane said, barely concealing his disdain for the man.

“Ahhh, Mr. Roeper I presume?” said the tax man as he rose to eagerly shake Kane's hand. “I'm glad to finally meet you in person.”

Kane stood up to receive the handshake. As he rose, he subtly removed a three ounce bar of palladium from the pocket of his jeans and secured it in his right palm with his thumb.

He accepted the officer's handshake and returned to his seat. His right hand was empty.

“Scott... May I call you Scott?” asked the fed.

Without waiting for affirmation he continued: “Scott, I was truly moved when I heard your story. Such injustice is so prevalent these days.”

“That a devout pilgrim such as yourself should be denied the right to visit his holy sites... well its just unconscionable .”

The farm girl turned concubine made her best drunken attempt at a sympathetic expression as her gentleman friend pushed a thick envelope across the table.

Kane feigned thankfulness as he beamed first at her, then back at the agent.

“Just bad luck I suppose.” he said.

With that, Kane took the envelope, stood up and turned his back to the pair. No longer in their line of sight, his face bore the unmasked visage of utter disgust. He turned to look around once more as he reached the exit. All eyes were still upon him as he pushed back into the light.

Striding quickly away from the bar, Kane shuffled through the contents of the envelope. Inside he found a travel identification card bearing the name by which the agent had referred to him as well as as a protected space RFID import tag labeled “Grains: Corn.”

Kane had taken a terrible risk in dealing with the tax collector, but he had known that his plan would bear fruit. He had trusted the corruption of a bureaucrat. Perhaps it wasn't as much of a risk as he thought.

The engine of his ancient motorcycle roared to life. He kicked it into gear and sped down the dirt road that lead further away from the city. Miles of corn whipped by as he closed the distance between him and the start of a new life.

His grandfather's barn came into sight. He maneuvered the motorcycle into a brief gap in the rows of corn. As he approached, the barn door opened automatically such that he could enter at speed. It closed behind him just as quickly as it had opened.

Illuminated by the dusty beams that shined through the gaps between the planks of the barn's siding, Kane could make out the enormous outline of a familiar object. Emblazoned in two foot high, white letters on the object's steel surface were the words: Fusion Under Glass.

Kane boarded his starship. Fusion Under Glass's cargo hold was filled with sacks of milled corn upon which he placed the import tag he had received less than an hour before. Kane spent no time inspecting the corn, however, as this was not his primary cargo. He instead walked over to an exposed braided stainless steel coolant line.

This line was designed to carry ethylene glycol from the fusion core to various components around the ship. He unscrewed the line from an inlet fitting on the cargo bay control panel. As soon as the threads began to loosen, a fine spray of clear liquid dampened Kane's shirt. He tasted the liquid. Satisfied, he re-tightened the fitting.

Ignition. The immense weight of the machine lifted quietly off the ground as if forgotten by gravity. The barn's hinged A-frame roof opened as Fusion Under Glass lifted slowly towards the heavens.

Kane took his ship out of the atmosphere of the fertile moon and began to orbit her parent planet: a pale green gas giant.

Half a revolution brought into view an enormous metallic structure. Way gate, Sol system. Earth.

You might know me as Alcoholic Anonymous, a name given to me by the media. I'm sure you've heard of me on the news, read about me in the papers, or have seen me stumbling my way through a battle in our streets over the years. Many of you regard me as a reckless, drunken vigilante who has done more harm than good to this city. I couldn't agree more. Truth is, I was battling alcoholism long before I was given these wretched super powers, and I was doing so more or less successfully. Alcoholism tore my life apart. Now these powers of mine threaten to do the same. I'm here, not to put my drinking to an end, but to control it. This city need me, but I need your help.

Before alcohol took over, I worked a desk job for a local manufacturer and I had a wonderful relationship with the girl of my dreams. As many of these stories go, I ended up with a marriage, a promotion, and a child. With success, came stress. With that stress, came my drinking. There was rarely a time I was sober. I ended up losing my wife and kid, causing me to drink more. Eventually, my drunken state led to the injury of another. A kid I was supervising lost his legs. It wouldn't of happened if I was sober. In that moment, I decided to fix my life.

Better late than never, I battled alcoholism. I went 2 years without a drink. My life was back on track. I had gotten work at another manufacturing company but under strict probation. I had gotten approved for a small home. Things were getting better, until the Black Lightning incident.

The Black Lightning affected us all, I'm sure no one will forget. It vaporized most of the people it touched and destroyed half the city. I was stuck in the factory, along with a few coworkers. Some of them panicked and ran out into the storm. One by one, we watched as they turned into clouds of dust. Some were blasted at the door, others lasted much longer, some as far as 10 blocks. Only one guy made it home. The rest of us decided to wait it out.

Three days had passed when I saw her. A little girl had run into the street. She was screaming for her mommy. I don't know what pushed me to do what I did. Maybe I felt a need for redemption, or maybe it was the right thing to do. The moment she walked out into the street, I bolted for her. I ran as fast as my legs could take me. I got to her, picked her up, and raced back to the building. The moment I put her down, the lightning struck me.

I was dead. I had to be. All I saw was darkness.

Suddenly, I was awake. I was in a dark room, surrounded by monitors. It took me a moment to realize that I was in the hospital. The doctors explained to me that I had miraculously survived being struck by the Black Lightning, along with a handful of others. My coworkers verified that it was indeed Black Lightning that had hit me. The trauma plunged me back into the darkness that was alcoholism.

I went out for a drink that night. First one in 2 years. The near death experience brought me there. One drink followed the other. Soon, I was drunk out of my mind. The bartender cut me off. Like any good drunk, I grabbed him by the shirt and told him off. I pushed him, and he went through the wall. I thought maybe I was seeing things. I got up and stumbled to the exit. I kicked the door open, and the door went flying across the street. Even in my drunken state, I knew something was wrong. That wasn't supposed to happen. Suddenly, the darkness wasn't so dark.

As it turned out, the Black Lightning gave me super strength. But, as I experimented, discovered that I only had super strength when under the effects of alcohol. The drunker I was, the stronger I was. As the months went on, we all discovered that those who had been struck by the Black Lightning, and survived, were also given super powers. As we know, most of them used their powers for bad. I found myself on the side of good, battling the bad guys day and night, along with two other superheroes, using our powers. In my drunken state, as we know, I left more destruction in my wake than the criminals did.

Lucky for our other two heroes, they didn't need to drink to activate their powers. Theirs were just naturally there 24/7. As the years went on, they let their egos grow. They began using their status to get them girls, money, and favors from the city. Tailor made costumes, vehicles with state-of-the-art gadgetry, government funded headquarters, you name it.

Then there was me. The smelly drunken sidekick. That's all I was to the city. During the course of my superhero life, I lost my job again, and my house. I had zero respect from anyone. An alcoholic superhero is still an alcoholic. I traded in my cheap mask and ratty cape for a legitimate life again. A third chance at a good life.

Before long, Alcoholic Anonymous had faded from public memory. In my renewed sober state, I saw the crime rate in the city rise. Super villains and crooks running amok. But I refused to use my super power. I couldn't ruin my life a third time. Besides, the city had 2 capable heroes to handle this stuff and a fantastic police force. I would only cause more harm than good.

Then three weeks ago, I gave in. I tried my hardest not to drink, I truly did. But the deck was stacked, and I was left with only one fatal alternative.

I was watching TV when the breaking news hit. One of the city's more prominent villains, Freak, had grabbed a school bus and placed it on top of one of the towers downtown. Freak was demanding that his fellow villains be let out of prison or he would knock the bus off the tower, killing all the children inside. The police couldn't shoot the bulletproof machine, or put the children in danger, so all they could do was wait for our local heroes. Problem was, those heroes egos have grown so large that they don't care about the city anymore, or doing right. They refused to show up unless the city paid up.

I figured if our heroes wouldn't do it, I could fight Freak. I knew his fighting style, and his weakness; a severe allergic reaction to peanuts. I had done this dance hundreds of times before, so I was sure I could do it sober. I pulled out the old mask and cape, grabbed a bag of peanuts, and headed for the tower.

I sneaked my way around the police barricades and got to the roof. The confrontation wasn't pretty. I was able to dodge his attacks, but without my super strength, I couldn't hit him. All I could do was keep dodging his attacks and keep hiding behind cover until I got my chance to throw the nuts. We exchanged words, witty banter, the usual hero-fighting-villain stuff. But I was getting tired, and Freak finally hit me. I slid across the roof and over the edge.

I managed to grab the awning, but my grip was weak and getting worse. Freak started blabbering about me being defeated and washed-up. I didn't listen. I was more focused on living. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a shot 190 proof vodka. In hero-mode, I always have a backup plan. While the freak was blathering, I downed it. I felt the effect immediately. My strength grew quickly and I launched myself at Freak. I ripped open the bag of nuts and shoved some down Freak's throat. He started to gag, quickly stood up and ran. He fell off the edge of the roof before I could stop him.

I didn't stick around to see if he survived. I hightailed it home. The children on the bus were eventually rescued, every one of them safe....

..."As for me," Alcoholic Anonymous continued, "I will need to drink if I am to keep this city safe from villains like Freak. Will you help me keep it under control?"

The small support group all nodded their heads, a few clapped.

Without warning, the wall exploded. Standing in the opening was a man in a vicious looking robotic suit... the man who lost his legs under AA's watch all those years ago. AA knew he wanted a fight. AA reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bottle. He locked eyes with the mechanical giant. "Bottom's up."

I lay with my eyes open listening to the adults in the Living room. I could hear them arguing, though I don’t know why. Around me I can see vague shapes in the darkness of my room. They’re scary but familiar. Shadows cast by my toys, stuffed animals, and the furniture. There is little light in here, just what comes in from the door that is slightly cracked open.

Out there I can still hear them. Voices upset, scared, and angry. I recognize my Mom’s voice. She sounds scared, I want to help but don't know how. Other voices, her Fiance, angry, upset. I’ve never heard him so mad. Her friend, trying to be calm but a tremor is there in his voice too.

I clutch the blankets over my chest, squeezing my eyes shut tight. I should be asleep, I wish I was. I want to call for my Mom, but I’m afraid I’ll get in trouble because its past my bed time. So instead I lay there listening, hoping it’ll end soon.

“Please, calm down.”

My Mom again. I don’t know who she's talking to, I guess her Fiance. He seems so mad. I hope he listens to her. I like him, he's like the dad I never had. He would take us out on his sail boat. We had been to the Channel Islands several times with him. Not that my Mom ever handled the trip well. Maybe once he calms down, we could go back out to Anacapa Island again. Then everything would be alright.

“Why is he here? What have you been doing?”

Her Fiance now. He seems so mad. I want him to calm down, then maybe I can go to sleep and pretend this never happened. Everything will be better in the morning. I’ll get up and Mom will take me to school with my cousins. I miss them right now, this wouldn’t be happening if we still lived there...but I don’t really like my aunt, or my cousins. They’re always mean to me, calling me names, saying I’m not their cousin because of my dad’s last name.

“Nothing happened. We were talking. You need to calm down friend. Sober up, then I’ll leave. I don’t want any trouble, just to make sure that everyones ok.”

Her friend now. He’s always been nice to us. I don’t know why Mom’s Fiance would be mad at him. I’ve never seen or heard him angry before. It’s not supposed to be like this. We were going to become a family. I was finally going to have a dad, and a sister too. Ok, maybe a step-sister, but I wouldn’t be an only child anymore. She was nice to me too. Like when we went to Magic Mountain, and we tricked my Mom into getting on Colossus. She was afraid of roller coasters. It was funny, even though I got in some trouble. That was a fun day. Maybe I could close my eyes and dream of Magic Mountain.

I hear the front door open and slam shut. Maybe her friend left? Maybe it’ll all be ok now. I hope so. The door opens back up and I hear someone stomp in. My Mom screams, I don’t know why. It scares me, so I hold my blanket tighter. I want to pull it over my head, but I know it won’t make it go away.

I look around hoping maybe I’m sleeping and I’m having a nightmare. I used to have nightmares where I would be with some other people in a car and we’d all get eaten by King Kong. I woke up terrified one night from that dream. My door was shut, and it was pitch black. I couldn’t see anything, and couldn’t find the door. I had never been so scared before. That was before tonight.

I hear an alarmed shout from my Mom and her friend. An incoherent scream from her Fiance. Another sound I hadn’t heard before and my Mom starts crying. The fire alarm goes off and I get scared. Is something on fire? I’m so scared now that I don’t know what to do. Slowly I get out of bed and creep up to the door. Cautiously I call out for my Mom.

“Oh my god! My son! My son!” I hear her cry.

She comes running over to me holding on to the phone. I can’t see her very well, but I can feel that her face is wet when she hugs me tighter then she ever has before. I hold on to her not knowing what else to do.

“Mom? Whats going on?”

“Shhh. It’s going to be ok.”

I hear sirens now. I hope everyone is ok, I wonder if they’re here because of us. The fire alarm is still ringing, but I don’t see a fire anywhere. I don’t know why it’s going off. But my Mom said it’ll be ok, so I’m sure everything will be fine soon.

A little later we go out into the living room. One corner, behind my Moms stereo has been blackened. There are cops outside talking and looking around. One of them comes to us and picks me up. My Mom doesn’t say anything so I guess it’s ok.

Outside, I can see her Fiance in the back of one of the cop cars. He’s not even looking at us. I don’t see her friend anywhere, but an ambulance is driving off, I wonder if he is in it.

We walk down the few stairs from our house and I can see blood on the ground next to a bloodied rock. One of the cops points to a knife on the ground and asks my Mom about it. She shakes her head and says she doesn’t known anything about it.

Mom's Fiancee had shown it to me once, on his boat. It was serrated on one side, to clean the scales off of a fish, sharp on the other for cutting things. There was a compass on the end, and it could twist off where there was fishing line and matches inside.

"That's his survival knife." I say as I point at it.

A little ways away was what looked like some kind of gun. This one was weird though, the opening was really wide. I didn’t know what it would shoot.

One of the cops said it was a flare gun, and that it was what had started the fire in the corner of the living room. They said it had belonged to her Fiance too, would be normal to have on a boat. He had fired it at her friend. I don’t know why he would do that. He could’ve hurt him. I wondered if that's where the blood had come from.

Eventually everyone left, and we went to my Grandmothers house, just my Mom and me. I was happy to be there. Mom and Grandma said I didn’t have to go to school the next day. We were going to stay with Grandma for a while, maybe then everything would be ok.

*******

It would be a few years later before I learned what had really happened. Her friend had been there helping her, her Fiance out getting drunk. He came home and found him there, attacked him with his knife and flare gun in a drunken rage. He’d set the corner on fire, and burned out the back of my grandfathers stereo; one of the few things of his we had.

Her friend had defended himself with a rock, and had been taken to the hospital after the fight. Her Fiance was taken to jail, put in rehab and a work furlough program. I hoped he would be ok. Even with what had happened, I had liked him. But it would seem that he was more like my dad then I knew.

*******

I sat in my fourth grade class listening to the DARE officer tell us about the dangers of alcohol and drinking too much. He played a tape of a 911 call made by a frantic woman calling when her drunk boyfriend had come home. I listened to the tape, and recognized the sound of my Mom’s voice as she called the cops in tears. I heard my voice come from the past as I called out for her that night and my mom's panicked cry.

I raised my hand and asked the officer if it had happened at my old address. He looked at me shocked and asked how I knew that. I looked at him and realized who he was.

“That was my Mom on the tape, and that was me too. You were there that night, you held me when I recognized the knife.”

The teacher looked at me startled and no one said anything. Finally she asked if I wanted to go outside. It was too late for that, I had already relived the entire thing.