Wet Christmas

It was Christmas Eve, and the rain came down like it had a grudge, rattling the windows of Casa de Jonny while the four of them hid from the world in velvet chairs and bad intentions. The tree glowed soft and guilty in the corner, presents stacked beneath it like evidence nobody planned to log. Jonny slipped into the other room when his phone rang, the door closing on the sound of the storm, and Linda watched the black water streak down the glass like tears that knew better than to fall. “I don’t know how Santa can make it through this,” she said, her voice filled with holiday sentiment. Pussy snorted from the couch. “Who cares? We’ve got our loot. If a few third-rate countries wake up empty-handed, the planet’ll keep spinning.” Boris said nothing, as he was too addicted to the way Pussy licked the castration scar where his nut sack once dangled to want to upset his woman.

Linda was drawing breath to unload on the tomcat when Jonny came back, his face set in that way that meant the night had just taken a sharp turn. “That was Saint Nick,” he said. “The rain grounded the reindeer. World’s flooded, sleigh’s useless. He needs our turbo boat to cover the mess.” Pussy grinned, all teeth and trouble. “Fine. Just tell the elf to knock first. I’m giving Boris his Christmas present when we go to bed and I don’t want some little green freak to interrupt his barks of ecstasy.” Jonny was already stripping down, pulling on a waterproof thong like a man who knew fate didn’t wait for modesty. “You don’t get it,” he said, voice flat as a dead battery. “We’re not lending the boat. We’re driving it. North Pole. All four of us.” Outside, the rain hammered harder, like it approved of the plan, and somewhere in the dark the world waited for a Christmas delivered the hard way.

The Pug of the Baskervilles

Jonny and Boris pushed through the warped oak door of the Portly Pug, boots and paws dragging half the road in with them, the stink of travel still hanging off their coats like bad decisions. Sir Henry was nowhere to be seen, which told Jonny everything he needed to know about the night ahead. He went straight to the bar, elbows down, eyes up. “Room for the evening,” he said, voice flat as a dead river. “For me and my pug. Indoor plumbing if you’ve got the luxury.” The barkeep looked Boris up and down like he was appraising spoiled meat and snorted. “You’re welcome enough, sir,” he said, polishing a glass that would never be clean, “but that animal’ll have to sleep in the next county—assuming he makes it that far.” It was usually Jonny who got turned away on sight, but Boris didn’t blink. He calmly laid down more cash than the place had seen since the last war. “And what does that buy us?” the pug asked. The barkeep barely glanced at it. “Two pints,” he said. “Before you move on.”

They took their ales to the darkest corner, where the light went to die and the locals watched them like a slow fuse burning. Boris slid on his brass knuckles under the table, smooth and quiet, preparing for the kind of hospitality that left bruises. That’s when a voice cut through the tension like a razor through fog. “Don’t mind them,” it said. “They’re just superstitious.” They turned to see Lisa the barmaid, the only soft thing in the room, looking at Jonny like he was the answer to a question she’d been asking all her life. “They grew up on stories,” she said. “Tales of a monster. So when your little friend walked in, they thought the devil had finally clocked in for a pint.” Jonny frowned. Boris cocked an ear. “What monster?” the pug asked. Lisa blinked, genuinely surprised. “Why,” she said, lowering her voice, “the legendary pug of the Baskervilles.”