He didn’t say ‘Boo” because he didn’t need to. Central Casting could have provided no better spook. That face, the spiked beard, the arching crown of blue-black hair, a mane really, tamed momentarily be the oil, and, like him, ready to bust out into mayhem without notice. He had a voice that, before cranially implanted messaging receivers, would have been used on radio to portray monsters. Surely he knew all of this – he did nothing to change his look or his vibe. Perhaps there was nothing he could do – he seemed born into this character. He inhabited himself so thoroughly. His fly-car was painted disappearing black and when he landed and oozed out of the pit with his long coat it was all like the oozing of ink in the ocean. Then he’d disappear into the night streets.

Once, long ago, there was a story of a child born into odd circumstances, whose visage so frightened people that the child, grown accustomed to menacing peoples’ sensibilities, accepted his abilities and embraced his destiny as a spine-tingler. He was, certainly, an odd child, and an extraordinary adult, in the way that a feral cat will be odd and extraordinarily different than a house pet. Our man would lurk in doorways and under bridges, where all one could see was the whites of his eyes, if he’d allow it. Weather seemed not to bother him. He’d be the only one out in the rain. Dogs on leashes would injure the arms of their walkers as they bolted for the opposite side of the street. People seeming to be in his circle would disappear without a trace. Authorities, knew of him, of course, but even with chip-enhanced surveillance and anticipatory interventions, no pattern was ever established to lead to his removal. Not that it would matter – his horrific gifts were such a part of him that any colony that received him would have established a similar oral legend of fear in no time. One other thing; he seemed to be impervious to time. people spoke of their grandparents fearing him when they were children, when he was, well, the same grown man, in the same clothes, haunting the same places – everblack with a red red aura.

On Halloween one year, ages ago, some kids saw him crouched atop a streetlight post. Grounded beneath him, a small flock of dark birds stared up at him in rapt attention, as if wondering how he had displaced them. They seemed clearly fearful of reciprocating. It was said that on the following morning, All Saints Day dawned without a single chirp, caw, or call, and that there were no birds at all in town that winter. Belief spread, and the legend was born, that the birds had been dispatched into the netherworld by the awful power of his evil stare. The memory of those events has faded, yet still abides. The old of that place still walk out at midnight each November 1st, spreading feed under streetlights in hopes of averting the birds’ gaze from their lamppost tormentor. In remembrance of the birds lost that long ago overnight, the elderly seed spreaders have taken to pinning black feathers to their outer garments as they attend to their nocturnal duties.

–Danny Grosso

Secret agents gotta eat too, so I popped into this joint on a breezy street just off the Mag Mile. The guys frequenting the place were done up just like me – they were secret agents of another kind, for different kinds of chiefs. So, being from separate tribes and all, they looked at me with cowboy eyes, and bared their teeth, which were strewn with garlands of rapini. I ordered a sidecar at the bar, and another, and by then everyone’s nerves seemed calmed enough for me to have lunch and sit on a stool. The place still had hooks hidden under the bar to hang hats. so I put mine there and ordered a Delmonico, rare.

Halfway through the steak, which was great, a twist walked in, half wrapped in a fur shawl. She stopped at a table for a whisper, then moved to the opposite end of the bar, resting just a bit of herself on a stool. Things stayed this way for a minute, and I was going to send a drink, but the bartender suddenly walked over to her, and after a short conversation, she got up and walked out the door. I took a bit to chew and headed for the restroom, wondering if this little vignette was something I needed to sort out. So I ran the water and pretended to wash my hands, and unable to decipher a scheme, I headed back into the dining room.

Everyone was gone, excepting the bartender, who appeared to be rooting around for something under the sink. Every table was empty and set, servers and bussers were out of sight. I spun my head around slowly, as I’d been trained to do, but saw nothing but an empty restaurant. The barman popped up, and asked if he could help me. His accent had changed from southside Chicago to cockney. He even called me mate. I could see that my place at the bar had been cleared. I nodded towards him, “You getting the place ready for a private party?”

“The whole of our world is a private party, innit?” he replied.

Free lunch or not, I wanted not to be there now or ever again, so I headed to the door, which was only there in theory, as it looked like a door but did not function as one. It was clearly part of the wall of glass and wood framing that fronted the place, and also not separated from it as an opening. Still, I pushed at what did not give. I could see outside now, and the street was barren, windswept, lots of East Berlin before the fall vibes. And then the light changed, accelerating shadows, daylight to dusk to sunrise again in a matter of seconds, cycle repeating, dizzying. I blinked, involuntarily, then hoped it would reset the scene. I turned around. The bartender was smiling at me, and around him were my family, as they were when I was a kid, the old grandparents, uncles and aunts included, dressed up for a party and bearing gifts as if it were Christmas. “You can join the party or not,” the tender said, “it is always your choice, always was.”

What ever else would I have to do in place of an old-time family Christmas? I disregarded all of my training, I subjugated all of my skills. In that instant, I knew that they were all useless against whatever power had produced this moment.

As I walked over to them, one of my aunts began singing a Christmas carol.

–Danny Grosso