By K.D. Wentworth
Read by Jonathon Sullivan.
It was Christmas Eve and that nasty, strung-out feeling of
anticipation clotted the air like a cheap deodorizer. I hate
Christmas the most–all that insincere, pious yap about “peace on
earth, goodwill towards men.” I was cruising down the
expressway, on my way back from dismantling an illegal manger
scene someone had erected at the river park, keeping an eye out
for graffiti, you know–“Where will _you_ spend eternity?” or
“Buddha lives!”–that kind of crap, spray-painted on underpasses
right where impressionable schoolchildren could see it. The last
rays of the setting sun were painting the highway a faint rose
when I spotted a broken-down van with the metal outline of a
stylized fish just above the back bumper. The short hairs
crawled up the back of my neck. Them fish guys have been some of
my worst busts.
Rated R. Contains strong religious themes, graphic violence, and aggressive Zen.