and things went downhill from there

"Christmas Dinner in a Can"

The bold, Old English indictment on the huge can was green with snowflakes on it, and it was festooned with badly drawn tinsel and holly leaves. Just under that in a smaller, red Sans Serif subtext it read, "Your complete holiday meal in a can!" Below the script was a vignette of a table decorated for the holidays and laden down with a turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, and all of the other traditional trimmings that were usually found in such images. It faded to white around the edges, blending into a snow-covered pastoral scene.

The can sloshed unappetizingly when shaken.

It was perfect.

Plonq leaned on the counter with his head resting on his left forearm while he slowly turned the can with his other hand to closely admire his prize from all angles. He was careful to ignore the ingredient list which was folded up and held to the can by a moderately low tack adhesive. He had unfolded the 30cm list earlier, but he'd folded it up again just as quickly after spotting uncomfortably numerous listings of ingredients like "Propyl Gallate", "Potassium Bromate", "Butylated Hydroxyanisole", and other additives that were harder to pronounce. He was sure that they were all probably food-safe or they would not have been added.

The dumpy little snow leopard likely would have spent much longer admiring his prize had the moment not been interrupted by the awkward, syncopated clop of his housemate stumbling awkwardly into the kitchen.

"Hey, stop staring at that abomination and do something useful," said Giblet. The otter stumbled around to face away from the cat and pointed at his back. "Zip me up."

Zipping up the back of the otter's costume proved to be an almost insurmountable challenge. It took several minutes of coordinated cooperation between the two, with the otter holding his hands above his head while holding his breath and sucking in his gut as needed, but eventually the snow leopard managed to accomplish the task. He had to work the zipper one or two teeth at a time, constantly pausing to poke otter fur out of the way of the slider before it finally passed a critical threshold and slid the rest of the way with a satisfying, "Zooooop!"

"How do I look?" The otter held his hands over his head in a ballerina ... esque loop and did his best attempt at a pirouette. The manoeuvre might have had a close brush with elegance, save that the mustelid wobbled dangerously as he fought to not fall off his ridiculous footwear. Giblet was dressed in what the snow leopard could only describe as a red-sequinned onesie with white faux fur lining the openings for the legs, armless sleeves, and a low cut V down the front. He complemented that with sheer fishnet stockings and black, knee-height, high-heeled boots.  Across the back of the costume, split by the zipper were the words, Santa's "Helper" (Plonq chose not to wonder why the word "Helper" was in quotes).

He completed the costume with thin, elbow-length black gloves, clip-on antlers, and plastic mistletoe tied tastefully above his tail with a piece of red ribbon.

"You look like a slutty reindeer in danger of splitting its seams," said Plonq dryly.

The otter sighed, and gave his tummy a wiggle through the costume. "This fit a lot better the first time I wore it," he said. "I think I know a couple of roomies who have 'lose weight' on their New Year's resolutions this year."

"Hey, do not count me in on your failed plans..." began Plonq, but before he could dodge, the otter leapt forward and gave the cat's tummy a firm jiggle with both of his hands. "Hey!"

"When that stops moving, we'll talk about who does and doesn't need to lose a few kilos," said the otter. He reached over and gave the can on the counter a turn, eying it with an unmistakable expression of disapproval. "You're welcome to come to the party as well," he said. "They told me I could bring friends. Also, give me your arm. I have about ten minutes to re-learn how to walk in these things before my ride gets here."

Plonq locked elbows with the otter, and helped steady the wobbly mustelid as they walked back and forth from the kitchen to the living room. With each pass, Giblet grew a bit more confident and balanced.

"There would not be anybody that I know, and it does not seem like my kind of party..." said the snow leopard, looking askance at his housemate.

"Oh, you'll fine. You'd know me and you know Anthony... oh wait, it's my getup, isn't it? Trust me; this will be coming off as soon as the kids leave!"

"The kids ..."

Giblet glanced over at the snow leopard and then gave the cat's arm a squeeze. "Tell me," he said sweetly, "exactly what kind of party it is you think I am attending?" He didn't wait for the feline to respond. "Notwithstanding the fact that I have mentioned this party to you at least three times in as many weeks."

The otter knew that Plonq had tuned out everything he'd said about the party beyond the mere fact of its existence. The cat had a deep-seated aversion to parties and gatherings of any kind where more than himself, and perhaps one other person of his choosing attended. Giblet strutted around the feline, rotating the other 180° so that he could practise walking back toward the kitchen again.

"Once again," said the otter in a slow, patient tone, "Anthony and his family have an annual tradition where they rent a hall and invite the neighbours to the local community hall for a big Christmas shindig. The neighbourhood sponsors three or four needy families to come as well who go home with food hampers and presents all around. "

Giblet stutter-stepped a couple of times and had to windmill his free arm to regain his balance. "One of the reindeer who volunteered to help corral the kids for Santa came down with a mild case of hoof and mouth, and has to stay home and avoid contact with other ungulates. Anthony knows that I am good at intimidating kids into line, so he asked if I could fill in. I remembered that I had this costume from a Halloween party a few years ago - though I forgot that it was the Sexy Santa's Helper costume - so I said I would do what I could." The otter giggled. "Whatever. I'm doing them a favour, and if anyone complains about the costume..." He slapped his right buttock firmly with is free hand. "They can kiss me under the mistletoe."

The slap was enough to literally knock the hapless otter off his feet. He frantically pulled his elbow free of the snow leopard so that he could wave both of his arms frantically and stumble around in an increasingly unstable wobble. As he started to fall backward, he felt two arms catch him under the pits, and he slumped back into his roommate with his head resting back against the other's chest.

"Ugh!" grumbled the otter as he found himself hanging in the feline's arms with both of his ankles turned askew. He felt the snow leopard tremble a bit trying to hold up his entire weight, but he hung in Plonq's arms for a few moments longer. The otter looked up and found himself addressing the cat's chin.

"All I'm saying," Giblet said, "is that I'd be a lot more comfortable if you were at the party with me instead of staying here with that abomination in the kitchen." With the feline's help he managed to struggle his feet back into their proper, upright orientation, and he deftly reattached himself to his friend's elbow. "I already lost everything I had in a mysterious blaze, and I don't want to come home and find my best friend and house on fire."

"I will be fine," said Plonq. The otter could almost hear the eye-roll in the snow leopard's voice. "I promise not to set myself ablaze this year."

Giblet was reasonably steady on his feet by the time Anthony arrived to take him to the party. The tiger gave a small yowl of surprise, though not necessarily of disapproval, when he caught sight of the otter's skimpy costume. "Are you sure that's the right choice of attire for tonight? You're going to freeze when we go caroling later."

"Got that covered." Giblet walked cautiously, but confidently back to his bedroom. In spite of himself, Plonq caught himself watching the strangely alluring sway of the otter's hips as he walked in the ridiculous high heels. He glanced over at the tiger and saw that Anthony also appeared to be nigh hypnotized by the motion. The tiger caught his glance.

"Saw you looking," said the striped cat as he gave Plonq a gentle elbow to the side, "I dare you to tell me that my boyfriend isn't hot as hell."

"I am not the best judge of beauty in men," admitted Plonq, "but the otter is not without his charms."

A moment later, the mustelid emerged from the bedroom holding a large, bulging black garbage bag in both hands. "I'm bringing a change of clothes with me," he said. "Aside from being cold, this costume seems to have shrunk a bit over the years and is not conducive to ... breathing."

Plonq watched from the window as the other two walked out to the tiger's car. While they walked, the tiger's hand slowly slid over to the otter's butt. Giblet playfully slapped it away, but the hand returned again a moment later like it had a mind of its own. The snow leopard watched until the two buckled into Anthony's car and pulled away from the curb.

"Finally, my precious," hissed Plonq as he wrung his hands with glee and scuttled toward the kitchen. "We have the house to ourselves. It is just you and me..." He hesitated, before adding "and a bottle of 12-year old Macallan."

Ten minutes later, the snow leopard was into his second tumbler of scotch, and even deeper in a dark sea of doubt as he finished reading the preparation instructions on the can. He took another swallow of scotch, pushed the reading glasses down his snout, and peered down through them once more at the label.

CAUTION: This product contains live cultures. Contents may be under pressure. Direct can away from items that may be susceptible to stains or corrosion when opening. Keep away from open flames.

"So far, so good," he mewled, but it got worse from there.

STEP 1: Set your tandoor oven to 800C and ensure your kitchen has adequate ventilation. If you do not have a tandoor oven, set your regular oven to 260C and augment the cooking process with a gas torch as needed. WARNING:  It is not recommended that you try to heat this product in a microwave oven as the radiation may anger some ingredients.

The feline moved his finger from the caution to the first instruction and back again while the words of his departed roommate echoed in his head.

Keep away from open flames.

"I don't want to come home and find my best friend and house on fire."

Augment the cooking process with a gas torch as needed.

"I don't want to come home and find my best friend and house on fire."

Plonq gave a deep sigh of resignation. Sadly, they did not own a gas torch.

They did own some lighters left over from the days when they still smoked, and he knew that the otter had a few aerosol-based grooming products, but Plonq was still hesitant. He respected Giblet's privacy too much to dig through his room, and he wasn't sure how any unburnt particulate from the makeshift torch would affect the flavour of the food.

He mulled on his quandary. In theory, the contents of the can were already cooked and just needed to be reheated, but there was a dire warning on the lid next to the pull tab that read, "DANGER: Don't even think about eating this cold from the can."

The snow leopard packed the can, scotch, and tumbler and wandered out to the living room so that he could stare at the Christmas tree and ponder; surely its gay adornments of blinking lights and gaudy baubles held an answer. His favourite corner of the couch also helped sooth his mind when he needed to think clearly.

"I cannot believe that for want of a torch, I am forced to scuttle my Christmas plans," he muttered. He drained his glass, and as he reached for the bottle to refill it, he amended, "well, most of them anyway." Plonq held the can in his lap, slowly turning it in one hand while he held his tumbler in the other and stared into the tree for inspiration. He drained the glass and without taking his eyes from the tree, he set it on the table and refilled it again.

"You know what you have to do," the twinkling lights seemed to say. "It is so obvious and clear, Plonq. When life gives you lemons, you go to the back mudroom for the hockey mask and ax...hey, watch what you are doing!"

Plonq cursed and sat up quickly, letting go of the can and brushing his wet chest. In his reverie, he had completely missed his mouth when taking another drink of scotch. He put the tumbler on the table beside him and then reacted too late when he felt the can rolling down his lap. It narrowly escaped his reach, continued down his leg and thumped loudly to a stop against the leg of the coffee table.

As he was bending down to pick it up, Plonq spotted a folded note on the selfsame table, held down by a small, pewter Santa Claus. On top, in the otter's handwriting it simply read, "Plonq". He put the large can on the coffee table and slid the paper out from under the metal likeness of Saint Nicholas.

"Hey buddy," it read when he opened it. "If you are seeing this note then it means your plans have fallen apart, and you're sitting on the corner of the couch brooding. The party is just starting, and you are always welcome to come. Don't even think of driving because I know you've been into the scotch." The otter ended the note with a rough, hand-drawn map to the party with crudely sketched mistletoe marking the party site. The cat glanced at the partly drained scotch, the abandoned can of dinner, and then back at the note. He found himself a bit uncomfortable with how well the otter knew him.

He read the note again and then paused.

"...your plans have fallen apart..."

He'd had a new plan forming though, hadn't he? Plonq scratched his head furiously and tried to remember what he'd been thinking about right before spilling his drink. He stared into the tree again for inspiration, but his stomach rumbled loudly and disrupted any thoughts that might have considered forming. The cat glanced wistfully at the tinned dinner on the coffee table, and then his mind wandered back to the otter's earlier promise of a delicious spread at the party. His stomach grumbled at him again; with that, the snow leopard decided that it was either time to order food or wander over to the party.

The first thing he did, though, was put the cork back on the scotch. Plonq knew the danger of drinking on an empty stomach. The last time he'd let himself do that, he'd awoken with a blistering hangover, no memory, and a priority shipment of a dozen digital meat thermometers from Amazon. Admittedly they were nice thermometers, and he'd had ready Christmas gifts for the next three years. Still, he had room for regrets on his credit card and he chose not to risk more scotch.

"Right," he sighed, "I guess the party it is, then."

"Trust me; this will be coming off as soon as the kids leave!"

Plonq grabbed the bottle, yanked out the cork and took two more good slugs of the strong liquor. He'd forgotten about the kids. He eyed the level of the liquid, gave an approving nod and corked it again. Unless his physiology had changed significantly since his last solid binge, he felt that he should be sufficiently fortified to face whatever the kids might throw his way.

Plonq dressed himself in a sensible coat that was neither heavy enough to overheat him, nor so light as to make concerned strangers stop him every couple of blocks to ask if he was warm enough. It was a little distressing to him how so few people realized that snow leopards were literally built for the winter. Also, it was not like he was stepping out into the ninth level of Hell. The cold was bracing, but not paralyzing; it was just enough of a chill to put points or shrinkage on improperly insulated body parts. It was a cold that froze one's breath, but not their boogers.

It was, in his lightly soused snow leopardly opinion, quite nice, thank you.

The cat had been giving some thought to hiring a car for the journey, but as soon as his first few breaths of the fresh air burst around him in glittering clouds of fog, he decided to walk. If he maintained focus, he could make it there in just over an hour, and as he filtered through the otter's various mentions of the party in his brain, he was pretty sure that it was at least two hours until they served dinner. He jammed his phone, keys and wallet into his jacket and began to hike.

Their house was located in one of those awkward urban areas that resided between downtown and the suburbs. As it was sandwiched between "I wouldn't raise a kid there" and "we lock the car windows when we drive through", people in other parts of town judged it by its neighbours and gave askance looks at folks who lived there by choice. Its location meant that if one were out walking - especially after dark - it meant they needed to choose their route carefully to avoid straying into a nastier clime.

While the optimal walking route was generally safe and well-lit, its downside was that it also led past a number of sketchy retail outlets. That would not have been a problem in normal times, but the end of the store-front Santa season was drawing nigh, and those self-same Saint Nicks were all vying to make their year-end quotas. Plonq had been victimized by predatory Santas in the past, so he had factored many detours across the street into his estimated arrival time.

The cat's strategy of avoidance worked for the most part, though he had a couple of close calls where a Santa lurked on the blind side of a corner from him. He narrowly escaped those encounters by walking briskly past, stoically avoiding eye contact and feigning deafness. Even so, he flinched a little at the passive-aggressive comments the scorned Saint Nicholae - "...or however you pluralize that name," he thought - tossed at his parting back.

"Ho! Ho! Ho! I guess little Timmy is going hungry this Christmas."

"Have a Merry Christmas anyway, tightwad."

Plonq kept up his brisk pace until his route finally veered away from downtown, leaving the danger zone behind him. Once he felt safe to do so, the cat stopped in front of a very dark store front to catch his breath and unzip his jacket. Had he not unwisely lowered his guard, the feline might have noticed the murky figure lurking in the shadows by the darkened store's egress. His first hint that he was not alone was a soft shuffle of feet on the pavement.

"Hey buddy, can you spare some change?" asked a raspy voice from the shadows.

The feline's fight-or-flight mechanism, which had kicked into overdrive at first, slowly stood down again. "Thank goodness, it's just a dangerous junkie," he thought in relief. The release was short-lived though when he caught the tentative jingle of a bell.

"It's for the kids," said the figure, and as it stepped out into the comparative blaze of the LED street lamp down the block, Plonq found himself facing the sketchiest Santa he'd ever beheld. The grizzled ibex looked like he had spent his youth losing games of chicken with cliff faces. His left cheek looked like it had probably been broken more than once, leaving him with a permanent squint in that eye. He wore an ill-fitting beard that hung a full three centimetres below his chin, and a rumpled Santa hat perched jauntily on the broken remains of his right horn. His red coat draped loosely on his gaunt frame in exactly the way it was not designed to do.

"Why are you skulking in the shadows?" demanded Plonq. "I thought there were rules about where a Santa was allowed to set up."

"So ... I'm an unlicensed Santa - sue me," said the Ibex, holding up his hands in admission of guilt. "Still working for a good cause though," he added defensively. He shook his cluster of festive bells and pulled the money stand out of the shadows.  "Ho, ho, ho!"

Plonq could see that the Ibex appeared to have collected close to fifty dollars in spite of his efforts. "I am not parting with a single nickel until you identify the charity for which you are collecting," said the snow leopard cagily.

"Ugh," said the Ibex, rolling his eyes. "Why does nobody trust Santa anymore? Fiiiine..." He reached into his loose coat and pulled out an official-looking card for the feline to read.

"Royal Society for Orphans with IBS," it read.

"That is ... oddly specific," said Plonq in a tone that did little to mask his opinion about the dubious nature of the charity.

"It's an issue that is very close to my heart," replied the Ibex. He rubbed a hand over his lower abdomen. "Speaking of which, I know this may seem a very forward request of a stranger, but could you watch the money globe for me for a bit? I've got to run, if you know what I mean." He rubbed his nether regions again. "I mean really run."

"I..." began Plonq, but for all that the Ibex looked like he may have been peeled off the road before somebody dressed him as a Santa, the ragged goat proved to be very quick when he put his mind to it.

The Ibex stuffed the card into Plonq's hand and dashed into the shadows where he rummaged about in a tatty duffle bag before re-emerging with a can of antibacterial spray.  He took the cap off of his horn and sprayed the inside thoroughly. "This will kill lice too," he explained before jamming the hat on the hapless feline's head. He pulled off the coat, sprayed the insides thoroughly and draped it over the cat's shoulder, then shoved the bell cluster into the cat's other hand.

"I'll be back in five minutes - I swear," said the ibex as he turned and sprinted off into the night with his fake beard flapping in the breeze.

Plonq shrugged into the coat with his usual air of resignation and stood protectively by the hanging money orb. He occasionally gave the bells an unenthusiastic jingle. An hour and twenty minutes later he began to suspect that the absent Santa might not have been planning to return after all. The cat's annoyance was tempered by disappointment because he'd wanted to show the other that he'd managed to raise almost twenty-five dollars in his absence (it was amazing how a friendly baring of sharp teeth tended to loosen people's purse strings).

Surely the other would return though, because he'd left his duffel bag behind. Wondering if the satchel might contain a clue to the Ibex's identity, Plonq's curiosity finally overcame his respect for the other's privacy and he crouched down to dig through the bag.

"Ack!" he yowled when he discovered that it was stuffed full of nothing but cans of antibacterial spray. "I have been played for a sucker!"

The feline began frantically running through escape scenarios in his head, but most of them involved leaving the Santa outfit and money globe behind, and he was reluctant to abandon the proceeds for what he assumed was a genuine charity. Fortunately, his salvation arrived in the form of a Christmas miracle that looked a lot like a short panda in a heavy winter coat.

The tubby little bear was waddling in a beeline toward the snow leopard, and before the latter could begin his spiel, the bear flashed a badge at him. "Santa police," said the panda. "I've received reports of unlicensed Saint Nicholas activity in the area."

Plonq was about to voice an angry denial when he realized that he did not actually have a license, and that he was in danger of missing dinner if he did not act quickly. He felt his heart shrink three sizes as a plan began to gel in his mind.

"You have me there," he said smoothly. "I admit that I do not have a license, but this charity is so close to my heart that I could not let the lack of proper credentials get in my way of doing right by them."

"Uh," the panda took the card that the feline offered him and held it up to the light for inspection. "I can't say that I've heard of these guys. Also, this cause seems awfully specific."

"Speaking of IBS," purred Plonq. He had fetched a fresh can from the duffel bag and was giving it a shake. "I promise that I will turn myself in on my return, but I would be endlessly grateful if you could do me a huge favour..."

The dumpy snow leopard did not stop running until his breath was coming in raspy gasps. He had rounded the corner and figured that he had put at least two blocks between himself and the officer by that point, so he felt safe to walk again. "I did promise to turn myself in when I returned," he thought as his conscience panged a bit, "but I never actually promised to return."

In spite of a stitch in his side, the feline kept up a brisk pace for the rest of his walk. His stint as Santa had cost him a lot of precious time, and the clock was working against him if he hoped to find any dinner scraps remaining when he finally arrived at the party. Fortunately, the rest of his stroll was uneventful. Unfortunately, his arrival at the destination was even more uneventful.

The hall at the end of his journey was cold, dark and empty. The marquee out in front of it read, "Closed for the season. Merry Christmas."

It occurred to Plonq then that there was a remote possibility that he had misread the otter's instructions. He thought back to when he'd had a niggling of doubt during his walk, which he had dismissed as the effects of hunger and alcohol. "I knew I should have taken that left at Albuquerque Street," he lamented. The feline gave himself a figurative kick for his hubris in leaving the written instructions and map at home, but he quickly reminded himself that regrets and self-recrimination did little to fill one's stomach.

"I need another Christmas miracle," he sighed. That selfsame holiday wonder came in the form of a grubby, barely-readable sign around the next corner.

Ş̸á͜m̸͘͟'҉̷s͜ ̧̕͝S̶u͘͝͝s͘͠͞h̴҉į ̸̷̷& ̸S͠t͘u̶̕f͘͟͏f̡͞͝

Sushi! Surely one could not get much more festive than the red and green of tuna belly and wasabi!

Yellow light barely streamed from the grime and frost-encrusted windows of the restaurant, but Plonq could just make out the orange ghost of an OPEN sign blinking on the other side.  The feline pulled open the front door and stepped into a small restaurant whose dank air was heavy with the smell of vinegar, fish, brine and mildew.  Almost immediately his glasses iced over, and the cat was forced to remove them before he could take in the rest of the scene.

The dining room could not have been larger than twenty square meters.  It consisted of a smattering of Arborite-topped metal tables with padded vinyl chairs on a peeling linoleum floor, all lit by bare, humming fluorescent tubes. Opposite the door was a sushi bar with a few padded stools, watched over by a burly shark that had been playing with his phone when the snow leopard first entered.

"Oh, hey," said the shark. He gave the feline a hearty wave. "I was just thinking about closing up early, but I never turn away business. Come on up to the bar and we'll get you set with something quick." As Plonq made his way through the tables toward the bar, he opened his mouth to speak, but the shark held up an index finger. The great fish turned to his side and plunged his head into an open-topped barrel that had a steady flow of brackish water spilling over its edges into a surrounding floor grate. A moment later, the shark stood upright while a flood of water poured out of his gills.

"Damn phone," he quipped. "Gonna be the death of me. I get so caught up that I forget to breathe sometimes." He motioned the cat onto a stool and continued once the other was seated. "So what can I whip up for you this evening?"

"Butterfish sashimi," said Plonq, licking his muzzle in anticipation.

"OK," said the shark, "and what else?"

"More butterfish," replied the cat.

"Whoa, gonna stop you right there," said the shark with a wave of his hands. "You can't just eat butterfish. All that oil will go right through you if you know what I mean."

"Oh," said Plonq with a hint of disappointment in his voice, but he ceded to the other's wisdom. "Okay, may I please have the sashimi dinner with an extra side of butterfish?"

The shark looked over his selection of fish. "Doesn't look like I have any butterfish cut up yet," he said. He held out his left arm over an opening in the counter top that was filled to a centimetre below the surface with swirling water. Plonq felt an uneasy twitch in his stomach when he noticed that the shark had a lamprey attached to the back of his arm. It had been hidden by the shark's bulk, but now it hung stubbornly from his flesh.

"Yo, go get me an escolar," said the shark, giving his arm a firm shake over the open water. The lamprey gave its tail a couple of irritated twitches, but did not relinquish its hold. "Get me an escolar you useless eel," said the shark, giving it a more vigorous shake. "You've had enough to eat. You're going to get fat. You know the deal; you either fetch me menu items or become one."

If lampreys could sigh, this one clearly would have done so, but it reluctantly released its hold on the shark's arm and dropped into the water with a hearty splash. The shark grabbed a towel from the bar top and dabbed away the blood where the other had been attached. Plonq noticed that the arm was pocked with innumerable scars from earlier feedings. "Stupid creature," grumbled the shark.

A moment later a fish flew out of the water and lay gasping and flapping on the counter. The lamprey poked its head out of the water and glared up at the shark expectantly.

"Does this look like an escolar to you?" he groused with an angry show of teeth. "This is a friggin' red snapper, you dumb critter." He picked up the thrashing fish and slapped the lamprey across the head with it before dropping the hapless fish back in the water. "Now do your job."

"Is that your, uh, assistant?" asked Plonq in an attempt to break the awkwardness with polite conversation.

"Pet," said the shark simply. "I'd have flushed him down the toilet a long time ago but he's a gift from the in-laws."

The lamprey (whom Plonq later learned was named Irvine) returned the right fish on its second try, and the feline enjoyed a fine sashimi feast. He washed it down with enough sake to embolden him to pet the lamprey that - the shark assured him - loved to be tickled under what passed for a chin.

In spite of his earlier rumblings about closing early, the shark kept the snow leopard late into the evening, even breaking out his private sake reserve to share with the cat. They talked, laughed, drank sake, and tried some of the experimental sushi rolls that the great fish had been thinking about adding to his menu.

It was, the cat concluded, a most cromulent Christmas after all.

The brown mass in the pot bubbled merrily while the little snow leopard stirred. He glanced at the tablet on the counter to see if he had overlooked the instructions on how long he was supposed to keep agitating the mixture, but the last line on the page said, "Gently heat the mixture to a light boil and continue stirring until it is done."

"How the heck am I supposed to know when it’s done?" groused the feline. He continued sweeping the spoon through the boiling mixture for another minute before it occurred to him that the recipe might actually span more than one page. Keeping the spoon moving with his right hand, he reached across with his left and swiped the tip of his finger across the tablet.  The recipe page swept aside to reveal that there was another page. The lone instructions on the page were:

Don’t read; stir.

Plonq sighed and obeyed. He was used to recipes written by snobbish cooks who seemed to adhere to the philosophy that something as simple as "doneness" should be self-obvious. The snow leopard assumed that the boiling mass would let him know when it was ready to be panned, perhaps by changing colour, or bursting into flame and singeing his remaining whiskers.

Plonq babysat the mixture for several more minutes, and just as he was beginning to suspect the recipe was toying with him, the mixture suddenly thickened. The change was so abrupt that he let go of the spoon and stepped back defensively, but the gooey brown mass in the pot appeared to be more concerned with holding the spoon upright than attacking any nearby snow leopards.  He quickly shut off the gas and moved the pot to a cool burner to avoid burning the bottom. Plonq watched the spoon slowly settle toward one side of the pot while he edged carefully around the stove to the tablet on the counter. He had seen The Blob when he was a cub, and even though he was dubious over the thought that he might have created predatory alien life in his kitchen, he chose to err on the side of safety. He flipped to the next page to see if there were more instructions.

"Remove the mixture from the heat," The snow leopard did not feel particularly smug about having gotten that part right in spite of not reading the recipe, since it had been largely an act of self-preservation. "Place the mixture in a grease-lined, corrosion-resistant baking pan. The mixture may be reluctant to relinquish its hold on the spoon at this point, but you must not display any sign of weakness in front of it. Show no mercy with a spatula. Place the panned mixture into an oven preheated to three hundred and fifty degrees and bake it until it is done. May God have mercy on your soul."

Plonq hesitated for a moment before he decided not to bother flipping to the next page for more instructions, since he had a hunch it would just be a veiled insult on the next page. There was little doubt that it would let him know when it was done. With a sigh, he grabbed the spoon and lifted it experimentally. As he had expected, the pot and all of its contents came with it. He gave it a couple of shakes until the pot fell free, clanging noisily on the stove. He held the mass over the greased baking sheet and grabbed a spatula to begin the process of un-glomming it from the spoon.

Was it his imagination, or did it tighten its grip on the spoon as he moved the spatula closer?

A few minutes, and many more epithets later the sticky mess was spread in a baking pan and ready for the oven. Although Plonq managed to avoid any major injuries during the transfer, a disturbing quantity of his fur had been claimed by the mass in the pan. He shoved the pan into the oven, quickly slammed the door and set the timer for thirty-five minutes.

The little feline grabbed the dry-erase marker hanging from the refrigerator door and put a tick next to "Christmas baking [ ]" on his magnetic white board. He purred softly to himself when he saw that he was nearly through his entire list of Christmas obligations. He pondered on the last few items and debated on which one to tackle next.  Prank call Santa Claws sounded like a nice quick hit on the list. The fat old bastard would be pretty busy with his final preparations, so he could probably catch him off-guard. Plonq suppressed another purr as he remembered the previous year’s prank call.

"Ho ho ho! Who is this and how did you get my direct number? Somebody is going to get on my permanent naughty list if I ever find out who you are!"

The snow leopard decided to tackle "Drink a lot [ ]" on the list first, since drunken prank calls were always more fun. He found that he was much less nervous and more creative after a few drinks. He toddled out to the hall and fetched his favourite scotch glass. After a quick browse of his selection, he poured himself two claws worth of Dal Whinny and wandered out to the living room, taking the bottle with him. Plonq had just splashed the first taste of scotch over his tongue, and was enjoying the pleasant burn when there was a polite, but firm rap on the door.

"Now who could that be?" he mewled, putting the bottle of scotch on the end table and grunting himself out of the chair. Plonq slipped his feet into his tattered slippers and shuffled out to the front hall, scratching himself absently through his baggy sweatpants in thought. He was not expecting company, so he had not dressed for company. As he approached the door, the visitor knocked a second time.

"Who is it?" he called in a tone that he hoped conveyed the right degree of polite annoyance at being interrupted.

"It's just Death."

"Plonq's not here!" yowled the cat immediately.

"Plonq, we have a matter of urgent importance to resolve. Please be a good lad and let me in," said the voice on the other side of the door. There was something in the tone that touched Plonq at a visceral level, and he felt his fur stand up from the nape of his neck to the tip of his tail.

"I am afraid you have the wrong apartment," he called back, hoping that his voice did not carry the quaver that it felt. "I have no urgent issues to resolve this evening but to search out the bottom in this bottle of scotch."

"Nay, I fear we have an appointment," said the voice again. "I’m being polite you know. I don’t really need you to open the door for me, now stop being such a child and let me in." It was spoken with no great volume, yet the words carried such command in them that Plonq caught himself only as his hand was on the door knob in mid-turn. He whimpered and willed it to stop. To his relief, he still remained master of his own hand.

"Are you sure you’ve got the right place?" he said plaintively. "I mean, I’m feeling pretty good at the moment. Spritely even. I was thinking of going for a walk to donate some spare meat to the orphanage down the road." There was a rattling sigh from the other side of the door.

"There is no orphanage down the street," Death replied. "Look, you can make this easy or you can make this hard. This is a very busy night for me, and I’d rather not spend it all arguing with plump little snow leopard who is afraid to live up to his obligations. If you hadn’t wanted to see me then you would have used fresh tuna in your chocolate and tuna loaf."

Now Plonq did open the door. He pulled it open until the chain stopped it and peered out at his unexpected visitor. The snow leopard was surprised to discover that Death was, well, a snow leopard. It was every bit the stereotype that one associates with death; tall, skeletal, long hooded black robes and a tall scythe. Plonq could not decide whether to think of Death as "he" or "she", since neither the hollow voice nor the skeletal build lent themselves to a particular gender.

Steeling himself, Plonq yowled angrily, "The chocolate and tuna loaf is still in the oven. Here you got me all shook up over nothing. Good evening, madam… or sir, or however you prefer to be addressed!" He slammed the door and locked it again for good measure. There was a very long pause on the other side of the door, though when he pressed his ear to it the snow leopard could hear the rustling of robes, and a bony finger flipping through pages. There was another moment of silence before the voice across the threshold exploded in Death’s best approximation of a thunderous roar.

"Are you shitting me? You were supposed to have baked that thing three hours ago! What the hell is your problem, boy?"

"I didn’t have any molasses," replied Plonq, his tail trashing angrily. "Have you seen the crowds at the mall today? I’m lucky that I even made it home today, let alone three hours later than I’d planned." He suddenly noticed that he was still clutching his glass of scotch. He punctuated his last statement with a solid swig of the amber gold.

"Good grief! The molasses is in the cupboard by the sink, behind the kosher salt!" said Death in exasperation. "Seriously dude, you need a girlfriend or something to help organize your kitchen. You don’t even want to know what is growing in the back of your refrigerator!"

"Mental note: clean out the fridge," thought Plonq. Out loud he said, "Whatever! How could you know where I keep the molasses, but not know that I hadn’t even eaten the loaf yet?"

"Well, fine," said the sepulchral voice with a touch of bony petulance in its tone.  "I’ll reschedule you for now and come back in about three hours. But let’s have none of these childish antics when I return."

"Buh!" said Plonq, taking another swig of scotch. "In your dreams. You’re nuts if you think I’m going to eat that loaf now."

"You’re not even going to taste it?" demanded Death incredulously. "After all that work, I can’t imagine you would just throw it out without at least trying a nibble."

The thought had crossed Plonq’s mind, but he dismissed it with a thrash of his tail and a firm flick of his whiskers. "Not a chance," he said. "As soon as you’re out of here, it’s going straight down the garbage chute. That includes the pan it’s cooking in and the bowl and utensils I used to mix up the ingredients."

He had been expecting another retort from Death, but the entity on the other side of the door was quiet for a very long time. Plonq wondered if Death had left, but when Death finally spoke again there was a rasp of resignation in the voice.

"Can I at least come in and use your bathroom? I knew this would be an all-nighter and I hit the coffee pretty hard today. I was going to use it after I, you know, harvested your soul and stuff but it looks like you’re off the hook this time and my undead bladder is still full." Plonq cracked the door again and peered dubiously out at the tall, dark figure.

"Doesn’t it empower you or something if I invite you into my abode?" he demanded dubiously. It was hard to tell from the skeletal expression, but he was pretty sure the figure would have been grimacing if it was able.

"That’s a vampire," it said flatly. Plonq stared for several heartbeats before his sense of empathy got the better of him and he unhooked the chain.

"Fine, come in and use the toilet, but no harvesting of souls." He stepped aside to allow Death to enter his apartment. "And please put the lid down when you’re done again so that my cats don’t drink the blue water. I don’t need you harvesting them tonight either."  As Death swept by him, tattered black robes fluttering in the air, Plonq caught a faint wisp of incense, cedar and cinnamon. He had been expecting Death to smell of fetidness and rot, but Death smelled surprisingly nice.

Then he remembered a bit about ancient Egyptian mummification and he suddenly found the smell a bit less pleasant.

As soon as his guest disappeared into the bathroom, Plonq closed the front door and retired to the living room again to refill his glass. He held up the Dal Whinny and gauged how much drunk he could get from the remaining third of the bottle. It was starting to look like he might have to break out the Glennfish as well before the night was through. The little feline was just taking another sip of scotch when there arose a fearful clatter and sharp vulgarity from the bathroom. There was some more frantic cursing and shuffling before he heard the sound of the toilet flush, and a skeletal hand fumbling with the door. Death emerged looking as sheepish as Death can look.

"I’m so sorry," said Death without preamble. "I leaned my scythe up against the sink while I was doing my, uh, deathly business and when I stood up to grab it, it caught on the hem of my robe and went right over into your shower curtain." The tall figure began to fret. "Oh, this is so embarrassing. I usually take so much care in avoiding property damage when I do my thing, and here I’ve made a mess of your bathroom." In spite of the situation, Plonq felt a twinge of sympathy.

"There now," he said. He placed a reassuring hand on the tall figure’s bony shoulder and guided Death into a chair. "It’s okay, the curtain already had a few claw holes through it, and I have been meaning to replace it for some time." He pressed his half-empty scotch glass into Death’s bony hand. "You’re having a rough night. Why don’t you just sit down for minute, take a sip of Dal Whinny to soothe your nerves while you recompose yourself?"

Death turned its empty gaze to the glass as if noticing it for the first time. It looked at Plonq, then back at the glass. "I came here to harvest your soul this very night," said Death with a growing air of incredulity in its voice. "And not only do you invite me into your home, but you seat me in the very heart of your abode and present me with your finest liquor."

"Oh, that’s not my finest liquor," said Plonq with a self-effacing giggle. "Second best maybe." He paused a beat, "Third." Death stared long and hard at the glass in its bony grip.

"I shouldn’t," it said with a hollow wistfulness in its voice. "Not while I’m on duty." It chuckled, which raised the hair on Plonq’s back again. "Not that I’m ever not on duty, but I mean not on one of the busiest nights of the year for me. Do you know how many suicides there are on this night?"

"No," said Plonq.

"Well I do," said Death with a forlorn rattle. It raised the glass and drained it down its muzzle in one quick draught. The snow leopard had been half expecting to see the liquid come spilling right back out through the bones, but the scotch vanished into the robes. "I do."

The snow leopard, who had seated himself in the other chair by this point leaned across and patted Death gently on the knee. "It must be hard," he said gently. "I mean, being feared and hated everywhere you go. I just can’t imagine going through life, er, unlife like that. Well, not entirely anyway." He refilled the other’s glass.

"Oh, not everybody fears and hates me," said Death thoughtfully taking another sip of the scotch. "This is very good, and you’re right, I think I needed this. Anyway, there are those who welcome me as a friend." Another swallow of scotch disappeared down the gaunt figure’s throat. "But it can be really hard too, especially when it comes to the children, and especially tonight."

Plonq shuddered. "I can’t even imagine," he said. He glanced around for a nearby glass, then shrugged and took a slug directly from the bottle. "I hate my job too sometimes," he said, hoping that it didn’t come across sounding too lame.

Minutes turned to hours, and by midway through the bottle of Glenfish, the apartment was alive with roars of drunken laughter.

"You’re serious?" demanded Plonq. "You’re saying he talked for real jusht like in Team Americat?"

By this point Death’s cowl was thrown back carelessly, its boots were long discarded and it was sitting back splay-legged in the chair opposite the snow leopard.

"Bwa ha!" whooped Death in a drunken bray of laughter. "No, he was in a coma when I showed up to harvesht his soul and I didn’t really feel like waking him to talk to him. I really had no use for him, or his father for that matter."

Another half a bottle disappeared.

"Death roulette," slurred the snow leopard, slamming the thick phone book down on the table. "Flip to a random page, pick a random name and we show up at their door and ashk if they have any Grey Poupon or something shilly like that."

"You’re evil," said Death approvingly. "This is a total abuse of offish and wrong on every level. I love it! You pick first!"

Like a dream slipping from lucidity, the night blurred into dawn and Plonq awoke with a start. Two things immediately occurred to the little feline at that moment; he was not dead, but kind of he wished that he was. The room was spinning unpleasantly and his head felt like Santa’s gnomes had set up a workshop in his frontal lobe. Plonq sat up, groaned, and fell back in bed again. Not only did his head hurt, the rest of him hurt too. He felt like he had spent the previous evening running a marathon through brambles. Also his bed smelled of incense.

"Mental note: drink less next Christmas."

Had he remember to prank call Santa last night? Plonq struggled to remember, but his brain kept conjuring silly non-sequiturs such as trying to talk like Kim Jong-il from the movie Team Americat, and… and why were there a half-dozen jars of Grey Poupon on his end table? And why were his back and arms all scratched up like he’d been sleeping with a rose bush?

After about thirty minutes of self-pity the little cat finally managed to drag himself out of bed and got unsteadily to his feet, suffering only a couple of dry heaves in the process. It troubled him that he had no memory of the previous night because he was not normally prone to drinking himself to oblivion. He wondered if he could stomach coffee, then decided that no coffee wasn’t even an option.

Plonq stumbled his way laboriously out to the kitchen and froze on the threshold. He vaguely remembered putting a loaf in the oven the previous evening, but had no memory of removing it.

To his puzzlement and relief, the empty loaf tin was standing in the dish rack, apparently empty and washed. Of the loaf there was no sign.

Then he spied the note on the table.

It was written in a curious, unfamiliar script. It read, "Sorry to sneak out without waking you but I have a lot of work to catch up on today, and your little cat snores were really cute so I didn’t want to wake you. Coffee is ready to go if you just hit the switch. Don’t be a stranger. Merry Christmas!"

The note was simply signed with a stylized, capital D with a little heart drawn out of bones over it.

Memory of the previous night still eluded the cat, but he knew he couldn’t avoid it forever.

He stood very still in the kitchen doorway, holding the doorjamb for support and staring at the note while memories tickled at the corners of his mind like a hairball in the gullet, stirring and churning its way to an explosive release.

Plonq stood there staring at the note for a very, very long time.