Shmooltide greetings

Once again, the neighborhood is lit and tinseled in tribute to the Shmool that watches over it. And in this cold and wet season, I have delivered, if nothing else, peace. There have been no masked-fingercat sightings in over a year; the crows have resumed a respectful posture; Fabio has taken his business back outside where it belongs. All in all, I have done good work here.

Which perhaps explains why the sinister Wind-Demon Gustus Tempestuo chose my protectorate as the object of his blustery ire last week. Close on the heels of a good soaking at the slimy hands of his bastard cousin, Satura Sogg, Gustus came barging in upon the placiditude of our Shmooltide, as unexpected and unwelcome as the cold thermometer of Dr. Fingerer.

The huffery and puffery of this blowgod was colossal. His flatulence ripped through my streets, turning gravity itself on its ear and thrashing mercilessly upon my stronghold. The great gate groaned and bulged painfully against the onslaught; the foundations wobbled nervously; the trees bowed in submissive supplication. Fabio passed out.

But not I. No indeed, I left the comparative safety of my fortress behind and strode unflinchingly out into the yard to greet the Demon. I stood boldly in open ground, squared my chest against the behemoth, and held my head high in defiant challenge.

The Man soon came stumbling out into the maelstrom, bent and unsteady, shielding his face and yelling unintelligibles at me. He scooped me up into his tattered overcloak and hauled me back into the shelter of my fortress. And the Demon smiled, loudly kicking the door shut behind us in a rude display of insolence.

I waited, allowed the Man to decloak and unshoe. Then I went back out, letting the tumultuous din carry away his vain protests. And I resumed my place astride the Demon's path, and bellowed my challenge:

GET THEE AWAY, GUSTUS! I AM SHMOOL AND I AM HERE! YOU SHALL NOT PASS!

By dawn, the Demon had fallen away. And tried and tested though we were, my domain stood whole, blasted but uninjured. And tranquility fell once again upon my land, my gift to the faithful and the worthy.

I hear that several neighboring regions did not fare so well. The crows (now several feathers shy of modesty) talk of darkness sweeping across great swaths of the metropolis, of mighty trees fallen and fortresses compromised.

I guess the cats who protect those ravaged lands just don't have what it takes. Because sometimes blood-honed claws and hardened fangs aren't enough. Some enemies can't be slashed, nor chomped, nor even bluffed. Sometimes it takes something more.

Sometimes it takes nothing less than a cast-iron colon.

Stille fidelis, adeste tanenbaum, nacht burlives humbug in excelsis noel...