It was the sort of suffocating freezing mist old men of the coast used to call a haar, though not many remembered that now. A nasty, isolating thing, oppressive and intrusive, weaselling its way through clothing fibres, draining the soul of feeling. That's if you were still, and loitering at sea level. At the speed and altitude that the crimson, sleek bullet was ripping through it in the midnight air, it would gladly skin you alive and gouge your eyes out for good measure. Luckily for you, you weren't at the controls that night. He was.
He adjusted the defogger dial on his sunglasses then dropped his large, leathery hand on the shimmering sphere which topped the gear lever, and shifted up. The acceleration gave the fog new verve, and its icy shards rushed over the low windshield to attack him with renewed ferocity. His skin was more rough hide than chamois though, and hairs that bristled from it thick and wiry, and the mist's razor blades wailed in frustration as they zipped past and disappeared into the void behind the sled. He lived for evenings like this one, racing nobody but himself in the pursuit of putting twisted smiles on faces across the world. In a few minutes, the instruments told him, it'd be time for a sharp turn up and left into what they here called the Uplands, to that little town which was new on his route but had already provided some great requests for his handiwork. The great icicle-adorned beard shifted slightly, and if you were there, you'd have sworn you saw a hint of a smile on that otherwise grim, granite-chiselled face. It was at that moment, precisely, that a great shadow dropped like a stone from above to ruin everything.
CLANG
The sleigh lurched wildly to port and it was all he could do to keep it from going into a death spin by countering to the other side with both sinewy hands straining in their grip on the wheel. To the left, engine number one was grotesquely deformed, groaning, and heavily haemorrhaging priceless Maniak beer into the greedily awaiting depths of the haar. It had also acquired a brand new part, though not one that the sled's bearded driver was too pleased to see - a heavy, jet-black ship's anchor, lodged mercilessly into its guts like a rusted nail in the hoof of a prized racehorse. A long, menacingly solid chain stretched taut from it. His steely gaze followed its length but the other end was ominously hidden in the billowing fog behind. Pirates? This was baffling. He had known many privateers in his time and they made some of the best customers. It made no sense to risk your life in a heist in the clouds for loot that'd be freely given to you if you'd just have the sense to write a letter (or if you were illiterate, send in a rudimentary drawing, woodcut or what have you) and ask.
Oh well. These lot would have to learn the hard way. He shut off fuel to engine one and redirected it to driver's cabin. Keeping course as steady as possible with one hand on the wheel, he put his trusty beer stein under the hand-pull tap emerging from the dashboard with the other, and poured the neon-green liquid until it was full. WIth a swig it was down his gullet in precisely 0.69 seconds, and from then on, chaos reigned. The empty glass tumbled into the footwell as a glove box was opened and a a squirming psy-elf swiftly pulled out. The next bit was tricky - he could not pull the other hand off the steering, so the little profanity-spewing pixie had to be viced with just his pinky and ring finger while the thumb hooked up the lid of another compartment and the index finger pulled the strap of the hidden ELFZOOKA 5000 until the mouth of the barrel was just about visible. He quickly shoved the elf in there and managed to just about shut the safety door before it could jump out. It took a second or two to fully pull out the weapon and get a good grip on it one-handed, but then it was on his shoulder, primed, ready, and pointed in the direction where the cursed chain disappeared into the mist. It was definitely being reeled in, and in a few moments he could see the rough silhouette of a ship and the wretched souls moving aboard - and with his beer enhanced senses, that was enough.
BOOF! -
"HE SEES YOU WHEN YOU'RE SLEEEEEPIIIING" screeched the demonic faerie as it left the barrel and flew towards its target, limbs flailing. In a few moments, the pirates would be jumping overboard to escape the psychological torment, and all would be well. There was still the minor issue of the uneasy marriage of engine and anchor, but nothing that couldn't be solved with a bit of muscle, and he had that aplenty. With a bit of beer fuelled algebra the ELFZOOKA was soon wedged between seat and steering, preventing the latter from wandering off and sending the bullet sled into a spin while he got up and dealt with th-
SPLAT
A rather miffed-looking sole bounced off the inside of the windscreen and fell onto the black leather seat, flopping its fins around in helpless frustration and ruining the upholstery. "ALL GOING ON THE NAUGHTY LIST, THEM SILLY CUN-"
An immense sound cut through the rushing wind and drowned out the fish before it could finish delivering its wisdom. It was a low, gutteral gargling - like the defiant call from the depths of a latrine refusing to accept the offering of yesterday's meatloaf. The silhouette of the trailing ship was growing larger by the second. In the sparse scraps of moonlight which illuminated the billowing fog, parts of it almost seemed to undulate, as if it were alive and patiently stalking nearer. The chain was being steadily reeled in. The sleek bullet sled was clearly catch of the day.
His Maniak-enhanced synapses fired with realization almost immediately, then recoiled in surprise from the thought.
They fly now?
But it was too late. The glib glubs were already skittering and slithering along the chain and onto the hull of his vehicle. The driver rolled up his crimson sleeves and found sure footing. Huge veiny hands curled into fists of iron. Hard scars on the knuckles were ready for another demolition derby. He spat over the side. Behind the shades, wizened eyes glowed neon green.
C'mon then, ya buncha bottom feeders…
WOLLOP
The first swing squelched into the abdomen of a non descript multi-limbed blobous horror and it sank to the floor and slid off into darkness, leaving a trail of grey slime. Punch number two had already connected by then, knocking down a pincered ruffian before it could swing its jagged cutlass. Another was dispatched with a roundhouse kick to the carapace, but more were coming all the time, latching onto his red suit jacket and tearing it as he spun, grappled and pummeled them in a blur of drunken fury.
BANG
A shot rang out, connecting on an exposed patch of his hairy chest. It burned, and he looked down to find a school of slick black eels hanging off the skin, jaws firmly clamped into the muscle. They were promptly ripped off and stuffed down the blowhole of another pirate. His eyes darted to find the shooter, and focused on a lanky rust-coloured sardine-like thug, standing at the back, smoking flintlock in hand. He lunged through the bodies and and grabbed for the gun, but the raider was ready and it was all our hero could do to deflect the incoming steel blade which appeared out of nowhere and thrust towards his gut. The riposte was immediate: a sharp headbutt stunned the glib glub, and in half a heartbeat it was being gutted by its own knife. The bearded man assessed his freshly filleted foe. Not quite a sardine, this one. More of a... a kipper.
VOOOOOOMM
He almost lost his footing as the sled lurched again. He swiveled to see two of the pirates wrestling with the gear lever, pulling it this way and that, clearly trying to rip off the shimmering globe which topped it.
Oh no you don't.
He leapt toward them - only, instead of the graceful flight of vengeance, there was thud, as his springing leg failed him and he clumsily half-collapsed onto the deck. The reason for this rather embarrassing turn of events became clear as he looked down to find a chef's meat cleaver buried deep in his Achilles tendon. Not at all by coincidence, a small crab in a tricorn hat was dancing a merry jig of triumph nearby. It then scuttled back to the chain which connected the two vessels, with the rest of the pirates following suit.
Almost simultaneously, the two glib glubs in the cockpit managed to prise the shining sphere off the gear stick and also leapt onto the iron cord. One of their cephalopod-shaped kin dislodged the anchor from the engine with frightening ease. Their tentacles gripped it tight as they fell with it and disappeared into the murky cloud. The pirate ship, no longer pulled along by the sled's thrust, also faded back into the fog. Now all alone again, defiled and defeated, the red sleigh went into a nosedive, carrying its wounded driver with it.
*
"Excuse me, sir, but could I perchance ask you for a quick review of this particular mound of snow that you're sleeping in?"
"Huh?"
"It's for a newspaper I run, you see. The Linkingrad Courier? You would have heard of it, perhaps?"
The vast man struggled to open his swollen eyelids. The glare of the sky above was giving him a headache. He tried to direct his attention away from it and found all his other body parts replied with their own complaints of aches and stabs, which wasn't at all better. He scooped up his attention and punted it back towards the pain in his head, then tried using his eyeballs again. Above him, there was a wild tussle of unruly taro-coloured hair, fighting for real estate atop an infuriatingly friendly face. It belonged to a figure which seemed to be carrying a weirdly cannon-shaped rucksack. The rucksack was looking down at him with bored resignation.
He clumsily clawed his way out of the snowy hillock and stood up as best he could, effing and blinding in the process. His right foot didn't move as it should, and... he suddenly started to remember. The anchor. The glib glubs. The fight. The heist.
"Hey! You seen my sled, kid?"
Bric Vignette anaemically looked around the snowy featureless landscape and shrugged his shoulders. He later said that at this point there was a lot of shouting from the huge bearded man about fudgety pirates, sucking on baubles, and someone called Manly Fudging Santa intending on making sushi, though he might not have heard all the words exactly right.
Eventually, Santa finally got a hold of himself. He noticed his trusty sunglasses sticking out of the white powder and firmly planted them back on his weathered face. Encouraged by this small success, he picked a direction on impulse and started limping with purpose. Bric followed, guided partly by journalistic instinct and partly by the fact that he and Morty were absolutely and completely lost in this white wasteland, and the strange man-mountain clad in tattered red tags and impeccably chic shades was their only point of reference.
"Erm... Sir? Could I get a quote on where it is you are going?"
The bearded man's shoulders moved with a heavy sigh.
"I'm going to get my knob back, boy" he growled.
There were no more questions.
