by jammin john
Writers just don't say "Merry Christmas", they write stories about it.
It was a dark and stormy night. Stormy . . . like the time your dad flipped out after you stole his car and knocked over thirty-seven rural mailboxes, four stop signs, two railroad crossing markers, and a shopping cart out of one old lady's hands. Jimmy was with you on that one, too, wasn't he? What were you, twelve years old then? How many paper routes, mowed lawns, and odd jobs did you have to take to pay off the damage you caused? It took you six years, but you did it.
It was a dark and stormy night. Night . . . and you had just gotten back from spending four days in Chicago on business. You were tired that night, weren't you? Fighting the crowds at O'Hare was something you never looked forward to, especially after 9/11. But you did it anyway. You did it because it was your job. If there was one thing in your life you were good at, it was your job. You had a knack for putting deals together. When two or more factions couldn't get together, they called you. You hadn't failed yet.
It was a dark and stormy night. The taxi dropped you off at your house. You tipped the driver a little extra because it was the holiday season, and you were just glad to be home. You walked up the sidewalk to the front porch, and before you could reach for the doorknob, the door opened and the most beautiful woman you had ever known stood just inside. She was surrounded by three beautiful children. They were all yours, and you loved them with every cell in your body.
It was a dark and stormy night. And it was Christmas Eve. And you were home, safe and sound with your family. Merry Christmas to you and your family, my friend.