Morbid - "The Meaning Of Christmas" By Jon Allen Bonus Episode!!

Episode Date: December 16, 2020

Weirdos! Just in time for the holidays, Jon Allen has blessed us with another tale straight from his brilliant mind. "The Meaning of Christmas" is a 90s throwback thriller with an ending that will blow your pants apart. Trust us, it's exactly what we need. This episode is ad free and will be in addition to the regular two episodes this week! We just wanted to give you an extra gift thanks to our writer friend. Enjoy! Thanks to Jon Allen who you can follow on Twitter @writerjonallen See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

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That's W-O-N-D-E-R-Y-P-O-D. Audible.com slash wundery pod or text wundery pod to 500-500 to try audible for free for 30 days. You can host the best backyard barbecue. When you find a professional on Angie to make your backyard the best around. Connect with skilled professionals to get all your home projects done well. Inside to outside, repairs to renovations. Get started on the Angie app or visit Angie.com today. You can do this when you Angie that. Hey weirdos, I'm Alena, I'm Ash and

this is morbid. Yeah, it is? You probably do because you probably read the description or the title, but I'm gonna go ahead and know you anyways. It's a John Allen episode. Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh. Our lovely John Allen has written us a holiday tale, and this is fiction. This is his holiday tale, but we all know that none of us can get enough of John Allen's prose. Oh my god. So why didn't I hit the clapping button

when I said John Allen was too far away? It's so far. It was, it too far away. It's so far. It was, it's far away. But just, yeah. Yeah, there you go. There's our live soundboard. Sorry if you're listening on AirPod. Sorry about it.

Sorry. Yeah, so we decided that we wanted to talk to Jon Allen about doing an awesome fiction tale for us because he's such an amazing writer and we want to make sure that you can all hear him as much as you want. So he went ahead and wrote us a story called The Meaning of Christmas. Oh! I'm excited! You know what I think we should do? What? I think like you should read this one and then the next one we get will like go back and forth.

Oh I like that. So we each get time to react to John's beautiful writing. Okay I like that. Because we love to do this. Do you want to do this one Yeah, I'll do this one. Okay, I'll do the meaning of Christmas. Yeah, you have to, because you're like kind of a Christmas baby. I am a Christmas baby a little bit. A little bit.

I was, I think I was supposed to be an actual Christmas baby. You were, because mom was gonna name you Noel. But I wasn't gonna share my birthday. Nope, not, wasn't gonna do it. So I was like, no, wait, no, sorry mom. Actually, can I just like be on a tangent for a second? Lux has the same birthday as me, my cat. And Annie mentioned the other day

that we should throw him a birthday party on his birthday. Like, have it be his birthday and my birthday. And I was like, no, wow. It's my birthday. And she's like, you can't even share your birthday with a cat. And I was like, no. Wow.

But that's all I'll say. That's ash. That's my tangent. That's ash with birthdays. That's my tangent that's ash with birthdays That's you with birthdays, too, man I just won't share mine with like a national holiday. I don't blame you I won't share mine with anybody at all not even your cat. Nope. All right, so let's talk about we're gonna read the meaning of Christmas There's gonna be no ads in this episode, so just sit back enjoy the ride. Yay

the meaning of Christmas So just sit back, enjoy the ride. Yay! The meaning of Christmas. Lester Lynn Gale had three first names, and two of them were feminine in nature. Perhaps this was the chip that settled on a shoulder at a young age, as Lester began terrorizing the town of B-Lick and Tucky.

B-Lick and Tucky. B-Lick? Almost as soon as he was born on a Christmas morning. Nothing was likable about Gale, and it had little to do with his name or status. No. Lester Lynn Gail was a poor since childhood because he was a terrible human being, a cold, calculating sociopath who preyed on anyone who might be a mark for one of his scams or

acts of cruelty. A killer he was not. He might have been, if not for his inherent cowardice, but a remorseless murder of decorum, morality, and general good he certainly was. To ask Lester about his manipulative behavior would be met with a dismissive, MIRTH-MIRTH-LESS response. MIRTH-LESS. MIRTH-LESS. There was simply nothing redeeming about the man.

He was racist, sexist, pretty much anyist that can notes that chose an immoral worldview. He relished his vile behavior, bathed in it. The fact that he was born on a Christmas morning made his callousness that much worse to reconcile. In 1987, karma finally tackled Lester, though the sentence was rather small considering his vast history of undetected crimes and inhuman offenses. Years of getting away with stealing church collection plates, scamming the elderly and mentally impaired, and an endless array of ethical bankrupt activity did not lead to his downfall.

However, his insatiable thirst to do wrong eventually even things out. Only a deplorable man like Lester could turn a light five-year sentence for check fraud and a comical attempt at a Ponzi scheme into an eight-year extended vacation at club fed. Lester Lingell was indeed a criminal, rotten throughout, but not a smooth one. The three years added to his sentence for trying to sell smack to a corrections officer, made him a laughing stock in the pen, a failure amongst the premium demographic of failures. Lester was released back to his small world of B-Lick in 1995, 34 years old, Pontchier, Baldur, and not an Iota wiser. Expecting a reaction of any sort upon

his release, preferably in the vein of intimidation, the town offered none. Not even an old running mate, most, not even old running mates, most of them married, matured, and responsible, now looking upon Lester and his muted Auburn tracksuit and wispy long sideburns with apathy. Time had shipwrecked Lester Gail into a permanent state of 1987. Once a feared and loathed bully and predator, Gail was a laughable artifact in the mid-1990s. Hatred inventions festered inside the Reviled Grifter because of this rejection. A longing for revenge against a world that had done nothing to him manifested deep within. I like how you said that whole sentence.

I had to. Manifested deep within. Manifested deep within. The name tag on sentence. I had to. Man of us did dupe with it. Man of us did dupe with it. The name tag on his jumpsuit had to say less. That was important to Lester when his parole officer landed him a job at the sister Rosemary Abernathy, Foundling, an ancient orphanage, one of the few remaining in the country in fact on the outskirts of town. In prison, his kitchen-duty jumpsuit read Gail, causing never-ending humiliation.

The gig was perfect for Lester. Not far from his illegal trailer squat out in the woods, just out of town where no one could see how far he had fallen. He'd develop a plan, there was always a plan, a grift, a con. And just when the town of B-Lick began to forget about Lester Gail, he would blindside the bastards. One last job, the big dirty. This was the pleasant daydream that kept Gail going, and the one that often led to trouble at work. Lester, cried the portly sister Sarah as the ex-con pressed his face against the mop handle

and imagined his future with grandiose delusion. Startled, he resumed mopping in silence, ignoring the nun as she shook her head and disbelief that she again was calling him out of his laziness. One year. One year of the shit he thought, it was a typically frigid late December afternoon at the orphanage. Lester, as always, was behind in his work and not quite drunk enough to amble through without any motivation. One year, dealing with nun ratchet, the always watching sister Sarah, a year cleaning up vomit and whatever bodily exertions that these bastard kids threw his way.

One year and still no real pain, no real plan, mopping and sweeping and doing menial work for minimum pay. The joint was rotten with paintings of dead people, cooks, nuns, nurses, even lowly janitors like the one he replaced. But the big one, that uppity bitch, he looked up at the enormous acrylic painting that framed the main entry room, the portrait of sister Rosemary Abernathy, the founder of the orphanage over 100 years ago. One year having to look at that old hag several times a day, he thought, posed in her habit,

frigid and cold, a mean-looking, stern old lady who never got laid or paid in her stupid life. Her hair is gray as a rain cloud, skinn't that almost matched it. Lester despised to that painting and the woman in it. Creepiest fuck, he mused. Her departed eyes were painted in a manner that seemed to constantly follow him, seemed to watch over him when Sarah, sister Sarah couldn't. Lester flashed the painting

a middle finger and snuck outside for a smoke. As he passed a calendar in the industrial kitchen, he stopped, seven days until Christmas. After that, New Year's Eve, then finally, a new year, his year. Fuck 1996. Fuck this orphanage and fuck this town. He mumbled to the empty kitchen, plunging his filthy right hand into a Christmas tree cake on the counter, and shoveling it into his mouth. Simultaneously, using the other hand to rip down a paper snowflake, Garland the kids had made the cafeteria staff, and fuck Christmas too. Wow!

Less! Less is out of time for real. Oh, gale. Dragon on his Marboro while he posted, while he posted against a tree that lined the gravel driveway, Lester gazed at the orphanage and disgust. Utilitarian and unwelcoming, the emotionally sterile estate was never truly clean, just a never-ending reservoir of annoyances that needed to be repaired or painted or buffed. He snarled at the place in its occupants. How he wished some millionaire

would bulldoze the land for the parking lot or something and just rid the join of the loser kids in his loser job. Well, he sounds like a dick. He does. A little bit of a dick. Much bit of a dick. Much bit. A late model Cadillac, Dark as Midnight pulled into the driveway. Uh-oh. This place rarely had visitors, so Gale looked up within Trey as the fanc-fans fully suited man driving the luxury vehicle slowed to a stop near him. The man got out and a woman followed from the passenger's side. Like the background scenery he was, the duo didn't notice him, but he noticed the woman, her sinnui flawless body

filled into a form-fitting black dress with monolo heels to match. Oh, honey! I knew that was coming from the... Honey! As Epirilus says muscle memory, Lester threw a loud cat call in her direction, alongside a lured quip.

The woman's Monolo stopped as if operating with anti-lock breaks. The man would discuss, splashed across his face, began to approach Lester, who stood up and boldened by the big dick energy he pretended to have. The woman cut off her partner off and shoot him away, then swiveled and walked towards Lester. Let me ask you a question. Has that ever worked for you? Seriously? Has any woman ever, ever ran to you and thrown herself

at you after that? Hmm? Have you bedded countless ladies by being a jackass? Don't answer. It's rhetorical. I know. It's a big word. Look it up. Find God or life or something. This doesn't work for you.

It's pathetic. You. Your pathetic. Don't be a living cliche, buddy. It's a sad look. Yes, queen. You know, I'm getting Meredith vibes from the parent trap. Oh my god, yes. Right? That's her name, right? Yeah, Maritath.

She was really scary. The OG twat. But awesome. Yeah, she was, you see her now and you're like, yeah, I get it. Maritath Blake. Maritath Blake, yes. The lady turned to walk away, but a red-faced brow-beaten lester had to get the last word. Stupid bitch. He mumbled loud enough to hear. Go back to your little boyfriend or boss or whatever before you regret it. Better know who the hell you're talking to. Immediately the woman was back in his face. Bitch, I'm a bitch, am I? You're right. I'm the head bitch in charge. This man is my assistant and you would smack that second chin from your head if I told them to. But I can handle you on my own. I'm obsessed with her. I love her. I love her so much.

The woman paused, studying Leicester's face as he finally thought of a comeback. He was cut off. I know you. She laughed. Oh my God, I know you. You're that moron who got locked up years ago for swindling retirees or something. Small town's talk less. She chordled as she looked at his name tag.

You know me too. Even as a dropout, you used to drink beer in the school parking lot. What kind of scumbag gets wasted at 7 in the morning? You don't remember me? I was the only black freshman and you and your friends used to torment me. Who would adopt a colored girl? Remember that? I do.

People like you are what inspired me to make something of myself. Adopt? You are one of the bastard kids that lived here? Gail responded? The woman chuckled with sarcasm. Bastard kids. Adopt. You were one of the bastard kids that lived here. Gail responded. The woman chuckled with sarcasm. Bastard kids. Colored. My Lord. You were 40 years behind the times a decade ago. I almost feel sorry for you if you weren't such an insufferable excuse for a man. You're a take or less. I'm a giver. This little quote unquote, colored

orphan. You broke ass Archie Bunker wannabe. It's now the youngest partner at what will say is the most prestigious law firm in Lexington. You know, the kind of lawyers you couldn't afford to keep you out of prison, and I'm also on the board here. I'm here to give back to this wonderful institution. You're here to open my car door when you see me. You'll refer to me as Miss Swain. I could have your job, you know, but something tells me you're exactly where you belong.

You do want to keep your job, don't you less? Or do you prefer con college? Life always gives you a choice. Miss Swain's eyes through daggers at Leicester, challenging his manhood. He bristled before humbling himself. He had no other options, not at the moment. Yes, yes I do.

He mumbled with his head down. Yes I do what, she pressed. Yes I do, Miss Swain. Miss Swain, smiled and victory. You know what, I'm generous. she pressed. Yes, I do miss Swain. Miss Swain fought smiled in victory. You know what? I'm generous. You can keep your job. It's the holidays after all, but I'm gonna have to chat with sister Sarah. You're on probation. I see leaves that need to be raked, a porch light that needs to be replaced. You're gonna shape that up, right, Les?

Oh, I don't like Miss Swain anymore. You'll refer to me as ma'am. So you'll shape up, correct? Lester was boiling inside, but he needed the gig. Neated the lilot, needed to stay current with his probation. He swallowed his spit. Yes ma'am, I'll see, I'll shape up. Good. Swayne replied sarcastically, gently slapping his cheek. Good. Oh, I'm also running to be the first colored woman in the Kentucky State Senate. Be sure to vote. Oopsie, you can't legally. My mistake.

All right, janitor, Mary Christmas, happy conoga, happy quanza, get to work less. Smoke break is over. And with that, Miss Swain made her way towards her assistant. Meeting sister Sarah and some other nuns at the house, leaving Lester as the crumpled trash heap of a human that he was. He mentally added Miss Swain to his list of revenge, a pathetic diary at the house, leaving Lester as the crumpled trash heap of a human that he was. He mentally added Miss Swain to his list of revenge, a pathetic diary at the moment, and made his way back into the building. Scarving a child's handprints from the wall, Lester, I was like,

I was like, Duh. Lester Eves dropped on the meeting, Swain, and the sisters were having one remover. Nothing major, just talks about a surprise toy delivery for Christmas, and a $30,000 check made out to the sister Rosemary Abernathy Founding, on behalf of the law firm. Sister Rosemary herself continued to watch and judgment from the painting above. Two more hours, Lester thought. Two more hours, and I'm back at the trailer

with beer and a bottle of thunderbird. Fuck this town, fuck this orphanage, fuck Christmas and fuck sister Sarah. Sister Rosemary Abernathy, and now this swain lady. Uh-oh. Women should never be given authority. Oh, gross.

I'll get my revenge, she thought, somehow, some way. I love that this is a tale of like this just tiny little, little dick man who's just really challenged by women seriously. Half asleep and fully drunken is decrepit trailer. The metal wire hanger flickered forth the one available channel on the TV. Letterman would be on in a bit

and for the moment he was trapped watching the local news. The overcoved and square anchor rumbled about his stories, boring the shit out of lester. That was until he transitioned to a three minute national segment about Christmas shopping. He remembered the toy discussed in the segment because the funny name was also the subject of that swan chick's Christmas surprise for the orphanage.

Some reports have tickle-me-elmo going for $1,500 on the black market. A Denver man who had asked to remain anonymous reportedly paid $7,100 for the Internet's interactive plush toy. I feel so triggered right now. It's real. This was like real. You know who's obsessed with Chico Miyama? Oh man. Yeah, we have one.

Oh, of course. That's all I'll say. That's all I'll say. And this was the 90s. This was 100% real. It's literally in that closet. Transporting us back to a time when Chle Miyama was a thing to kill people over. I think Tickle Miyama could kill you.

It probably. Two women in Chicago were arrested after an in-store-alc certification over the stuffed animal. What began as a ringing endorsement on the Rosie O'Donnell show in October has turned into a frenzy as Christmas is days away. Cabbage Patch Kids, eat your heart out. This is Paul Azon reporting for CBS News. Paul Azon on the case with Paul Azon. We're bringing it back to the 90s.

I love her so much. I love this. Lester nearly did a Vodvillian spit take. $1,500, $7,100, that would be a goal mine. What a final fuck you to those who took his pride. But could it be done? Even if not, even if he got caught, three hots and a caught, three hots and a caught would be better than what he was doing now.

He knew people in low places. He could fence just about anything. Even if he sold the stuff for half the asking price, a new life awaited him. There was a trailer down in Arkansas he'd seen in the trading post that was a mansion on four wheels. That night he drank himself into a stupor, plotting. Mm-mm.

I'm nervous about Lester. A few days later, a black and beige 82 trans-am fired up the fabricated muffler, emitting a thundering roar that sent the birds scurrying from the surrounding woods into the cool night sky. The way you hate with words, John, on the fifth day of Christmas in the still of the night by white snake blasted from the car stereo via cassette tape. Oh, there it is, there it is, it's there. You're like, yes.

I know white snake from like that, like the song about like Debbie just hit the wall. You know that one. Oh, I was like, what they did not sing that. No, I know. I know. I know. I know. Oh, I love that.

Let's see where I'm at. As Lester sprinkled a white line onto the steering wheel and inhaled the dust like an antider pounding the dash with his fist in approval, instant karma, the cassette state melted into a slow motion death. The radio turning on by default, Mariah Carey's all I wanted for Christmas, cheerfully took over the acoustics of the hot rod, disgusted, lester pressed the search button, landing once again on another pop station, blasting the sickeningly happy Mariah Carey holiday anthem.

You have to say it. That's John's favorite Christmas song. I want to put that in my John. That's my John's favorite Christmas song and he's happy to admit that. That's one of my favorite qualities about John. I love it. Any time it comes on, he's like, hell yeah, this is my Christmas jam. It's a Bob. He loves it and I love that for him. You know the girls told me that they have the other guy. Yeah, they did. They're like, this is done his favorite song. Literally. I love it. Fuck Christmas. That's not me. That's the story.

Popping the collar on his leather fringe jacket, he licked his fingers and slipped down the sideburns. Oh, he's got it. He licked his fingers and gave a sideburns coronavirus. This guy's such a fucking gross goblin. Slicked down the sideburns before combing the hairs on his head over a bald spot. A sip of thunderbird and a burnout later. Lester Gale watched his trailer go smaller in the review as he sped towards the sister Rosemary Abernethy Foundling, the late night closing in.

How stupid were these nuns giving me the keys to the place? Idiot religious types, always so trusting. Perfect marks he thought as he tippedd cautiously over the creaky wooden floor with a giant burlap sack flung over his shoulder. Creeping his way through the backstorge hallway, it didn't take long to find his fluffy treasure. Glowing majestic with a family of identical battery-operated furries, Gail did not see a crateful of tickle me Elmo toys rather. He saw a gold mine. He already had a shady buyer two hours outside of Johnson City across the Tennessee border that would net him a cool 12k for 25 of the little plush fuckers Damn the excitement swirling in his ample gut was so intense that he thought he'd shit himself right there on the spot

quietly through the stuffed animals into the scratchy sack. As Lester shuffled towards the front door with his pillaged loot, an unnerving sentiment overcame him. Glancing towards the top of the stairs, old lady Abernathy seemed to scowl at him, more so than usual from the painting. It was an uneasy feeling, but one that could be blamed on his chemical intake. Grunting forward with the overflowing bag tossed across his back, he kept his eyes peeled on the creepy painting. Sister Rosemary Abernathy was one ugly broad, he thought, this rude notion interrupted as he collided into someone. Uh-oh. Sorry, Mr. Lasso's thirsty, came the meek soft voice of an adorable little pajama-clad

girl. She set a glass of milk down on the floor, lester's heart went into overdrive as he looked around the fitfully for other people, specifically one of the nuns. He motioned for little girl to be quiet. He'd seen her before, but he never cared enough to learn her name. He didn't know any of the children's names. What the hell are you doing down here girl? He'd go back to bed, you're dreaming, he whispered. The rosy-cheaked girl rubbed her big, tired, powder-blue eyes, and stared at the sacks strewn over his shoulder. "'Mr. Let,' well, less, what is that?' she asked as she pointed her tiny finger towards the bag.

"'Are you helping Santa?' In this moment, Gail giggles, realizing how the situation mirrored a white trash version of the Grinch. He tipped towards the little girl, smiling as he softly placed his hand on the top of her head. He sighed. "'Oh, Cindy Luhu, your sweet little girl, smiling as he softly placed his hand on the top of her head. He sighed, Oh Cindy Luhu, your sweet little thing, aren't you? I'm gonna tell you something, okay? She nodded. I'm just a janitor. I'm not Santa's helper. Santa would never hire a guy like me.

Can I tell you a secret about Santa, though? Again, she nodded. Listen to me, and carefully. Santa Claus is like your mom or dad. A lester explained to an amokingly kind tone, suddenly with his hands still placed on the girl's head. His face turned into a grimace and he pushed with all his force, sending the child's flying across the floor, where she landed against the wall. None of them are real. Oh, wow. That just made me really sad. That's real dickish. Oh, man.

Lester Gale picked up the glass of milk, took a huge swig, and spit the contents across the floor, within minutes he was on his way to Tennessee. Wow, Lester needs to die. I'm waiting for Lester to get his cup up, and that's what I'm waiting for. Yeah. The spit-er-end of the blester getting like real fuck. I want that little orphan girl to kick the shit out of it. Right? And her powder blew out. And then spit it, milk on him. Yeah. The 12,000 turned out to be a little over six grand and some weed.

Typical broken redneck promises. But it was still more money than Lester had ever known. The trailer in Arkansas was still in sight, maybe even something closer to the Ozarks. As he trucked on down the road towards Johnson City, he still had seven tickle meyamos in the trunk. The mall at Johnson City would be a treasure trove of targets. It was, after all, Christmas Eve.

Uh oh. With a happy birthday for me tomorrow, he thought, visions of women and cocaine swirling through his head. Pulling into the infested, congested parking lot was no different than being stuck in single-lane traffic and time square when the ball dropped. The entire exterior was a buzz with festive behavior and holiday mariment. A group of cosplay carolers sang their way through the line

of cars in front of Leicester's non-moving truck. That's a lot. Gail took a healthy pull of his thunderbird and blasted his horn at them, startling the singers and causing them to flee. His yellow teeth revealed themselves as he emitted an ominous grin. If he couldn't listen to White Snake, he sure as hell wouldn't listen to anything else.

Then as if dictated by fate, a Christ little Baron filled with rowdy college students came to a stop beside him. Windows down, an obviously modified sound system blasting the opening lyrics, to genuine song pony the vibration rattling his truck I don't know if it goes like in the beginning like the beat it's like the barrel, barrel, barrel. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Right it. Yeah, yeah. Yeah, that's it. Goddamn it, shouted Leicester.

He began to inch the truck forward and backward, never releasing the bellowing horn until he could negotiate an aferious U-turn amongst the carnage of automobiles. Upon escaping the log jam via the sidewalk, Leicester bullied his way across the lot, cutting off an elderly couple and slamming his brakes into a disabled parking spot. Fuck this guy, seriously.

Like real. The mall at Christmas is a magical place in its own way, and as soon as Lester crossed the automatic door threshold with a sack of stolen goods and tow, the majesty of holiday whims slapped him in the face. Like a lot. I can't. The bright, multi-colored lights caused him to squint So the majesty of holiday whims slapped him in the face. The bright, multi-colored lights caused him to squint, as the wafting aroma from cinnabon

coated his nostrils. Giant paper mache ornaments swayed from the rafters. Chitter chatter was abundant as a natural home of cheerful energy encompassed the building. Finding free money on the ground was easier than finding a person not dawning a santa hat. It was a warming environment. It made Lester sick. Wow. Placing a sign on the bag that simply read $400 and positioning a few Elmos so that they were visible from the sack, Lester decided to canvas a

little in order to plan his best strategy for selling the toys. Passing the sharper image door. Oh, the best. He marveled. I don't know what thats. Oh my god. Oh my god. It's just had all kinds of crazy gadgets. Oh, it was a fun store to go to one Friday night when you were a teenager. I liked FY you. And just play with things. He marveled at the gadgets through the window as customers took turns sitting in massage chairs. They would never purchase. Oh, I know that store. Yeah.

customers took turns sitting in massage chairs they would never purchase. Oh, I know that store. Yeah. Ashole came a murmur from a passerby who instantly knew what Lester was up to with his grift. Lester turned to face the older man and through one of those major flinch fake punches as the man walked off shaking his head. Always the tough guy when the opponent was weaker Lester was too stupid to realize he was the true weakling. Mm-hmm. Carrying on, he passed the stores, searching for a mark.

Suncoast, wet seal, clairs, tweeners and spice girl shirts sontered about annoying him with their beckering. You just brought me back. I mean, I wasn't there, but I loved clairs and wet seal. I love the wet seal. I love the wet seal. Junior year. I think it was either sophomore year or junior year of high school.

All of my back to school clothes were wet seal and that says a lot about me. Wow. It says a lot about you and it says a lot about who bought your clothes. I bought my clothes. So it says a lot about me. Oh my god. Okay. The word awesome ends with me.

The word ugly starts with you. One girl saying to the other. Wow. He stepped into a barn's a noble. Oh my shit still to this day. Yeah, where he assumed the rich people would be because who else would read besides rich people? No luck and no porn omags. Lester took the escalator upstairs and gagged as he passed the fragrant offerings from Bath & Body Works. Oh, honestly same. Right. He checked out Megadeth CDs at Sam Goodie. Yes, Sam Goodie. John knows how to bring it back. I don't know if it really does. This is the year I was born. Oh, this show, or the story takes place.

Oh boy. Okay. He checked out Megadeph CDs at Sam Goodey, contemplated stealing one, but decided, and the anti-thephtag wasn't worth it. Then went into Spencer Gifts to fuck around with one of those electric plasma globe things. The Goth Teens running the store, stared at him with no emotion, as love full by the cardigans invaded his ears.

Wow. I like the cardigans. Wow. I like the cardigans. Wow. Love me, love me, say love to love me. What do you fucking freak staring at? Go fuck yourself. Lester sneered and put his middle finger up as he walked out. As it does to anyone in the history of ears, the melodious pop song from seconds earlier

burned into his mind on repeat. Gad Zooks, Delia's the limited, no luck, holy shit. Delia's. Delia's. Delia's. Remember the Delia's catalogues, everybody? Yes. Remember those. Best.

He stopped at a kiosk with a logo reading America Online. Wow. What, did you just shake your head like you don't know what America Online is? Oh, fuck. That's literally the internet. Oh, AOL. America online. I've never seen a fucking kiosk with that. I was like, your face that was like, I'm like, I don't know. Oh, my lord. This is hurting me, John. Lester heckled the customers before being asked to leave fuck them idiots wasting money on a fad

Moral and fat the internet also. I like that they sold the internet at a kiosk in the mall Yeah, you you had to get a CD in the mail I know and you had like 60 hours of America online on it and we used to get them all the time And I was so psyched wow and mom and dad were like use it wisely and you didn't I did I would like use it wisely. And you didn't. I did. At the time. I really did.

Because at that point, it was so new. Because you didn't know what you could do. So you were like, I'm just gonna, like, I don't even know what we did. I'm trying to say. Could you play Neopats yet? Nope. Oh.

No. Not at the out, you know, not at the, uh, Did you play Tetris? Yep, you could play Tetris. On the internet. You could look things up on like, you know, the World Wide Web. Wo-wo-wo-wo.

On the wo-wo-wo. Yes, so that was awesome. It finally occurred to Lester that he was trolling the wrong stores. What a dumbass he left himself. Checking the mall directory, he began the arduous walk amongst the mass of humanity towards KB Toys.

Along the way, he stopped at another kiosk where gathering of bodies had formed, like an old-time, traveling carny, engaging with the town's folk. What are these idiots looking at? Magic eye paintings? What's the scam? After a moment, Lester got the gist.

Blurry paintings, hold up to nose and focus. A secret image appears, blah, blah. Lester, those things were awesome. I thought, yeah, I had the books. I had magic eye books. They were awesome. Lester muscled his way to the front though, eager to try it, shoving kids and elderly people out of his way. After 15 minutes of staring aimlessly, he loudly declared with frustration that the entire thing was for fuck-wits. As he left, he used the distracting activity to his advantage, swiping a

pager and a pile in a vial of pills from an unsuspecting woman's exposed purse, perks to his delight as he pocketed the pills, oblivious to whatever pain the woman might be suffering. Whoa. This guy's such a dick. Like, I hope we're setting him up to get like the worst come up in his hair.

John, what's gonna happen? What's gonna happen? The toy store was a hit. Dodging security, Lester was able to unload four dolls, though he could only negotiate $200 a pop for three of them. The mall was to close in a few hours, and the tickle me Elmo would be worthless after the morning, so he was fine with it. Three to go, he decided to take a breather.

As he entered the food court, he was stuck between Sibaro, Charlie's Cheese State. Charlie's cheese steak. Non-T ends. The stolen pager kept vibrating in the sack, and he giggled to himself. Lester was the kind of human who enjoyed watching a house fire he'd started. He noticed a distraught mother of two crying toddlers attempting to gather her things, and get her children and herself the hell out of that place, so I feel her. In front of the woman was a half-eaten stromboly.

He watched as the frustrated mom gave up and then he approached the table, offering with false kindness to take her tray. He then proceeded to sabarro with the tray of half-eaten meal, lester complained that the food was undercooked and demanded a new one. Oh wow! Money back, free coffee too. The overworked and undercarrying cashier simply shrugged in a bludged. An easy con is old this time. Halfway through his complimentary meal, a group of perky teenage girls sat at the table next to him, armed with dint daddy's

amax and bags from express and merry go round. The trio spoke to one another in rapid fire while nibbling on cookies from Mrs. Fields. Also I remember merry go round. Yeah, there you go. Commenting on their collective diets with each bite. Lester leared creepily as they discuss the important matters of their day. Leo or Luke Perry, Cheryl Crow or Alonismore set,

Scream or The Craft. Oh, that's a tough one. That's a tough one. Two different things, in my opinion. Yeah. Eventually, the de facto leader of the group slipped on the earphones from her sony disc man and began humming the no doubt song, Just a Girl,

while looking at her makeup in a compact. Could I pull off a Jennifer Love You at Shade of Brunette? She asked out loud, seemingly to herself. The other girls continued to blither on, but the lester was focused on the music loving high schooler, a classic blonde beauty whom he had no business looking at. With perverse ill intent, his eyes followed the curvature of her body, lingering especially at the cleavage between her choker necklace and V-cut, Arapostal button down. Like an unknowing doe she sat there, unaware of the disgusting images that ran through Lester Gale's deviant sick mind.

His gaze held for an eternity, a mental crime and process. Finally, he averted his eyes to his coffee, becoming conscious of not of his disgusting behavior, but rather of the fact that an adult might catch him. As he leaned towards the still liquid in his Styrofoam cup, he noticed an image mirroring the ledge on the second floor above him. Though only a millisecond, the visual burned with clarity. It was sister Rosemary Abernathy, on moving and inhuman. The exact likeness and pose of her painting come to non-life,

cold steel gaze and all. Lester leapt from his seat, knocking the table forward, the coffee spilling onto the table of girls, some contents peppering into their bags. Oh my God, I can't even, what the fuck, I have weatened there! One of the girls said to Lester, he couldn't hear it though, as his eyes were sprinting above, searching for the ghastly image that seemed to have disappeared. Always the coward deep inside, he pissed himself a touch, his knees knocked into one another

in dread. Hey, loser, are you gonna pay me for this? Another faceless teen girl asked as Lester collected his things in a hurry. His sight still centered on the upper deck. Shut up bitch, your mouth is good for one thing, keep it that way. He still managed to reply in his disgusting way to the underaged girls as he scurried away. Faintly heard one of them shout something about getting her brother. Nice track suit, pedophile, came another barb. He didn't care. Lester wondered if his conscience was causing him to see things, but he knew a conscience,

but he knew a conscience was, like empathy and kindness, something he did not possess. It took the better part of an hour for Lester to calm down and concede that he was indeed imagining things. The mall would close soon and he needed to focus on selling the final three almos. He walked circles in the shopping center, focusing on the second floor to convince himself that a random sighting of that painting of the stupid dead nun was an irrational thought. Where was she? He was on the second level where he'd supposedly seen her come out and play.

More swigs of thunderbirds certainly helped him settle his nerves and the strength in its confidence. Somewhere between Radio Shack and Glamour Shots, Lester was able to unload two Elmo dolls for a hundred dollars each, though the constant buzzing from the beaper was slowly driving him mad. The money not being what he expected didn't help his sanity either. If only there was a way to let the entire world know he was selling them, he thought. Like some way people from across the globe would bid on the items, rather than him physically walking around to sell them to a limited audience. You know, you're like, I've got it. But that was a pipe dream. President Clinton wasn't

announcing any space age technology like that at any time soon. Million dollar idea though. He wished he could clone himself like that sheep dolly that his cellmate was reading about in USA today. Then he could really work his cell. Do you remember reading about that in his pants? Yes.

The Scottish sheep. There was a pick of dolly at every freaking like, yeah, the other sheep book. Absolutely. With a near empty Santa sack, inspiration struck Lester. How had he not thought of it before? He located a kiosk in front of hickory farms that sold Christmas apparel and swiped a Santa get up,

wipe beard and hat and all, and disguised himself for his cause. His first heist was a gift wrapping depot located across next to the screaming kids waiting in line to meet Santa. Now equipped with easy access, Lester snuck into the rear of the depot where the finished wrapped gifts were placed. As if clearing a dinner table, he swept a plethora of packages into the waiting sack with a casual whistle. No one noticed he was

Breon proud of himself. The next stop was the movie theater where dozens of parents with bags and toe waited for their middle school children to exit their viewing of the Beavis and Butthead movie. The focus on locating their bull cut, flannel clad kids, and the ocean of bull cut, flannel clad kids, Lester was easily able to swipe half a dozen parcels of goodies and vanish into the crowd. He's such a dick. I know.

His attention now on stealing Christmas joy, he's literally the Grinch. Literally. More so than unloading the last time, he's literally the Grinch. Literally. More so than unloading the last animal doll, the Moral Sadist was on a jaded mission. He perused the levels of the mall, searching for robes, and there were many. Christmas made everyone a little too carefree,

too uninhibited. A little child cried Santa as Lester stole by and the child's mother's eyes widened, telling Gail she wanted a photo op. Fuck off, Lester said, not breaking stride. That stupid magic eye kiosk was in his vision. A perfect place where no one paid attention to anything but the blurry-point painting in front of them.

Page or Lady had proven that much. Fish and a barrel were perfect for a shark like him. The crowd had only grown at this curiosity attraction, and Lester studied the situation carefully. He didn't want to limit himself to large packages. Quantity would be quality at the pawn shop. He avoided bags from makeup stores and kids clothing like limited to. Remember the limited to? No, because I never got a fucking shop there.

That was like, we were poor. Well, I was. That was like, we were poor. Well, I was. I was like, wait a second. That was just like, aww, that was like, that was pre-mon. It was. That was when I was living with Satan's health spend. And she was like, we can't chop there. Oh, but I'll mine myself, shit.

Yep. Yep. All right. So he avoided bags from makeup stores and kids clothing, like the limited two, seeking higher end potential, like bows or brookstone. As he made his way towards a Disney store bag, the corner of his eye caught something frightening. Down the mall corridor stood the young teenage girl he had awgled, surrounded by her

girlfriends. She was frantic and motioning towards the coffee-stained merchandise the group had purchased to a behemoth of a kid. Uh-oh, her brother. Uh-oh. Oh, shit. A behemoth. The kid had to be at least six and a half feet height and width, rocking jingo jeans and a sublime t-shirt. His onyx black dyed hair was set in white-guided locks matched by his own crew of misfits, a rag-tag crew of lost boys,

bonded by chain wallets and dog collars. The collective began walking in Lester's direction. Big brother cracking his knuckles. Yes, big brother. You know what, it's funny, I remember being like little and being like a freight of goth kids at the mall. And then like getting older and being like,

oh, it's just the goth kids. I'd be like, oh, it's the goth kids. It's fine. I love that. Lester froze to his lock. He was in a Santa outfit because otherwise, he'd had been an instant carcass. As the group grew closer, he leaned in and planted his face directly in front of one of

the magic eye portrait puzzles, clenching his ass to not move an inch. As the group passed behind him, Lester could make out a few words. He seemed like a cool dude, not. I was all talk to the hand. His face, it's like hella chaotic. It's just greasy. I'm the female voice. I was all like... I'll talk to the hand. His face, it's like hella chaotic. It's just greasy. I'm the female voice.

I was all like, I love it. He's dead is what he is. What the hell was that? Sorry, I have fat boys that love me. I was like, what just slammed into the ceiling? Fat boys. You go, we're not in the laundry room right now. Probably like a pong table.

So this is an interesting situation. I have to say they're normally very nice. And they text us whenever they have parties. That's very nice of them. Shout out to them. Shout out to them. He's dead is what he is. He'll be talking to my hand, my fist, to grumble the shocking deep voice that could only belong to the man beast of a brother. Lester continued to cut his cowardly stare into the magic eye painting until the group was long past. Then something happened. His eyes crossed and his vision blended into the blurred painting, as the gimmick was supposed to go, then the image formed.

Oh, it was her. I knew it. It was the still portrait of sister Rosemary Abernathy. Her frigid dead eyes, as they always were from the orphanage painting, a centimeter from at Lester's pupils, staring. Deadly staring. He stumbled backwards into a group of shoppers. Shoppers shaking his head and eyes clear, like an etch of sketch.

Mother, what the hell is happening to my brain? God damn, out of my way, you cunts. He said as he pushed his way back into the walkway, shaken. He began to see her painted image everywhere, real or imagined. Whoa. The reflection from the store windows on the face of a mannequin at a spree, on the logo of a dip and dots carton, lugging the sack with the pager andcessantly beeping and laughing to himself with a pinch of crazy, lester couldn't make sense of it.

The stupid hag is in your mind, Bubba, it's not real. Bobba. She's a fucking painting in my fucking mind. Fucking A, nut up. Finding a seat on a bench at one of the empty, or rare anchors of the mall in front of the seers, Lester set the sack aside to prevent anyone else from sitting next to him. He began to take inventory. It was a nice hall, a very merry Christmas and happy birthday to him indeed.

That damned pager kept blowing up to the point where he couldn't take it anymore, so he just had an idea to have a little fun Anything to keep sister Rosemary out of his damn mind 9-1-1 read the beeper the stupid mark was really stressing about her missing gadget Devisely he finagled a quarter from his pocket and approached a payphone It was going to be glorious giving the person hope that her missing technology was found only to cackle through the receiver at the pathetic display. Tough break lady, all my now, stupid rich bitch. He dialed the number on the device's screen. After the few rings in answer, Mary Christmas, this is the sister Rosemary Abernathy Foundling, sister Sarah speaking.

Lester slammed the phone on the receiver. What? The fuck. He turned around, tried to at least, but his numb legs caused him to falter. Instantly he encountered a mall employee in a snowman costume, shoving the jolly mascot away. A dizzying spell overcame him as every staring consumer, hereby rubber neck the knelt and trembling luster. Their faces, each of them, the exact still-silent grimace of the face of sister Rosemary Abernathy's painting. It was more than he could shoulder. A flurry of profanity

and false bravado came as he rose to his feet, challenging the dozens of shoppers in the vicinity, with their seemingly cropped heads of the dead nun. His southern accent expanded for some reason. Fuck you, you stupid hey, I don't know if I can do a southern accent. If you tell me what it says, I can tell you. I let's see. Fuck you, you stupid hey, I don't know if I can do a sudden ex. If you tell me what it says, I can do it. I let's see. Fuck you, stupid hey, stay dead and stop following me. He shouted to the crowd of confused onlookers,

swinging his loot sack like a baseball bat. Y'all think you can fuck with me? I'm matter than a wet hand now, come on. Oh y'all, I'll take all y'all right now. Come on, Rath, you can kiss my go-to-hell. First of all, the frapp boys are now confused upstairs because we're yelling in Southern twangs. And also, the fact that you were like,

I don't think I can do a side-side. I had to get into it. Twang, twang, twang, twang, twang, twang, mark twang. I just didn't know if I could bring it for us when I needed to. You done did it. And also, he wrote an author note and it says, Kiss My Go To Hell is a real Southern insult, not a type of.

Kiss My Go To Hell. Kiss My Go To Hell. I like that. That's awesome. A blue haired woman, gently approached lesser, braver than the buff, but then the burly men and youth around her. Calm down sugar, no one is after you. You're having a bad day. The holidays will do that.

Just breathe. Sit down and talk to me. You're okay. As she engineered her regular body was still attached to sister Abernathy's painted face. Oh, gosh. At least in his disastrous mind. So real that he could see the cake to acrylic layering.

With a feral howl, he grabbed the woman by the back of the head and ran as if you were an Olympic discus thrower, flinging the woman by the back of the head and ran as if he were an Olympic discus thrower flinging the older woman's face into the wall. Wow! But accompanied by a dull thud and audible crunch. The onlookers gasped in unison and as a spigot of blood rained. Lester looked down at his handiwork and saw the reality. No.

No sister Abernathy, just a moaning lump of geriatric bones. More ominous, the crowd was back to their natural form. No visions of the forever dead none anywhere. A woman shrieked, a series employee bellowed for security. Being in Tennessee, at least two men slowly motion towards a firearm. Lester looked around, wide eyed and crazy. No, no, y'all saw, right? Y'all saw her face, I'm not crazy. You saw the ghost nun, right? Fuck an answer me, you saw her, you saw her, say you saw her! Oh my god, the scene was silent, broken up only by the static sound of the radio. Lester turned to see the two mall rentacops gravitating towards him with caution. His face collapsed into his hands. Oh mother fuck. He grabbed the burlac sack with quickness and barrelled through the double doors of an employee-only corridor that linked to the rear of the mall stores where employees could come and go safely. I just fell right back into this.

I don't know why, none did that. When they come and go safely. With nightly money drops and so forth. Hustling through the serpentine maze, heavy footsteps following him from behind, he passed startled employees going about their business, smoking, even making out under handheld mistletoe. Every few doors he'd enter only to find a full stores, but a busy backroom. Panic said in, he knew that whatever path he went down would be a dead end. On and on he went, and eventually somehow found a fleeting moment of clarity. Nearly depleted, the out-of-shape grifter found the back door to a chick-fil-ay, remembering

that the company was super religious and closed on Sunday, and other bullshit, cloochurch days. Luckily, Christmas Eve was among them. It took no effort to kick the door in. As he shut up behind him, he slithered to the ground, his back pressed against it. Seconds later, the chasing footsteps passed by, lester sighed in relief. Oh, I'm saying it's getting good. Settling onto the toilet seat of the employee restroom,

lester pieced together the day best as he could. Too much thunderbird? Too little? He'd known some superstitious types back in B. Leck who believed in hates, but it wasn't possible. It was a painting, just a stupid painting of a stupid long buried nun from the year 1800, whatever the fuck. Even if it was real, did the dead bitch think she was directing some fucked-up Christmas Dickens play that would somehow change his heart? He scoffed at the thought. Lester spoke out loud so any person, phantom, or frozen chicken remains in the mini restaurant could hear him.

I don't care. I don't give a crusty shit. I'm glad I did what I did, and I'm gonna do more until they catch me. Fuck you. With this, he ransacked the loot until he found the per- until he found the percassettes, then drank half the bottle, instant calm, overcoming his wretched and anxious body, then came sleep. He's just gonna sleep in the bathroom of the ship. Hell yeah!

Upon waking up, Lester looked at his time-ex and couldn't believe it. 12-1 AM. Christmas morning. Happy birthday, Bubba. Bubba. Fuck. I'm stuck in a closed mall, and I still had one Elmoda cell. Hazelie, he got off the toilet and made his way to the kitchen area of the small chick

filet. The mall outside was dark and quiet, saved for the gentle m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m his music, No More Mariah, the mall sound system must have been programmed to switch back to regular top 40 after the holidays. Lester grabbed a paper cup and poured himself a suicide, a shot of every soda on the fountain. He had no idea how to work the friars. When he was a teenager, most kids his age learned by working at McDonald's or KFC, but his job was stealing copper from people's homes. He ripped off the Santa beard that had begun to stick like Velcro to his stubby beard. And searched for food he could eat. Everything was frozen except for the salads, which he would never touch. He managed to find some biscuits and nuked them in the microwave, dipping them in half of his grimy dirt stained hand into a gallon of honey mustard that was to be used for the public. Carefully he entered the mall, calling out for anyone, no answer.

It was empty. He circled the first floor for a while, checking the doors, they were locked solid, and he could see his beat-up truck in the lot, two tickets under the wipers. He deducted that he would smash the glass door and high-tail it to the truck when the time came. For now, there was a mall filled with empty stores, there had to be a way to rob them. He made his way to the second level, calling out for any ghosts of security to come get some. The perks had dropped his balls, apparently. The perks had dropped his balls.

Giving up on store burglary due to the alarm scenario, he began loading the sack with goodies from the kiosks. Pointless items like slap on bracelets and beanie babies, stealing just for the sake of getting on over on someone. He stopped in front of K-Jullers, fighting the urge to smash and grab. Looking at the reflection from the window, he saw nothing. The curse or haunting or whatever that bullshit was with that worm food nun was in his mind. He again concluded. In front of Hot Topic, the fence gate provided enough leeway to snatch some t-shirts from a display pile. Lester pulled some out Toriemos, Spacehog, the wallflowers, what was this weepy mopey shit, no Johnny, no Whalen, no Garth, not even Pantera?

The shirts were tossed aside and discussed. Lester sighed, the sack was almost full, including that stupid buzzing beeper, and the empty mall, all logical scams had been completed. Out in the world, all the little shits were dreaming of Santa and Christmas morning displays. Gail touched the Santa that he'd forgotten, the Santa hat that he'd forgotten he was wearing and smirked.

Not the little bastards at the orphanage he thought thinking about the past few days hall of the Tickle Miemos, of the Tickle Miemos. Tickle Miemos. He leaned against the ledge on the second floor and looked below. The Santa Photo Area was still active with flickering lights and moving plastic reindeer

and the accoutrements of a winter wonderland. The fake fireplace seemed to have a real fire poker next to it. That would be what he would use to smash his way out of them all. It was time. Oh. Mary fucking Christmas, Lester, said to no one as he finished the last of his thunderbird. He launched the empty bottle as far as he could throw it, enjoying the shattering glass sound. He proceeded to take a piss from the legend to the ground floor.

Welp, time to hit the road. Thanks for your hospitality, Johnson City. Thank you, fuck you, goodbye. Oh my god. When he turned around, he saw a square outline leaned up against a Nash tray by the wall. Squinting, he couldn't make it out. As he drew closer, as he came within feet,

the effects of the percussette wore off. What a mind, fuck. The painting. The actual painting. The cursed, rotten, menacing demon of a painting. The real thing from the walls of the orphanage to the recesses of his mind to the second floor of a mall hundreds of miles away. There she was, the macabre sister Rosemary Abernathy resting with the canvas, staring as always directly into his eyes her face her torso torso forever still

But those eyes those malevolent eyes always following oh What how stop it stop it now go away? Why don't you leave me alone? What are you Westford inch backwards? You can't be here. You can't I'm not religious I don't believe in God. So you can't fuck with me. It can't be allowed. There are rules I don't believe in God, so you can't fuck with me. It can't be allowed. There are rules! The canvas of the painting. The canvas of the painting began to slowly stretch, producing a sound that made nails on a chalkboard sound like the trans-Cyberian orchestra that played so elegantly through these same acoustics for a month. Lester attempted to shout, but nothing came. He could only cover his ears as he watched with horror and fault.

The image of sister Rosemary Abernathy from the painting slowly crawled out of the frame and into a physical entity, an organic material born of acrylic embristles. As a painstakingly slow pace, it crawled, animatronic. The face never changing emotion until somehow the pre-terna- national, the pre-terna- national being existed outside of the frame and into the physical worlds. Each slap of the palm against the floor left a bouquet of painted colors. Oh, that's like cool. That is cool. Lester was left and disarray as if a concussion bomb had been released and unaware of his surroundings yet fully aware of the presence that followed him, he turned around to run. He ran right into the banister, gutted himself comically and tumbling over the railing, the way to the

sack clung to the glass barricade on the inside, as his loose grip on the handle kept him from cascading into a disastrous landing on the floor below. A string dancing in the wind, he hung. Fuck, he hyperventilated, looking at the ground beneath his dangling feet, afraid to look up. Fuck, help, anyone, somebody, security, help! But below him was Santa's shop, surrounded by an assortment of sharp edges, unequivocal, gold to fall onto. Fake rinderrantlers, pointy plastic cladded elves, even Santa's chair himself, an industrial metal throne,

turned into a soft mirage with pomp and circumstance. Lester grunted an agony. The blood lost to his forearm was turning numb. Rugburn settled into each millimeter of a slip. He looked up expecting to see whatever specter was awaiting, but nothing was there. God damn you, you stupid dead whore! You work for God, do you hear me?

You have to help me, it's your duty, are you listening? Nothing appeared. Fuck me, I'm slipping, pull me up, you bitch, pull me up! Nothing. Lester did not remember the plunge. He didn't recall finally releasing himself into the fall, the crash landing. The only reality that existed was that he was now flat on his back, a piece of the destruction he created. Unable to move, unable to feel, and much to like sleep paralysis, his jaw was set wide in a gap.

The only function he could muster was the rapid movement of his eyes, eyes that were fixed onto the upstairs ledge. His sack of loot teetered ominously on the banister. He mustered a grunt, his fear filled pupils plastered open. Like the painting that haunted him, nothing moved but his eyes. First came the hand against the barrier upstairs as the entity pulled itself up, leaving a smear of color on the glass. Then the second hand, then the top of her other worldly, religious habit. Finally, her morbid, hey, unflinching still face rose

to a standing position. Their eyes locked. A tear puddled in Lester's pupil. He knew it was too late. With a nudge from the ghost of a figure, the sack came barreling down in slow motion. Its contents flying from the bag, a hellstorm of broken Christmas mornings. Gail sucked his last breath. The stolen pager was the first to land, a direct hit onto the back of his throat.

Ouch. I know. Immediately he began to gasp for air, choking in vain. Beyond his tonsils, the beeper nestled, buzzing as a frenetic, oh, so it went, it went in his mouth for a second. I was like, how does that work? Ah, yeah. Because he said, hit the back of his throat. Beyond his tonsils, the beeper nestled, buzzing at a frenetic pace. He was hammered with the rest of the bag's contents somehow, some way, the last of the tickle me almost landed on his face. And it's like, as he lied dying with the technology of the day, suffering him suffocating him slowly, paralyzed and hopeless,

the plus doll lie directly covering his choking mouth. The final image of his wretched, criminal, hateful life came from above, where the image of sister Rosemary Abernathy smiled with malice, changing her expression for the only time in her painted existence. Yes, me. Christmas Eve 1997 was a joyous occasion in the festive decorated main hall, room of the sister Rosemary Abernathy, founting. Cindy Luhu tossed aside a tickle meyamo in favor of a tomogotchi, courtesy of incoming state Senator Swain, who had organized the gala for the kids. Earlier, Swain herself had walked right up to Lester,

eggnog in hand and shook her head, so predictable. Bing Crosby's I'll be home for Christmas, eerily played on a loop, but Gail was unable to do anything to stop it. Cindy Liu, who was a year older, and she briefly glanced at him, but quickly averted her eyes with the minimal disgust a child could muster. Beyond that, no one at the party gazed in his direction. No one, of course, but the spooky, untainted portrait of sister Rosemary Aberdafi, looming atop the stair-clay, in case. Those judging eyes hadn't moved, piercing through him. They would pierce for eternity. On the wall of paintings of former of dead former employees at the sister Rosemary Abernathy Foundling is the smallest frame possible, and it rested a portrait of Lester Lynn Gale.

The artist hadn't put too much thought into this one, giving Lester a bit more punch, a touch more balding. He must have read the name wrong because immortalized forever in the artwork, the dead janitor had the name Gail, painted for eternity onto his jumpsuit name tag. Lester existed in this hell, in this painting, positioned only to gaze into the eyes of sister Rosemary Abernathy for all times.

Sister Sarah seemed to make certain of it when hanging his portrait. Yes! Wester Lynn Gale was born on a Christmas morning and died on a Christmas morning. Oddly, he never did understand the meaning of Christmas itself. Now, he had until the end of days to figure it out. Bitch! The mother fucking end!

That was so good! I love that ending. No, that was incredible. The way you just built this motherfucker up to be the most abhorrent human. Yes. Like, we hate him, we're waiting for it. And then he just gets taken down by sister Abernathy

and Miss Swain is now like a state senator and is like, bitch. I'm gonna give these kids Christmas. And then sister Sarah's like, I'm just gonna position you to stare at sister Rosemary Abernathy for all eternity. And your name tags says Gail. And all the kids got to tickle me Elmo

and Tamagotchi's at the orphanage. So fuck off. So hot. Wow. That was so good. Because for a second I was like, wait, so he lived. I did too. He didn't live.

And then I was like, so much better. He's in hell. He's in his form of hell. He's literally trapped in that shitty little painting for the rest of the world. Yeah, I love it. For the rest of the world. John Allen.

John Allen, a genius. I can't wait for January. Guys, guys, it's so good. It's so good. It's so good. This is such a great holiday one. He's so good. It's so good. Sorry that I stumbled over a lot of words. It's hard reading someone else's so good. It's so good. This is such a great holiday one. He's so good. It's so good. Sorry that I stumbled over a lot of words. It's hard reading someone else's.

No, it is hard. It's hard. Absolutely. Andrew Mouth fills up with spit. You don't want to be like, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. I can barely read four ads without being like, but we hope you guys enjoyed this one. It's an awesome little Christmas bonus for everybody.

You know all. It's a gift from John Allen that we are passing on to you. Add free baby. Add free because John Allen's the best. So you know, we'll hopefully be doing a lot more of these and I'm glad you guys love John Allen's work. I'm glad we know who he is now. He was brought into our worlds.

What a gift. Such a weirdo. Such a weirdo. Glad that this family embraced him and his work So also I that story just like made me think of like the 2009 mall The two I love how that's the 2009 mall like it brought me back to like going To the world like 2000 buddy like way back in 2009 right like how old was I sure whatever I don't know you were young So yeah, yeah, cuz what I don't know, you were young. Yeah. Yeah.

Because what I got married in 2012, you were 15. Yeah. I was turning 16. Yeah. So yeah, like 2000, like 2010, 2011 is when I was mulling it up. Wow. That's so great. So much fun. Wow, sir. So that was awesome. Hope you guys enjoyed it.

And yeah, this is just a little bonus. You're still getting two episodes this week. On top of it. They might be a little wonky. We should like, you know, not the episodes themselves, not the episodes, just the release dates, because we, I don't know if anybody else is in the Northeast here, but we're getting like slammed with a blizzard. Blizzard. So we're going to try to get them out on time. But if, you know, power goes out or anything, we'll up to you guys. You will get them by, you know, by the end of the week. So I got a little go for those. I got to help my grandpa shovel. We really do. We can't let him do it by himself. That'd be horrific. I can't do it. I imagine.

I know. Sorry. So yeah, you'll get three episodes this week. Just they might, two might be on top of each other a little bit. Yeah. But that's why we gave you this one ahead of time just to make sure you got one extra extra. Woo. All right, guys, well, we'll put something on the Instagram about this. So we'll have all of us on Instagram at morbid podcast. Hit us up on Twitter at a morbid podcast. Send us a Gmail morbid podcast at gmail.com.

And make sure to follow John Allen on Twitter so you can keep up with any work that he has. You can find him at at writer John Allen and it's John J-O-N, not J-O-A-G-N. Yes. So at writer John Allen, and we'll bring more John Allen to you because that's what we do.

We love him. So we hope you keep listening. And we hope you keep it weird But that's a word that your lester gale guy and you go to the mall and you ruin everything Yeah, cuz then you'll die and be caught in a pot portrait for the rest of your life and an orphanage that you choke on a beeper Yeah, I thought that weird What's up Thunderbird? Don't move. I'm okay. Early and ad-free on Amazon Music. Download the Amazon Music app today, or you can listen ad-free with Wondery Plus and Apple podcasts. Before you go, tell us about yourself by completing a short survey at Wondery.com slash survey.

What if you were trafficked into a cult over shot nine times, or fell in love with a vampire, or went into a minor surgery and woke up one week later, paralyzed. What would you do? I'm Whit Missildine, the creator of this is actually happening, a podcast from Wondry that brings you extraordinary true stories of life-changing events, told by the people who lived them. From a young man that dunes his entire future with one choice, to a woman who survived a notorious serial killer. You'll hear their first person account of how they overcame remarkable circumstances. Each episode is an exploration of the human

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