It was a stark and barmy night: the bits came in torrent - except at occasional intervals when it was checked by network outages which swept up the magick conduits (for it is in Sang Sacre that our story lies), rattling along the treetops, and agitating the scanty flame of flaminess that struggled against the drabth.

"Hector?"

"Yes, boss?"

"Is there such a thing as a metaphor storm?"

"Not that I know of. Or would have known of until recently."

"Hm. Well, looks to be a bad one. Batten the hatches and whatnot and bring me a dozen sets of encyclopedias. The literal nature of the things may protect us."

I slam the phone down on the hook, and head back to the kitchen table muttering under my breath. "Stupid pollsters got nothing better to do than bother people when they're trying to eat breakf..."

I'm brought up short by the contents of my cereal bowl. I blink. And blink again. Nope, still there. "What the..."

I glance suspiciously at the bird, but he's staring at his bowl in confusion, too. I pick up a spoon, and start lifting up and looking at bits from the bowl. Very strange. No cereal, just fruit. Two minutes before I'd poured myself a bowl of Life™, but now it was just a bowl of cherries.

Where have all the flowers gone?

They're blowin', man, blowin' in the wind.

Preparations are underway for the annual leaf raking party in Sang Sacre, where all the women are strong, and the men are good looking, and the zombies restrain themselves to merely nibbling lightly on the spicy brains.

The usual warnings abound about leaping into piles of leaves, because someone else may already be burrowed into that pile, enjoying a nice autumnal coccooning moment. Debate goes around on whether etiquette recommends putting up a little "Occupied" sign next to said piles. Courtesy already dictates that people re-rake any piles disturbed by leaping-into.

The All Hallows decorations are stockpiled, waiting for September 30th to tick over to October 1st. Big this year are strings of lights shaped like pumpkins, witches, bats, and skeletons. The really clever ones are animated, with the bats flapping their wings and the skeletons dancing. Competitive pumpkin carving is being its usual cut-throat self. Hopefully this year the throat cutting will be metaphorical, as opposed to last year's unfortunate incidents--though we do commend the perpetrator for the cunning use of candles and the effectiveness of the resulting display.

People are heard singing "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year" on the streets. Children dash along the street, laughing and speculating on how much candy they'll glean on The Night. Trick or treating always takes place on Hallowe'en, and it is dusk before the marauders--um, delightful children set out. Circling back for seconds is, as always, frowned upon, and the city continues to have no comment on whatever means residents use to deal with double-dippers.

The usual costume contests will occur. Please remember, any extra body parts incorporated into the costume must be fake, unless the costume wearer can produce a receipt or statement of short-term loan from the original owner of said body part.

After days of deliberation, I decide that the scariest thing I can dress up as, is a muggle. I shall wear polyester slacks, a flowery sweater, and put my hair in ponytails. With ribbons.

As I wandered through the main square, I wondered why there were no decorations up in town yet. The Halloween decorations had come down promptly on Nov. 1--except for the Dia de la Muerte skulls, of course--and I knew the ordinances prevented any public displays until after Thanksgiving. But that was a week ago. Had the Anti-Christmas-Proliferation squads dug in their heels to prevent any displays until December?

Shrugging, I headed back to the Folly, making a note to myself to get a nice snowball off the balcony and dump it down the neck of Bob the Vampire. Hibernation through winter indeed.

I'm in another boring meeting about the various issues of running the city. Maybe I should give up the evil overlord business, there is lot more work and a lot less gloating than I was thinking.

"...then there's the lighting of the mayor's Christmas tree, and on..." says my droning assistant. What a minute...

"The lighting of the Christmas tree?" I inquire.

My assistant looks up from his notepad. "Yes, it's a tradition..."

"Not any more! Make a note, I want a new law in place, there is to be no Christmas in this town. Hire extra Trolls to enforce it."

My assistant scrawls down my directive. "Certainly sir. Now to other business."

"No. Begone. That is enough." I make a gesture toward the door and my assitant prepares to leave.

"Wait. I want you to summon Samyaza the dread lich for me. I think something more has to be done about this infernal holliday."

"Yes sir. I will summon him immediately." My assistant says before leaving.

I remove a dagger from my desk and walk over to the map of the world on my wall. With one mighty jab I impale the map on the north pole. This time that jolly fool and his elves will meet their doom. The war on Christmas has begun.

When I walked to the store on the corner, I passed Mrs. McGillicuddy's house. She always had elaborate displays of Christmas ornaments, and I paused to admire her combination Santa's workshop/Hanukkah temple/Bethlehem manger/Kwanzaa display. I started shivering too hard before I could spot the Yule log, but I figured it was there.

On my way back, though, the display had changed. All of Santa's elves had been replaced with garden gnomes. Very grim-faced garden gnomes. And for some reason the animals in the manger display were looking . . . nervous. And the figure of Joseph had shifted to stand between the Workshop section and Mary and the baby.

Oh, well, something different.

I turned to go home and I kicked something. I looked down then picked up the thing I'd kicked. It was a plastic elf hat, the size of the ones that had been on the elf figures. It looked like it had been broken off. Slowly I looked around. Was that a little plastic foot in a green curly toed shoe poking out of that snowdrift?

A noise from the Workshop caught my ear and I turned to look. Santa had moved back a couple of feet, and the gnomes had . . . shifted.

I should do something. Maybe. But I'd seen the Twilight Zone, and I didn't need Rod Serling's ghost shaking his head over me. I was going home, but I was going to keep an eye out.

The legions of the dead march through Fong Sai Square. Skeleton archers, swordsmen, pikemen, and Skeletons with all manner of sharp things march in the lead. Following are the skeletal knights on black, fire snorting demonic horses. Specters and wraiths float along next in eerie silence. The grim parade ends with the zombie marching band bumping into each other and playing off-key.

Led by myself and the dread lich Samyaza, the whole lot marches through the massive gateway in the square leading into frozen wastes of the Arctic.