Chapter Text
'Twas several nights before Christmas, when all through the safe house
not a creature was stirring— not notorious insomniac Gustavo Fring, or even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by Fring’s chimney with care,
not out of any indulgence to seasonal whimsy, but because he was, above all else, a careful man, and Christmas decorations, though frivolous, were a societal expectation he had to bear;
But the Rymans were nestled all snug in their beds;
while visions of champurrado danced in their heads;
Mrs. Ryman in her silk nightcap, and Mr. Ryman, wearing his anti-sleep ap—
—nea device, were gently enjoying a long winter's nap,
when from the security monitor there arose such a clatter,
Chris, who had been making himself a cup of coffee at the time, sprang back to the screen to see what was the matter.
In panic he searched for what the night-vision cameras had captured,
as Roy, came in from the bathroom, his moment of peace the alarm having fractured.
Scared, their eyes met, their breathing grew faster;
to be caught with their pants down (literally in Roy’s case) would be a disaster.
Alert and guns drawn, both filled with tension,
they scoured the feed to see what had transpired from their inattention.
The motion sensor light on the side of the abode,
gave a lustre of midday to objects strewn across the road,
when what to their wondering eyes did appear in the driveway,
but a pair of fighting O’Possums— how their spittle did spray!
both of them snarling, so lively and quick!
and between them, a carcass, roast chick…
…en, the previous shift’s dinner in fact.
‘Twas then Chris and Roy knew whomever had stacked
the remains in the trash,
had neglected the lid of the garbage to lash.
“Ah fuck,” breathed out Chris, in relief and frustration.
“What a mess,” Roy muttered. “Hell and damnation.”
More rapid than eagles the schedule they found,
and looked over the names, each keen as a hound,
each nursing a suspicion, each nursing a blame.
There’d been Diego and Daniel, then Paulie and Dixon,
Cosmo, then Connor, Tyrus and…
Victor.
(Neither of them were surprised.)
“I swear to God,” cursed Chris, “that asshole has done it on purpose.”
Outside, the scene was becoming a circus;
to the top of the wall, the O’Possums did jump,
with much dashing and prancing and biting of rumps.
For minutes the henchmen watched this mayhem unfold,
neither one willing to rush into the cold.
They would, absolutely, had it been the cartel—
but a ‘possum fight?
Nah.
Once they established there was no imminent threat,
fun could be had; Chris and Roy each placed a bet,
on their chosen O’Possum, weapons once again holstered.
But as a flash flood fills an arroyo, quickly this attitude altered;
Sounds from the basement… footfalls… a tread
ascending the stairs… it filled them with dread.
(Respectful dread, but still. Dread.)
Had Fring awoken? Had he heard the noise?
Had he come to investigate? He so eerily poised?
Chris and Roy, they sat straighter, trustworthy and true,
the very picture of professionalism; they pushed their shoulders back too.
And then, in a twinkling, the footsteps ceased their approach.
A new sound was heard— a grizzled sigh of reproach.
Oh, thank God they both thought,
They relaxed ever so slightly, because Fring it ‘twas not.
Chris and Roy, in their seats, turned around with a nod;
though the reply was lacklustre, this was not odd.
Mike was dressed all in black, from his head to his foot,
an outfit befitting the dark of his look.
A bundle of toys — or donations, to be more accurate, to be given to the Albuquerque chapter of Toys for Tots on behalf of Los Pollos Hermanos— he had flung on his back,
but as incongruous ‘twas, to see Mike with this pack,
his eyes drew focus; Oh, how they did not twinkle!
And if he had dimples, hard were they to see under his wrinkles.
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry,
But neither Chris or Roy were, incredibly, very
Keen to wax lyrical on Mike’s rosy face;
Mike dropped his sack, spoke, hands interlaced.
“Either of you,” he asked, and not very merrily,
(Chris and Roy knew they should proceed very warily)
“want to explain what I’m looking at here?”
Chris gathered his courage and swallowed his fear.
“’Twas a ‘possum fight, boss.” This said in a serious tone,
But Mike sucked his teeth and sighed with a groan.
“I can see that. I’m asking why nothing’s been done.”
So ended their downtime, thus ended their fun.
Chris and Roy glanced at each other and then at the screen,
where fought the O’Possums, each still just as mean.
They carefully avoided the grim eyes of Mike;
they studied his chin— each hair there a wee spike.
“I guess I could,” Chris began, his stomach a knot,
“get the hose?” Roy chimed in: “It’s sure worth a shot.”
“Alright then,” said Mike. “Then why don’t you try it.”
(By this point he’d had quite enough of their shit.)
With a world-weary sigh, and a shake of his head,
Mike gathered up some old papers he needed to shred;
When he spied in a pile, on the couch, by the door,
for the kids of New Mexico, even more
contributions; games, clothes and new toys,
ones bought by the henchmen; Mike’s crew, all his boys.
Such a soft gesture and Mike felt a glow,
Briefly, but strongly; so into the sack they did go
(the toys not the henchmen).
Once these tasks were accomplished, Mike then turned with a jerk,
to the screens which showed Chris having finished his work,
to separate the O’Possums, and send them back to the bush.
The henchmen, now sheepish, said not a word,
but as their boss started to leave them, they both swore that they heard
A chuckle, so jolly, and a short tuneful whistle,
so at odds with Mike’s gruffness, his cynical bristle—
They heard him exclaim as he left their sight,
“Merry Christmas, you guys. And have a good night.”