Work Text:
Wayne comes to the mornin’ of Christmas Eve feeling like he’s been hit by a truck.
And he does hope that’s what happened. That he spent a cold afternoon at Modeans XXII drinking shoulder to shoulder with Daryl and Squirrley Dan. The pair and a half of them fervently brewing up Christmas plans and talk of tinsel. They must have surely been in agreements on how to best their holiday celebrating competitors when they called it a night, and Wayne must have been flat-footing out the iced over back parking lot, heading home, feeling festive and fine.
That must have been when it happened. When he saw the white hot headlights coming for him. Too slow to move, stuck toe-to-toe in a traffic tango that’s left him lying abed with a minor bout of amnesia. How else could he explain why for the first time in his life this farmer’s son of a farmer’s son can’t bring himself to move from his extra-firm matress first thing that morning?
Attempting to lift his body, Wayne strains, Wayne struggles. But its no use.
He lays there with seconds ticking by. Soon, its 0501 in the A, then 0502. 0503 even and he has not risen promptly as any good hick would. He has failed to move an inch in fact.
His head is heavier than lead, eyes gritty as cheap sandpaper, and his throat feels, well, his throat’s so tight and scratchy he can’t think of a worthwhile simile. And that’s all to say nothing of the knot in his shoulders, the aching down his back, and the death rattle building in the base of his lungs, lurching and looming its way up until it passes his lips—
“Ah— ah— Achoo!”
Wayne sniffles. Wipes his runny nose on the cuffs of his flannel nightshirt.
Yeah. Twas definitely truck definitely got him.
Because the alternative is unimaginable.
A cold this close to Christmas? Unthinkable.
***
Katy has broken out the spare hazmat gear from COVID times. She patently refuses to go near Wayne, stamping her feet outside his door, far from the blast radius of his coughing. “Wayne.”
“Katy.” He croaks back.
“We need to talk.”
“Whatever for?”
“Its Christmas tomorrow.”
“Known fact.” Wayne does not like this new nasal quality to his voice. It makes him sound like a skid. “And seeing as we have much ado in preparations, lets get to the point.”
“We are hosting this year!” Katy snaps.
“Course we are. We host every year.”
“Well, as you know, our party is at the same time as the McMurray soiree.”
Wayne could spit in disgust if he didn’t feel so radioactive. “Soiree,” he scoffs. “They put that on the fuckin’ invitation.”
“On the invitations,” Katy shook her head in bitter solidarity. “So to spite them, and in the name of tradition, we have to carry on our hard won mantle of merriment-making.”
“No matter whats.”
“Agreed. But no matter what means no matter what. Even if we lose a man in the trenches.”
Understanding, Wayne turns his eyes to squint at her. “Myself included.”
She nods solemnly, serious as the grave Wayne might just roll into.
“Yourself included. That’s why I’m putting you in lock-down. The rest of the house is off limits. You are allowed no visitors until New Years.”
“I appreciate the quarantining spirit, but don’t you think it might be a touch of overkill?”
“No such thing. There’s no room for the flu on Christmas.”
“It’s not the flu. And it’s not a cold.” Wayne raises a single authoritative finger — or he tries to, arm flagging to the side under its own weight. “Tis naught but a twenty-four hour bug.”
“Wayne, you can lie to me, you can lie to Saint Nick, you can even lie to yourself; but you cannot lie to the spirit of Louis Pasteur.”
Wayne grumbles, moaning tiredly, because of course. What would the father of germ theory think if he heard him making such excuses?
“In the name of Christmas and the three wise men, we absolutely cannot risk an outbreak. So this is goodbye, brother.” Katy crossed her hands solemnly over her heart. “Good luck in there.”
Wayne salutes her as she slams the door shut.
***
Word spreads fast. From back room gossip at Modeans XXIII to the pulpit of Pastor Glen's holiday flock, everyone has caught wind of it by now. Wayne, the king of hicks, is dying. He's ever so bedridden, or haven't you heard? Gone deathy pale, sweating out his last as his pulse wavers. Its a tragic enough picture that Squirrely Dan comes running to Wayne's bedside to pour out his last goodbyes and send his bestest friend off this great mortal coil. He’s expecting to find the worst if his thundering footsteps and heaving chest are anything to go by.
"Hiya Wayne," he says with tears in his eyes.
"Squirrely Dan,” Wayne croaks, coughs. “How're'ya?"
"Good. And you?
"Been better. Trading blows with a twenty-four hour bug."
"Twenty and fours?" demands Dan, aghast.
"Well, I've only made it to the eleventh hour. So that's something. Ways to go yet. But I'll be right as rain in time for Christmas."
"That's not—" Dan sputters. He paces, flustered. "All anyone's and everyone's can says in town is that you'll be dead by boxing day."
"I'm sorry to say you've been deceived."
"But I—"
"You been listening to McMurray again?” Wayne turns up his stuffy nose in disgust. “The man can't even properly dress a Canadian balsam fir, but you want to let him predict the time and date of my demise like some sort of zodiac killer?"
Dan stops pacing, looking at Wayne with a fretful expression.
“Waynes, are you confusing the zodiac spree killer with an pseudo-scientifics astrological predictor of death?”
Wayne shivers, considering hard. “Yes, I might be.”
Dan whistles lowly. “Boy. You really are sick.”
“I'm thinking I just might be. That’s why you shouldn't be here, pal. If Katy catches sight of you, she'll lock you up tight the same as me and toss away the key."
“But we can't keep you coops up'ed in here. It’s Christmas. It’s tradition!”
"See the aforementioned detail of this—" Wayne gestures about to his bundled blankets, wool stockings, cold compress, and assortment of used tissues at his bed side table— “being nary more than a twenty four hours bug. And it will not last a minute more. You'll see me bright and early Christmas day. As per tradition."
“But Wayne, what if—”
“No but's Squirrley Dan. Or don't you believe in the most magical time of the year?”
“Waynes, you always says that belief is a philosophical failing you'll take no parts in.”
“I do always says that. But you know what else I've been known to say?”
“That you can measure a man by how many times he gets back up again.”
“And I always do, Dan. And I wouldn't dare mention that it took Jesus three entire supposed days to rise back from the dead, but I swears I can do more in less. So you get to getting and sneak out the back. Katy is roasting something downstairs in the kitchen. I want you back here at oh-seven-hundred like we planned. You'll be manning the eggnog station.”
“As per tradition,” says Dan, hat in hand, eyes twinkling with relief.
“As per,” Wayne repeats, groggy. His eyes slip closed. He can’t help it. And maybe it isn't sugar plums dancing through his dreams, but its something darn close to it.
***
Wayne snored through maybe half an hour before the wrath of Mariah Carey came down upon him. It was subtle at first. It always is. A windy twinkling of bells. A sparkle of crooning. Sleigh bells. Church bells. Ascending percussion. And then all at once like the sound of thunder, the cacophony no different from a snow globe cracking Wayne over the side of his head knocked him what for and onto the floor.
Certain of the end times, Wayne hunkered down at first. Nothing to get too excited about if American pop stars were ushering in the apocalypse. But by the second chorus Wayne had not been smote to ash nor dust and he began to realize something stranger was afoot. Those weren’t Mariah’s high notes.
“ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS… IS… WAAAAYNE—”
Clambering to the sill, Wayne threw open the window. The burst of icy air was a balm to his battered senses. The bellowing karaoke from the front lawn however, left his wishing for a noose made of mistletoe.
The crowd of carolers cut down the screeching when Wayne pelted the nearest objects he could find straight for the lot of them. A working boot and an alarm clock to be specific.
Most of the pack scattered. But the ringleader remained.
Wayne sighed and called down to his tormentor. “Glenn.”
“Wayne!”
“How’re you now?”
“Filled with Christmas cheer and the love of Jesus Christ! And you?”
“Oh y’know… filled with an overabundance of opportunistic prokaryotic life currently undermining my ability to feel any of the that there Christmas cheer.”
“Now see, that’s why me and the Letterkenny Triple X-X-X-mas Choir have come to save the day!” Chipper and rosy-cheeked, Glenn sashayed his hips and clapped his hands together. “We all heard around town you were feeling down in the dumps immune-system wise, and because everybody knows music revives the soul we thought we would serenade you!”
Wayne’s brain may be throbbing, but he’s got enough mind left that he can’t let that one go. He squints.
“What did you say the choir was named again?”
“The Letterkenny Triple X-X-X-mas Choir!” Glenn shimmied in the snow, letting the last syllable carry on his high-pitched flouncy voice. “I named the group myself.”
“Fuck’s sake, course you did,” Wayne mutters, then louder, he calls out; “But I’m sure you have other houses to carol at.”
“Oh no, we do not Wayne! You are a pillar of our community. And we have to keep your strength up through the power of song!”
“Do we though?”
“Yes! how else are we going to get you better in time for Christmas proper and all its festivities?”
“I reckon by letting me rest. It’s only a twenty-four hour bug after all. Now if you don’t mind…”
“But Waaaaaayne,” he whined, “we still have another whole arrangement to play you. I have a harmonica solo!”
Wayne huffs, irritable. “Glen, are you looking to get uninvited from Christmas?”
He gasped. Clutching at his collar, the pastor looks positively heartbroken. “You wouldn’t!”
“No… no, I wouldn’t,” Wayne admits, a smidgen of shame churning in his gut. Christmas was far too sacred a thing to snatch away that easily. “But if you keeps it down until tomorrow, I’ll let you pick Christmas hymn we sing before Christmas ham.”
Glen wrings his hands with excitement. “Oh Wayne, you remembered how much I love a good Christmas hymn-ham tradition!”
“Course I did. Everyone loves tradition. Now will you leave?”
Glen shook his head. “Not until we shake on it!”
Before Wayne could think or Katy could so much as leave the kitchen to stop him, Glen had barreled through the front door and up the stairs. He was in the hallway trying out different doors before turned the knob to Wayne’s bedroom.
“My, my, my, Wayne, this isn’t how I pictured your bedroom at all.” He lifts the lid to Wayne’s hamper, eyeing his laundry and other unmentionables. Its then Wayne wishes Mariah Carey truly had dragged him to hell. “But we can talk about redecorating later!” Glen holds out his now ungloved hand. “Put her there and give me a good shake with those fine, manly hands of yours.”
“You shouldn’t shake hands with the infectious.”
Glen nods. “That is right, isn’t it. We can try something else. A hug maybe? A little side cheek-to-cheek action?”
“Let’s take about twenty percent off there. And in this case, a handshake will do fine, actually,” Wayne reverses course. Glen’s bubbly enthusiasm rattles his whole body as he swings Wayne’s hand in his own.
“Yes, yes, yes! A promise made! And I’ll be holding you to it. See you in twenty four hours.”
“Twelve hours and counting,” Wayne murmurs as Glen departs. He falls back asleep to the sounds of Katy chasing Glen down the drive for breaking quarantine.
***
The next interruption comes with a knock.
This time its Katy. She’s got not one but two pairs of visitors at her back.
“You up, Wayne?”
“Regrettably. Whose that all behind you?”
“Your newest visitors. Because no one in this goddamn town respects a good quarantine.”
“Well they won’t if you don’t enforce it—”
Katy slaps her hands to hips. “I can’t be expected to prepare the best Christmas party ever and keep you under lock and key like you’re some sort of virgin princess promised to a warring sovereign. If everybody wants to gamble with the plague, that’s on them. You can all pop your flu cherry together—”
“Please, Katy,” Wayne begs. “Phrase that any other way, I am begging you.”
“Your begging is heard and denied. Goddamn Glen stomped up the stairs with his boots on. He tracked snow everywhere. At least these idiots used the doorbell.”
His sister turns heel and the first two visitors enter. They have the good sense to wear face masks. But the fabric barriers are already greasy and green around the edges where the masks meet the skin of the Skids. Stewart and Roald
“Wayne, we’ve heard you have recently been overcome with a parasitic infection—” Stewart wiggles his eyebrows for no discernible good reason and Roald triumphantly hooks his thumbs round the straps of his overalls. “And despite your history of unjust antagonism against us, we have chosen to be merciful in your hour of need.”
“We brought you this!” Roald bounds forward, plopping a dented thermos on the bedside table.
“Its freshly brewed with the finest ingredients we could get off of Ebay—”
“And a few we couldn’t get, so we substituted a few things from the SaveSmart Mart—”
“But it should be equal to the authentic article!” Stewart assures.
“Authentic… as in what?”
“Lizard tea!” Roald jitters out.
“Its lizard broth, you fool,” snaps Stewart, smacking Roald in the shoulder far too roughly. “A traditional Cantonese recipe. The perfect cure for the common cold!”
Wayne glances wearily at the grimy thermos. “And is it too much to hope the lizard portion is figurative?”
“Pfft. What do you take us for, Wayne? Of course we found you a fresh specimen to simmer! Its holistic! Its healthy! Or are you going to turn up your nose to our gift? Don’t tell me you plan to bow down to the Western pharmaceutical death-worshiping complex that treats your symptoms but refuses to balance you chi or your chakras?”
“I can’t tell which part of that is more offensive.” Wayne lays his head back down on his pillow. These two aren’t worth straining his neck. “You two are done here. Next!”
The skids get elbowed out of the room and the slack-jawed hockey twins enter.
“We heard you were dying. We thought we’d bring you this and maybe we’d get to see a dead body if we were too late—”
The dumb one in the hat turns over a plastic bag and leaves it at the foot of the bed.
“Do you think we’ll have like, your wake on Christmas? They keep dead bodies out for wakes, right? We could still see it.”
“Yeah!” nods the dumber one in the dumber hat.
Wayne gargles and spits a wad of snot into a tissue. He can’t waste good manners on the likes of this lot. He shoots for and misses the trash can, but Roald bumbles back into the room to sweep the used tissues into the wastebasket like the fidgeting nervous cretin he is.
Wayne is about to tell the lot of them where they can hit the bricks too, but he notices the contents of the plastic bag. Cautiously, he reaches inside and removes two bottles of bright fluorescent orange-flavored sports drinks.
“Packed with electrolytes!” chimes the dumber one.
“Perfect to replenish your fluids,” grins the slightly less dumb one.
Wayne is at a loss for words. “Why, that’s strangely useful. Considering its coming from the pair of you. Thank you…” Wayne wracks his brain but comes up short, “very much… Johnny?”
“Jonesy,” says one.
“Thank you, Jonesy.”
“No, he’s Jonesy. I’m Reilly.”
“Lets split the difference and say it doesn’t matter really. I just can’t believe either of you managed to look like geniuses compared to the skids here.”
“Hold your horses there, hick!” screeches Stewart. “Those bottles are half full!”
Wayne blinks. Glancing down, he sees the meth’d up freak is right. He turns back to the hockey heads. “You idiots waterfall these? Or did you put your lips on em?”
“Yeah? Why wouldn’t we?”
“We got thirsty on the way over.”
Exhausted, Wayne chucks the bottles at them, one apiece. If he hits them in the head, its no real concern. Further head trauma can only help at this point.
“Ow! Not nice man!”
“Uncool! So uncool. And we didn’t even get to see a dead body.”
“Yeah, will the wake, like, be tomorrow? Is it an RSVP sitch or open house?”
“Should we bring a dish?”
Wayne is this close to barricading his bedroom door. “Considering all you two know about food safety, do us a favor and keep it BYOB from now until the end of time. Oh, and in case any of your are wondering, its a twenty-four hour bug. There’s no goddamn funerals to arrange. Only the best damn Christmas party this town has ever seen. Now get out of my sight or you’ll be in the runnings to audition for the ghosts of Christmas past.”
“What does that mean?” asks the hockey idiots in unison.
“Its a death threat, morons,” Stewart sniggers. “Let’s bounce before the hick drinks his lizard broth and regains his strength!”
He staggers away with Roald in tow. And the degens follow after, like the confused sheep they are.
***
The commotion does not stop. Bonnie McMurray swings by and offers to play nurse and Wayne politely declines. Gail slinks in and promises that sexual healing is the cure to all ills, especially the kind that involves orgasms originating in the prostate and Wayne again politely declines. Then Jim Dickens moseys over to swear that the cure for the flu is slathering one’s feet in menthol ointment and to keep both socks on the wrong feet overnight. Coach stumbles through to have a good cry and remind Wayne that his ex-wife knew all the best home remedies but that was back before she left him for a financier with six rental properties in Alberta. Then Mrs McMurray saunters in and tells him a good cock-sucking G-and-T would have him right as rain if he he knew what was good for him. And that last bit perplexes Wayne, seeing as her husband is the one planning the competing Christmas party in the same time slot. But she raves on her way out that she can’t have the whole cocksucking town rambling in and out of her house. What is she expected to do? Cook, clean, and host? On cocksucking Chirstmas day?!
All in all the whole town seems certain that they and only they know which cure will get Wayne back on his feet in time for the big day. And Wayne would appreciate the sentiment of good will towards their fellow man and peace on earth if only he sleep for longer than ten minutes without the door blowing open yet again.
Hopeless, but without any other real choice, Wayne closes his eyes again. Maybe this time they’ll leave him be…
***
“Seasons greetings, good buddy!”
“Daryl,” answers Wayne without opening his eyes. He can see Darry without seeing him. His toothy smile and stillness, hopeful head full of curls tipped to the side, leaned against the door frame in the pine tree embroidered work jumper that Katy made special for him for his last super soft birthday.
Wayne can only imagine what he looks like. Half his body is slung off the bed, legs dangling with his head half off the pillow. Every blanket he owns is hanging onto the bed for dear life, otherwise piling up on the floor. Wayne can’t muster the muscle required to tug his quilt back into place. He’s weak at a kitten, running over with chills one minute, then soaked in sweat the next.
It hurts to lay, hurts to sit, hurts to turn, hurts to breathe. Hurts to be, quite simply. And most of all, it hurts to think Wayne ever believed himself tougher than this.
“Heard yous were hosting a town meeting in here,” says Daryl. His footsteps can be heard crossing the floor to and fro, but Wayne doesn’t bother peeping a look see.
“An impromptu one of sorts,” Wayne replies. “Seems they penciled me into the docket.”
“And did we take a vote on anything of importance?” There’s the sounds of a lot of shuffling about. Daryl’s moving something around as as he talks to Wayne.
“Only my impending demise.”
Daryl laughs. “And how impending is impending?”
“Not very. Tis not but—” Wayne hacks a snorkeling cough once more, “not but a twenty-four hour bug.”
“Bud, anyone ever tell you that you cough like a nervous hyena laughs?”
“No. But I’ve been told I sneeze like a desert rain frog’s squeaky toy mating call.”
“Did they tell you that?” Daryl must be shaking his head. “Well then sorry to say, but you’ve been lied to pal. It’s more like shoebill stork’s rivet-gunning beak clattering.”
“See, I can understands your confusion. The shoebill stork is a commonly confused racket maker. But the truths is I sound like a seasick porcupine playing a kazoo.”
“Hmm… maybe more like an American woodcock with a bad, bad case of the hiccups.”
Daryl is closer to the bedside now. He’s hovering over Wayne for a moment. Its strange and soothing enough that Wayne can practically feel Daryl’s shadow laying over him. Wayne means to tell him how he wishes he weren’t so fucking awkward their bud. But instead the press of Daryl’s hands find Wayne’s shoulders, easing him into place on the pillow. And then gently, ever so gently, the shift and rustle of blankets can be felt. The quilts are tidy and even across his chest. The cold compress is laying back across his scalp. And with a cracked eye Wayne can see his forsaken alarm clock and work boot are no longer strewn over the from lawn, but fetched neatly and carefully, put back where it each belongs. Exactly where Wayne likes them.
“Thank you, Darry.”
“Nothing to it, bud.” Daryl squeezes his hand tight. “And you know Wayne, if you’re not feeling up to it… there’s nothing stopping us from—”
“Don’t you dare say a word about rescheduling." Wayne sniffled. “You do not reschedule tradition.”
“Course not,” Daryl tucks him in tighter. “You just keep your eyes closed. You know how the doctors say; not getting enough sleep is the only thing what turns a twenty-four hour bug into a forty-eight out flu.”
Easing back, Wayne nods. It was true after all. Any doctors worth their salt did in fact say that.
“Ten four, good buddy. Ten four.”
***
Truth be told, Tanis never needed much fanfare. It was well past dark and only mid afternoon when she sat herself on the edge of Wayne’s bed.
“Eyes up hick. I’ve brought you something.”
She holds up a sealed plastic bowl just under his nose. Thick steam wafts off of it. And Wayne could cry from the way the savory armor is like a shield around him. Its been hours, but he can finally and honestly say that he’s hungry.
No.
He’s ravenous.
“See, this here is some genuine Indian Christmas magic. It’s chock full of sacred herbs, made just for you.”
Wayne’s stomach growls in protest. His pupils dart her down. “What is it actually?”
“Its homemade bone broth,” she shrugs. Deadpan, she flips him off before she dabs at the sweat of his brow. “I put in a pinch of spice, some chicken, a little noodle, the works. My personal recipe. Oh, but no worries; I held the red chili flakes for you. I know how your uncultured tum-tum bothers you.”
Slights upon his gastric fortitude aside, the delicacy sounds like heaven to Wayne.
He leans in close to the container, dragging in the deepest whiff his congested nostrils will allow. And he starts to hope. “Say Tanis… is this here… is there any chance this here has some, uh—”
“Some S&P?” she finishes for him. “You know it, boo. Its got plenty of fresh cracked pepper and that Himalayan pink salt for my favorite Pink-Dick.”
Wayne looks up at her with furrowed eyes. Maybe it was a Christmas miracle after all.
She hands him a single spoon rolled in a white paper napkin. Its more than Wayne’s poor heart can take.
“Tanis, I reckon its time for you to leave. Before I do something unwise.”
That gets her attention. She scoots in closer. “Unwise huh? How bad an idea are we talking?”
“Pretty bad. I’m liable to propose marriage any minute.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Ew.”
“Careful now. Or I’m gonna get down on my knees right this second.”
“You’re ruining the mood.”
“I’d make a downright honest woman out of you. You’d want for nothing.”
“Staahp.” She gags as she hops off his bed. Wayne sits up in her absence and takes the first morsel laden spoonful to his mouth. Its rich and hearty, tender and warm. He feels it steeping through him, like the heat of a hearth fire speading through his soul.
He comes to his senses at once. “We should stay fuck-buddies with broth benefits until we’re old and gray and my balls are sagging.”
She tapped her manicured nails to her chin, contemplating.
“Lets see if you live that long, first.”
“Its a twenty-and-one-half hour bug, Tanis.” Wayne sips greedily from the lip of the bowl, nearly downing himself in the soup. “I’ll be just fine.”
“Really? Cause I heard through the grapevine it was twenty-four minimum.”
“This here is running up the clock. Finest cure in Letterkenny.”
But before he can drink any deeper, she winks at him, giving one of her deep sultry chuckles, all dark lilts and mischief. And the moment gets away from her as she sweeps over to him and smugly kisses Wayne smack dab on the lips. Its playful and biting and such a stupid, terrible fucking idea.
Coming up for air, Wayne sighs. “Tanis, you do remember that I’m sicker than a woodpeckers lips are hard?”
“Oh. Right.” She rolls her eyes. “Shit.”
“Shall I take you off the Christmas RSVP list?”
“Shut it. And give me back that soup! I need it more.”
Hackles raised, Wayne brandishes his spoon. Just this once, he’s ready and willing to fight a woman if he has to.
***
Later, Wayne wakes early the next morn. The sky outside is brighter than he can remember. The once barren winter fields are now pristine and white. Best of all, the air is calm, quiet and heavy with a gentle but growing cheer that threatens to envelope the world in the most wonderful way.
Its Christmas, finally. Right and proper Christmas.
Wayne’s feet hit the ground running. There’s cooking that needs cooking. Decorating that needs decorating. Merriment that needs merrying. And Wayne has just enough time to do it all before the best Christmas party Letterkenny has ever seen sets off without a single hitch. There’s nothing and no one that can dream to stop him now. Not even a measly bacterium.
Ambling down the stairs with an air of victory normally reserved for Colosseum gladiators and degen loving showboats, Wayne expects to find Katy among the tinsel and trappings. But instead to find her he has to follow the sound of what might be mistaken for nervous hyena giggles.
The noise leads him to Katy’s bedroom. She’s hacking and coughing away on the other side of the door.
A moment later Wayne’s phone rings. It’s Squirrely Dan, remorseful and snotty, begging forgiveness for canceling on him. Then its Glen, wailing and whooping from cough to cough. Gail is next, looking more feverish than usual when she video calls. Then Coach does the same, phoning from what might be the floor of Modeans XXIV, looking more or less as pathetic as normal. After he receives a vomit emoji laden text from Tanis, followed by Bonnie’s predictable string of heartbreak emoticons. Then there’s an angry voicemail from Stewart who really shouldn’t have Wayne’s number. Two unlisted numbers un-RSVP, and maybe that’s the hockey-headed idiots for all Wayne nows. Last comes McMurray, croaking how he didn’t even come to visit Wayne, so why should he be sick!?
But once Daryl calls in, he knows the day is a wash. He lets Darry moan about his aching head and freezing cold toes while Wayne pokes around the kitchen. He’s got all the makings of good broth somewhere in the pantry. Some carrots, some celery. There’s definitely a box of uncooked egg noodles buried in the back.
When the pot is boiling, he texts everyone he’ll be right over, as soon as he can. The bowls will be left promptly at each doorstep, following a single ring of the door bell. And he warns each and every one of them he will be accepting absolutely zero Letterkenny hospitality today. So don’t no one or anyone get too excited abouts inviting him into today.
After all, Wayne can’t be catching a cold for the first annual greatest ever Boxing Day Party this town has ever seen, now can he?
That’s no way to go about starting a new tradition.
fin.