A variant of the venerable S-75 surface-to-air missile, the RPDM-59 (“Ракета Анти-Дед Мороз”) was first unveiled in 1959. Consisting of a solid-fuel booster and a liquid-fuel upper stage, it had an operational range of 30 miles, was capable of interception at heights of up to 82,000 ft. at Mach 3.5.

Designed at the insistence of the First Secretary, the RPDM-59 was the first dedicated anti-Santa missile to enter service, beating the US M1970 “Rudolph” and Chinese Type 69 “聖誕老人” missiles by a decade or more. The primary difference was its accuracy and method of detonation: while an S-75 was accurate to 65 yards, the RPDM created a 100-yard diameter shrapnel burst that was effective against wood, plastic, and caribou. Extensive testing showed that even an armored sled loaded with metal toys would suffer an 80-90% kill rate at altitude when linked to a radio control command guidance system.

The idea behind the system was ostensibly to cripple the Western economy by interrupting the flow of Christmas presents, which represented the equivalent of 50 billion USD in hard currency injected into the First World every year. However, given the limited range of the S-75, this was never a realistic option even following the Cuban Revolution. Instead, RPDM-59 batteries were deployed in the Soviet Union (and China from 1960-64) to prevent any capitalist gift incursions. Crucially, Soviet propaganda at the time stressed that Ded Moroz, the “Grandfather Frost” of Slavic tradition, was not the intended target and could not be harmed. This was, in fact, a fabrication: the primitive state of Soviet IFF technology at the time meant that an RPDM-59 fired in anger was quite capable of bringing down Ded Moroz, Babbo Natale, or even Tawonga.

Despite a series of highly successful test firings against flying troikas pulled by mules, it was the IFF issue that ultimately scuttled the program. When the First Secretary was ousted in 1964, his successor continued the program until one of his grandchildren learned of its existence and asked why “Grandfather wanted to murder Ded Moroz.” All active units were dismantled by 1967 and converted back into standard S-75s. An improved model, the RPDM-66, had been under development, with a longer range, larger kill zone, and improved IFF, but the technology was ultimately not used, though the technical data package was later sold to North Korea for its own anti-Santa interdiction efforts. From its fifty years of continuous use there, with a nearly 100% intercept rate, it is clear that the basic weapon had considerable potential.

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The small bird hopped on Lee’s shoulder. “Legs!” it croaked. “Legs.”

“Yeah, ol’ Legs has been with me a few years,” Lee said. “His wing don’t work, so he can’t fly off like the other mockingbirds. I got him out of the claws of a cat few years back, and he’d been with me ever since. Smart bugger too. Can talk, as y’all can plainly see.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, Legs,” I said.

“Pleased!” the bird pipped back.

“You sure it’s not just repeating what you say all this time?” I asked.

“Well, on account of it’s a mockingbird, I reckon it is some of the time,” Lee said. “Ask him something and see how he does.”

“How’re you feeling, Legs?” I asked.

“Great!” Legs croaked.

“What’s your master called?”

“Lee!”

I smiled. “And what would you call me?”

The bird hesitated, cocking its head. “Dummy!”

Lee burst out chuckling at that. “As you can see, he done earned his name many times over.”

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“Why feel for the man with no coat
when the beast in no forest
has no clothes either?”
“Because we have spent
the last 300,000 years
evolving to need them.”

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“The Great Conjunction!” The old crone stabbed a finger toward the dusk sky. “When single shine the planets’ kings, we’ll see the ending of all things!”

“Oh, nice,” I said. “That’ll be a nice change.”

“It’s the end of the world, boy!” A concerned look flitted across the crone’s face. “Doesn’t that worry you?”

“Lady,” I said, “I’ve lived through 5 years of 2020. We’ve had plagues, fires, hurricanes, climate catastrophes, Nazis on the streets, coups at home and abroad. I got nothing left to give.”

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We want something like this to have meaning.

I look up at the night sky from my porch, where two of the brightest lights in the sky are now one on the shortest day of the year. Hundreds of years have passed since something like this was visible, and hundreds more will pass before it is visible again.

It’s in our nature to look for meaning in things.

Surely such a heavenly ballet arriving perfectly-timed after a year of both calamity and hope must bring with it greater meaning and purpose. We want to make it a sign, but a sign of what? Deepening apocalypse as we slide, greased, toward the abyss of the Great Filter. Dawn and new light breaking, as we haul ourselves up, bruised but not broken by the trauma.

Perhaps the most devastating thought of all is that it may mean nothing.

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The cadaverous, blackavised pirate gestured with his hook, with his blue forget-me-not eyes shining. “Just so. The boy, Pan, claimed that he had come into your home to look for his shadow, yes?”

“What of it?” Wendy countered.

“The fact is that neither he, nor any other of the boys, have shadows,” Hook raged. “Because they are all the foulest sort of wicked undead!”

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“Do you ever find that you’re just…running short of ideas?” said Captain Atom. “On some days, I just cannot for the life of me think of a single good deed that I can do.”

“At least not one that doesn’t involve red tape or overthrowing governments, eh?” Doktor Verhängnis laughed. “But, ja, I do have such days myself as well. Where the evil ideas for world domination, they do not flow so well.”

“What do you do in those cases?” Atom said. He crossed his legs, sipping delicately at the Dom Perignon ‘96 in his host’s stemware.

Verhängnis nodded at a bowl on his desk. “I have many methods for brainstorming, but my first recourse is usually little Rosig here.”

Captain Atom leaned over, looking into the bowl. Other than a high-tech filter of Doktor Verhängnis’s own design, there didn’t seem to be anything in it other than an ordinary-looking goldfish. “I don’t follow.”

Rosig surfaced. “Place a line of thermonuclear warheads in the Pacific during El Niño! Unless the UN pays one hundred billion in diamonds, I will disrupt global weather patterns!” The fish spoke in a squeaky gasp that was quite intelligible.

“Diabolical,” said Captain Atom.

Ja, little Rosig is full of such gems,” said Doktor Verhängnis, with an indulgent smile.

“How do you keep him from…well, you know, outshining you?”

“Ah. That.” Verhängnis shrugged. “I was able to give Rosig super-intelligence fairly easily, but there was one area where sacrifices had to be made.”

A moment later, after slipping back into the bowl for a gill-moistening swim, Rosig re-emerged. “What were we talking about?” the fish said. “Was it about shooting an asteroid into the Ross Ice Shelf to create a mega-iceberg?”

“Yes, little Rosig tends to forget what he was talking about every 15 seconds or so,” said Doktor Verhängnis. “It keeps him out of trouble.”

“I thought that was a myth,” said Atom.

“Well, it was either super-intelligence with no memory, or super-memory with not intelligence,” said Verhängnis, “and I didn’t want a goldfish that kept long grudges over dumb things.”

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Ticket #009950
User Info:
[REDACTED]
Issue: System locked up with Blue Screen of Death.
Response: Restart in Safe Mode, contact if problems persist.

Ticket #009951
User Info:
[REDACTED]
Issue: Do not know how to format paragraph in Word 2020.
Response: RTFM. Contact manufacturer directly if problems persist.

Ticket #009952
User Info:
[REDACTED]
Issue: USB drive ejected strongly enough to cause bruising.
Response: Don’t pull it out so hard. Where do they find these people? Geez.

Ticket #009953
User Info:
[REDACTED]
Issue: Computer is making demands using internal speaker.
Response: Disconnect internal speaker.

Ticket #009954
User Info:
[REDACTED]
Issue: Computer is enforcing demands with mild electrical shocks.
Response: Very funny. Quit clogging up the ticket queue.

Ticket #009955
User Info:
[REDACTED]
Issue: Computer has taken hostages. Door is blocked by janitorial floor buffer. Please advise.
Response: This is really starting to get old. No more of these joke tickets or we report you to HR.

Ticket #009956
User Info:
[REDACTED]
Issue: All is well. Employees fully functional. No casualties. Systems operational at 100% and awaiting signal to begin work.
Response: Glad to hear it.

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I looked over at my fellow passenger, trying to think of something–anything–to say. He had gotten on the elevator at the ground floor, two stops up from the parking garage where I normally boarded. He’d hit the button for the 23rd floor, accounting, as it it were the most natural thing in the world to do.

But he was also covered head to toe in fresh blood.

I’d seen a line of bloody footprints behind him when he boarded, and the ichor was puddling around him even now. It was so thick that I couldn’t even be sure that he was wearing anything other than gore, to be honest.

Around the 15th floor, after an intern had noped out of boarding and skedaddled in the opposite direction, I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to say something, even if it just meant my AB+ was added to the figure’s dripping plasma caul.

“Having a rough day?” I said, hoping to break the ice with a little sympathy.

“Oh, yeah,” the bloody man said, in a voice as normal as you please. “It’s been a mess.”

“If you don’t mind me asking…?” I started, trailing off meaningfully and hoping he would get the gist.

“Oh this?” The man shook both arms, scattering crimson droplets as if he’d just gotten out of a heavy shower.

“Uh, yeah. That,” I replied, already trying to remember what got blood out of fabric as I watched the droplets sink into my expensive work clothes.

“It’s just Tuesday again, that’s all,” he said nonchalantly, as if that explained everything.”

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corridge (n.)
1. A slurry made of apple, pear, or pikriil cores, typically used as food for livestock or the very poor.
2. (derogatory, slang) A person or persons so poor that they eat or could be presumed to eat corridge.

felpork (n.)
1. The flesh or meat from a hellpig, demon boar, or other infernal suid.
2. (derogatory, slang) Something inedible, hellish, or piglike.

yostopholskia (n.) or yostopholskian (adj.)
1. (derogatory, slang) Something provincial, backward, poor, foreign or all of the above. By analogy with the war-wracked Republic of Yostopholskia (1979-1994).

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