MicroHorror

The streets of downtown Chicago were bustling with activity in spite of light snow and a chilling wind. The day before Christmas always filled the sidewalks with last-minute shoppers, battling for the best sales. Charles smiled as he walked north on Hyde Street, pausing to drop a ten-dollar bill into the outstretched hat of a grizzled panhandler.

“Bless you, sir,” he beamed at Charles. “Merry Christmas to you.”

“And Merry Christmas to you, friend,” Charles said. The stench of filth and liquor was overpowering, and his mission seemed more clear than ever before. The grocery sack in his arms was growing heavier by the second, but Charles could see his destination. Just ahead stood the massive stone arch marking the main entrance to Hyde Park. It was nearly dusk, but the carved lettering was still visible through wispy swirls of blowing snow. The park was five acres of landscaped woodlands pulled out from the surrounding urban blight. A big central fountain sprayed water skyward during the summer months, and walking paths paved with burnished brick meandered through the woods.

As Charles entered the park, he began to spot the residents. Some slept on wrought iron benches, while others milled about aimlessly. Fires glowed where the picnic grounds were being used as makeshift shelters. Originally planned as urban renewal, this had become a colony for those who’d hit rock bottom. Given the dim twilight, he was reminded of a scene from one of George Romero’s movies.

Not wanting to stay past nightfall, Charles nestled his grocery sack beneath a small group of bushes. It was slightly hidden, but would be quickly found in these woods. Opening the bag, he took one last look inside; a loaf of French bread, half a wheel of cheddar cheese, and a fully cooked ham. The large vodka jug would finish things nicely–Christmas was coming to Hyde Park in a big way this year.

Charles hailed a cab several blocks away. Once back at his hotel, he dropped his heavy wool coat. Turning on the television, he poured himself a stiff drink from the distilled water bottle next to his bed. Ironically, the local news was showing footage of the homeless being fed like feral cats at a charity function. The anchor was saying something about the grace of God.

“How fucking touching,” Charles smirked. “God bless us, everyone.”

Grabbing the water bottle, he poured another drink. This vodka was lousy, but not nearly as bad as the mix he’d left behind in Hyde Park: toxic wood alcohol and distilled water, neatly disguised in a cheap vodka bottle.

Those who drank his Christmas Cheer would get far more than drunk. The “hangover” from methanol poisoning ranged from slow, cramping death to total madness. If a person survived, they could always count on permanent blindness.

Not too many had to worry about that part, though.