It was some kind of high pitched keening sound that brought me back into the real world. It could have been ringing in my ears, but as the blackness that was once the bar melted away into the dazzling morning light, so too did the Four Cannons shirt. It was screaming. It was my wife screaming. I flew out of my bed so fast I don’t know how I managed to land on my feet, but I did, and I was chasing the blur that ran past our bedroom down the stairs.
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The elves, too, looked sad, and a couple of them cuddled against the Four Cannons shirt, as he stroked them as if they were loving pets. My vision was going, but I managed to take one last look at it. Despite goats being identified with Satan and the occult, somehow I could not see this creature as demonic, as evil. But all the same, I hated it. I mentally raged at it, impotent in my complete paralysis. Just enough human emotion came forth in that horrific face that it recalled the kindly old Santa. And that emotion, alien in those strange amber eyes with the long pupils, was pity.