Frosty the Snowman

                                                             Frosty The Snowman

Let me start by stating straight out, I ain’t the type to go telling no tall tales. I’m a plain spoken man. That don’t mean I’m simple or uneducated, I got my letters and I’m good with sums. What I’m trying to say is you won’t hear no embellishing coming from me. What it is is what it is, no more, no less.

 The North ain’t no place for people of a sensitive disposition, your lawyers and civil servants and doctors for example. Up here is for folk of a hardier breed so as we can deal with what it is we have to deal with. Like what I run into earlier.

Must have been about two in the afternoon. I still had a couple of hours of daylight left to me and was hoping to make it to the Crossroads. That’s the name of the place, ‘The Crossroads.’ Sometimes folks in these parts ain’t too imaginative with names. You got your White Rapids where there is rapids, Cedar Grove in a cedar grove, and Robin’s Place where that old bird Robin lives.

The Crossroads ain’t much mind you, it’s nothing more than two bars, an inn and a supply shop, each one taking a corner where the north road meets the east/west road. I weren’t there though, remember, I was still a couple of hours south of there when all this occurred.

I was taking a quick break to relieve myself by the side of the sleigh when I noticed that the snow where I was doing my business started to shake. Sometimes we get them ice-quakes. There’s a scientific explanation for them but it’s not relevant cause this weren’t no ice-quake. Seems I had the misfortune of peeing on a snorta.

Now, if you’re from the south you likely never heard of the snorta. It’s related to the Falunian mountain horta which you might have heard of but it’s nastier and faster and is only active when the ground freezes solid. In the warmer months they hibernate deep below the ground, but in the winter months they hide just under the snow like some sort of trapdoor spider waiting to spring upon the unwary.

Let me tell you what it’s like when a snorta comes at you, they look like a giant snowball, maybe three feet in size but they got them that big mouth full of razor sharp teeth and foul breath that smells like someone dumped a gallon of balsamic vinegar into a public privy. You don’t want to meet one and that’s the truth, but here I was, alone, with my overalls undone and no weapon at hand.

Well son, I let some curses slip my lips when I seen that fearsome creature rear up and hiss at me. “Now hold to there, you abominable bugger,” I says to it, trying to back away before it lunged, “Sorry I peed on you den. It weren’t intentional.”

I was taking backward steps to put some distance between us, see, but since my overalls was down it was slow going and in my haste didn’t I trip.

It was Clyde that saved me. He ain’t no city horse, that Clyde. If he could talk he’d have some stories, I’m telling you straight. He reared up high and come down hard on the head of that snorta and stunned the ugly bugger. The distraction was all I needed to scramble up and get my gun. I put three bullets into that rotter of a snorta but those friggers are some tough to kill. This one wised up once the bullets flew. Started to burrow down. Once I saw it was running I stopped shooting. I ain’t the sort to shoot nobody or nothing in the back, not even a foul-breathed snow beast.

Unfortunately, when Clyde reared he snapped his harnesses. By the time I got everything repaired it was already dark. Traveling by night in these parts ain’t wise so I built us a small fire to keep the chill off and we’ll carry on in the morning. Still plenty of time to get that fellow in New Babbage with the big boots his oysters.