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135 pages, Kindle Edition
First published December 12, 2012
As I walked to the White Street Society clubhouse, I sucked in great gulps of cold Yuletide air until my lungs froze solid with Christmas cheer. My feet were numbed with holiday spirit as they tramped the icy streets. My face and whiskers were chapped with all the joy of the season. Six carolers raced past me, screaming, their exposed skin red and blistered with burns, their wet clothes steaming, flesh hanging from one of their faces in sheets. I smiled to myself a secret Christmas smile.
Our whitewashed history presented these Great (white) Men in carefully edited versions that preserved their nobility but elided their attitudes toward child labor, racial difference, inflicting violence. . . . It's an uncomfortable fact that angels and evils often resided in the same nineteenth century skin. . . . Let's not pretend that Lincoln didn't personally order carnage on a scale that would horrify most modern minds, that Roosevelt wasn't an unapologetic imperialist, and that Anthony didn't advocate views about the humanity of Black men.Hoo boy, did Hendrix ever succeed at this! These are hilarious stories, packed with ridiculously extreme casual racism and other prejudice from utterly oblivious characters, Augustus Mortimer chief among them. It is so over the top that the author's explanation in the introduction is unnecessary, but since it is there, even Kai can understand that these stories use the characters' racism to illuminate the horror of these attitudes.
The White Street Sociey stories are my tiny attempt to inject the violence, stupidity, and general horror of that era back into genre fiction.
"That is what this time of year represents, when the city's patron saint, The dread Saint Nicholas, hies hither in his monstrous carriage drawn by ferocious reindeer: the shitting, screaming Hell beasts of Lapland. The Dutch hiss his name as Sinterklaas, and the thought of his obese form slithering into my home like a murderer in the night, stuffing my socks with foul and rotten oranges, saliva-coated nuts torn from the claws of rabid squirrels, and his own rotten piss fills me with terror, as it should you!"This was the most uproarious and bloody Christmas story I have ever read, and I have the original Lobo Paramilitary Christmas Special #1 AND have seen Silent Night, Deadly Night one through four. It is the best example of how goofy, crazy, and over-the-top Hendrix can get when unleashed. His humour thankfully goes way beyond the boundaries of good taste, such as when a lovely young german woman comes calling at the door to the White Street Society:
"First, allow me to bid you guten evening." She gave a charming curtsey. "I am named Greta von Hitler und vhy are you holding ein pistol?"I mean, WHO DOES THAT?
"Oh, pardon me!" I cried, stuffing it into my waistcoat. "What a charming name you have!"
"Ya, it is from mein fadder," she blushed. "It means 'vun who lives in der hut.'"
"That is quite handsome," I said.