It's A Wonderful Life, Kenneth Irons

Title: It’s a Wonderful Life, Kenneth Irons

Author: Jazz9star

Category: Humor/Parody

Disclaimers: All characters from the Witchblade TV series are the property of Top Cow and TNT. No infringement of their rights is intended. All original characters are mine.

It was the outskirts of Bedford Falls, somewhere in New York State. The streets were deserted, and snow was falling. It was Christmas Eve. And somewhere across the snowy world, in answer to a chorus of prayers, angelic voices sounded in the night....

"Hello, Joseph. Trouble?"

"Looks like we'll have to send someone down--a lot of people are asking for help in dealing with a man named Kenneth Irons."

"Kenneth Irons. Yes, tonight's his crucial night. You're right. We'll have to send someone down immediately. Whose turn is it?"

"That's why I came to see you, sir. It's that film-maker's turn again."

"Oh--Frank. Hasn't gotten his wings yet, has he? We've passed him up right along."

"Because, sir, he's got the I.Q. of a network programmer."

"Yes, but he's got the simple faith of a game show contestant. Joseph, send for Frank."

A pause. Then....

"You sent for me, sir?"

"Yes, Frank. A man on earth needs our help."

"Splendid! Is he having trouble with the final edit?"

"No, worse. At exactly ten-forty-five PM tonight, Earth time, that man will be thinking seriously of throwing away God's greatest gift."

"Syndication rights?"

"No! His life."

"Oh dear. Then I've only an hour to read the script."

"Forget the script. Just concentrate on the daily rushes."

"Sir...if I should accomplish this mission, might I perhaps win my wings? I've been waiting since last year's Oscar ceremony, and people are beginning to talk."

"What's that script you've got there?"

"It's my newest project--Freddy Kruger Goes To Washington."

"Frank, you do a good job with Kenneth Irons, and you'll get your wings."

"Oh, thank you, sir! Thank you!"

"Sit down, Frank."

"Sit down? But I've got to scout the location--"

"If you're going to help a man, you want to know something about him, don't you?"

"Of course."

"Well, keep your eyes open. You see that bullet-proof limousine?"

"Where? I don't see a thing."

"Oh...I forgot. You haven't gotten your wings yet. Now look. I'll help you out. Concentrate. Begin to see something?"

"Why, yes. This is amazing!"

"If you ever get your wings, you'll see without having to call for a close-up."

"OK, we're rolling...!"

****

It was a cold December night.

As the upstate New York countryside sped past his limousine, Kenneth Irons settled back into the soft leather seat and contemplated his life.

It was an unaccustomed line of thought for him. If he indulged in self-analysis, it was only to further his latest course of action. But now his mood was introspective, almost nostalgic. Perhaps it was because they were nearing Bedford Falls, Elizabeth's home town. He looked to the seat across from him, at the man who was but a darker shadow in the lee of the opera lights. Ian was preternaturally still, but he knew his bodyguard was monitoring the other security personnel through the wire tucked beneath his black watch cap. The concept of peace on Earth had not been included in Ian Nottingham's programming.

"Is there anything in particular you would like for Christmas?" he asked Ian abruptly.

He suppressed a touch of amusement at Ian's attempt to master his surprise.

"I believe that I have everything I require." Ian's voice was carefully controlled.

It was the answer he had expected. Why, then, did he find it...unsatisfactory? The vague sense of ennui would not go away.

Maybe he should acquire something. That had always cheered him up in the past. He ordered his driver to slow down as they cruised past the industrial park that had sprung up just outside the old city limits. In the December darkness, the names of the high tech companies glowed in multi-colored neon, testifying to Bedford Falls' prosperity. Some, or even all of them would surely be ripe for a takeover. Then, as he mentally paged through his stock portfolios, he realized that he did own most of them. Or their parent companies, anyway.

The ennui returned.

Perhaps it was due to Christmas. He had managed to make it through all the obligatory tree lightings and charity fundraisers without being sucked into the cloying morass of sentiment. But there was no denying that he had lived through a great many more Christmases than most of the celebrants swilling down their Yuletide punch and chomping on spangled cutout cookies. And there was no denying that he intended to see many more Christmases to come. Ordinarily, that would have filled him with a sense of triumph. Now, there was only emptiness, as though the whole sum of his life amounted to nothing. As if there should somehow be more.

"Are you sure there is nothing you would like for Christmas?" he asked Ian.

In answer, Ian sprang forward and knocked him to the floor of the limousine.

The world erupted.

Sheltered by Ian's body, he felt the limousine lift beneath them. They were tossed like foil-wrapped candies inside a Christmas tin, until the motion stopped with a bone-shaking jolt and the scream of tearing metal. In the next second, he heard gunfire; in the second after that, he smelled smoke.

The limousine was on fire.

Somehow, Ian managed to pull him from the overturned vehicle while returning the assailants' fire. As he staggered through the snow, he saw that they were at one end of a two-lane bridge. Ahead, the lead security car was also burning; behind them, the third car was skewed into a ditch. The ambush had been well planned. He crouched against the bridge's railing as Ian fed fresh ammunition clips into the guns pulled from the depths of his black coat.

"Wait here," Ian told him. Then Ian sprang toward the attackers.

Despite the danger, he was admiring the lethal grace of his creation when a spray of bullets ripped just over his head.

Ian forgotten, he vaulted over the railing and balanced on the narrow ledge along the outside of the bridge. More bullets pinged off the steel panels, and he knew he could not stay there. Below, the river rushed under the span, its black waters dotted with ice floes. At the other end of the bridge was a thicket of trees that would afford safety. As the battle raged, he began to work his way along the precarious ledge.

"Help! Help!"

A figure was struggling amidst the ice floes. Another man might have tried to save the poor unfortunate, might even have jumped into the river himself to effect a rescue. But he was not another man. He was Kenneth Irons. He kept on going without another glance.

He was halfway across the span when something hit him squarely between the shoulder blades and knocked him into the water.

No time to wonder who or how. He wriggled out of the vicuna dress coat that threatened to drag him down, and fought his way to the surface. As his head broke through the freezing water, he saw that he was perilously close to the drowning man.

The man mistook him for a rescuer, and began to claw towards him.

He in turn began to swim frantically toward the shore.

He was a powerful swimmer. But unbelievably, the man lunged through the water and latched onto his shoulders like a lamprey out of a 1950's Great Lakes conservation film. He tried to pry the man off, with as little success as any other of the lamprey's piscine victims. Giving up, he swam the remaining yards and pulled himself and his parasitic passenger out onto the snow-covered bank.

A light appeared just as he was about to push the man back into the water.

"You fellows all right?"

He forced the words through shivering lips. "Who are you?"

"I'm Nate Meadows. I'm the toll keeper."

Toll keeper? He looked in vain for the familiar red and greens lights of the E-Z Pass lane. "Are we near the Thruway?"

Meadows didn't answer. The toll keeper was busy helping the other man to his feet. Bemused, he allowed himself to be led into a dwelling that was little more than a shack, complete with an antiquated wood-burning stove. There, he huddled inside a blanket and tried to get warm again. But his mind was churning. Where were the attackers? Where was Ian?

Where was the Thruway exit?

Meadows slouched in a chair propped against one wall and eyed his unwanted companion. Unabashed, the other man pulled his old fashioned undershirt over his head and explained,

"I didn't have time to get some stylish underwear. This is what I was wearing at the final fade." The man went over to the clothesline, and shook out the script that was drying next to a pair of socks.

"Freddy Kruger Goes to Hollywood's drying out too. This is gonna be a blockbuster. A mega-blockbuster!"

The toll keeper was still staring. "How'd you happen to fall in?"

"I didn't fall in. I jumped in to save Kenny."

He stiffened. "You what? You were trying to save me? And who told you to call me Kenny?"

The man gave him a beatific smile. "I did save you, didn't I? You didn't go through with it, did you?"

"Go through with what?"

"Suicide."

He really wished Ian would arrive and shoot this idiot. "I wasn't trying to commit suicide! I was trying to save myself from an assassination attempt when I fell in."

They didn't seem to hear him.

"It's against the law to commit suicide around here," the toll keeper said.

"It's against the law where I come from, too," the man answered.

"Where do you come from?" Meadows asked.

"Heaven." The man turned to him. "I had to act quickly. That's why I jumped in. I knew if I were drowning, you'd try to save me. And you see, you did, and that's how I saved you."

"Have you failed to take your medication today?" he asked casually.

The man was still smiling. "Your lip's bleeding, Kenny."

He touched his mouth, and found a slight wound. "As I told you, I was fleeing an assassination attempt. And if you call me 'Kenny' again, you will be praying to be cast back into that river."

"Oh, no, Ken--er, Mr. Irons. I'm the answer to your prayer. That's why I was sent down here."

He decided to play along until he recovered enough strength to shove the man's head into the stove. "How do you know my name?"

"Oh, I know all about you."

"Are you now going to tell me you've escaped from a psychic hotline?"

"Oh, no."

"Well, who are you, then?"

"I'm Frank, A-S2."

He continued to humor the man. "And what does 'A-S2' stand for?"

"Angel Second Class."

Well, it was a slightly more inventive psychosis than alien abductions. With elegant sarcasm, he answered, "I see. And now you intend to save me."

"That's what I was sent down here for. I'm your guardian angel."

If he had one of those, it wore red and sat on his left shoulder wielding a pitchfork. "Indeed."

"Just before you jumped in, you were feeling a sense of ennui. Like everything in your life has counted for nothing."

He raised a sardonic eyebrow, but inside, his attention was piqued. "And what led you to that conjecture?"

"I told you--I'm your guardian angel. I know everything about you."

If Frank did indeed know everything about him, then the other man would be running--and screaming all the while--for the door. "You hardly look like the kind of angel I would be assigned. And what happened to your wings?"

"I haven't won my wings yet. That's why I'm an Angel Second Class."

He drew the folds of the blanket around him like an imperial toga. "I hardly think a man in my position could afford to be seen with an angel without wings."

"I've got to earn them. You'll help me, won't you?"

"And how do you expect me to do that?"

"By letting me help you."

"Are you sure you wouldn't like me to call and have them take you back to the mental health facility?"

Frank looked almost stern. "Now look, I'll never get my wings with that attitude. You just don't realize all you could have done. If it hadn't been for you--"

He finally tired of this refugee from the cuckoo's nest. "You've ceased to amuse me. Go away and haunt someone else."

"You don't understand. I've gotten this assignment."

He flipped a corner of the blanket at him. "Shoo!"

For the first time, Frank looked concerned. "This isn't going to be easy." He rallied for another try. "So you think killing yourself would make everyone feel happier, eh?"

"For the last time, I had no intention of killing myself! It was undoubtedly one of my business rivals who felt he'd be happier in my absence. I almost don't blame him--given the nature of our business, he had no more choice than I've had in similar situations."

"Oh, but that's not true. You have had choices. And your being there--or not being there--has made a big difference."

He had never doubted the latter. As he waited for his clothes to dry, he wondered yet again where his dark-clad bodyguard was. If he found out Ian had been toying with the assassins instead of dispatching them immediately, his usually silent knight would be dressing entirely in pink for the remainder of the holiday season. And possibly after that.

He was envisioning that sartorial change with sadistic anticipation when he realized Frank was once more beaming at him.

"Wait a minute! That's an idea!" Oblivious to his and Meadows' stares, Frank looked up at the ceiling and asked, "What do you think?" A pause, then Frank said, "Yeah, that'll do it!" Frank turned back to him, and announced, "You've got your wish. You've never been born."

He finally lost his temper. "The only thing I've been wishing for is a piece of this clothesline to strangle you with!"

Frank jumped back a step. "OK, OK! You don't have to make all that fuss about it. We'll do a rewrite." There was another pause. Then Frank announced, "Instead of showing you how things'd be without you, we're gonna show you how they could have been with you."

"You're not going to show me anything. I've had enough of your insane babbling. As soon as my clothes are dry--"

"They are dry," Frank told him helpfully.

The stove must be hotter than he'd thought. He began to dress as Frank went on babbling.

"As soon as you get them on, we'll stroll to your car, and--"

He interrupted. "Don't you mean I'll stroll, and you'll fly?"

"I can't fly," Frank reminded him. "I haven't got my wings."

He smiled. "I have a feeling you'll be acquiring them quite soon."

"You think so?"

"I'm quite sure of it. In fact, I'll insist upon it." Leaving Meadows scratching his head, he preceded Frank out of the toll keeper's shack. And vowed to himself that instead of pink, he would dress Ian in red and green, with pointed shoes and an elf cap. The pink would have to wait until Valentine's Day. And when March 17th came, there would be a lovely shade of Kelly green--

He halted in mid-color selection.

They were standing at one end of the two-lane bridge. But the industrial park was gone, as were the three wrecked cars. Instead, there was a small farmhouse guarded by a large old tree that had a pre-war sedan wrapped around its girth.

"What is this?" he demanded.

"I told you--this is the rewrite."

A chill that had nothing to do with his immersion in a freezing river ran down his spine. "Where's my car? Where's my Ian?"

"That's your car." Frank indicated the 1940's vehicle. "As for Ian, well, we'll see Ian in a bit." Frank seemed to find that amusing.

He was not the least bit entertained. "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE??"

"I've brought you back to a simpler place and time to show you what could have been with you instead of without you. To show you the man you could have been if you hadn't been touched by the Witchblade."

He glared. "I assure you I was quite as I am now long before that fateful day!"

"Maybe so. But in this reality, you never put it on. In fact, right after the war, Elizabeth Bronte returned it to the Vatican, and the two of you settled down here in Bedford Falls, where her Uncle Billy took you into the building and loan business."

He finished the catalogue of horrors. "And where I drive an Oldsmobile."

Frank nodded. "Badly, too. You went and hit one of the oldest trees in Ironsville."

"Ironsville? You mean Bedford Falls."

"No, I mean Ironsville. They changed it after you...but that's getting ahead of the narrative."

As though trapped in some macabre, Thomas Kinkadean nightmare--which he was--he slid behind the wheel of the Olds as Frank hopped into the passenger side. Then they went lurching and backfiring across the bridge into Bedford Falls.

But it wasn't his Bedford Falls. Gone were the glass and steel office blocks, and the fast food chains, and the trendy little boutiques. And the Starbucks on every other corner. Instead, tree-lined streets lead to a downtown district of red brick department stores with mechanical Christmas displays in their brightly-lit windows. Garlands of old-fashioned lights were strung from lamppost to lamppost, and there was even a Woolworth's! Packards and Studebakers drove past them, and the few pedestrians staggering along with their packages waved and shouted, "Merry Christmas!" to each other.

Frank gawked out the window and exclaimed, "Isn't this great? It's small town America!"

"Also known as the tenth circle of hell," he muttered. And stepped on the gas pedal, sending a group of elderly shoppers scurrying to the safety of the curb.

As if in protest, the Oldsmobile sputtered and died outside a restaurant marked by a neon sign proclaiming "Martini's" across its front wall.

"We're here," Frank announced.

"Here" turned out to have a bar at one end, and tables with red checkered cloths and candles stuck in old Chianti bottles. As an eatery, it had all the ambiance of a cheesy Hollywood set, full of locals chasing meatballs through pools of greasy sauce as the jukebox whined about gettin' nuttin' for Christmas.

No. It was worse than Hollywood. It was pure Grand Guignol, with a set designed by Norman Rockwell, and a soundtrack by Spike Jones.

Frank soaked it all in like a piece of bread in a plate of cheap olive oil. "There's a place to sit down. Let's sit down."

"Is it your intention to add nausea to the catalogue of my experiences?" he asked.

"Nausea? You always come here. Martini's a friend of yours."

Only the necessity of humoring this lunatic long enough to get back to his own reality induced him to slide onto the vacant stool. When the bartender came over, Frank said,

"Hello, Nick. Where's Martini?"

Nick wiped the bar with a rag that had possibly been clean during the Grover Cleveland administration. "You want a martini?"

"No, no. Martini. Your boss. Where is he?"

"Who?"

"Who what?"

"Who's on first," he interjected into the conversation.

"What?"

"What's on second, and I dunno's on third, and can I see the wine list?" he asked the bartender.

Nick blinked, then gave him a sauce-stained sheet that was apparently the one and only menu. He flipped it over and scanned the back. "Oh, they have both kinds--red and white. This is indeed a bastion of culinary excellence."

"And they give you free refills on the bread," Frank enthused.

Nick returned, and set a glass in front of him. "Here you go, Kenny. Your usual."

He eyed its contents with loathing. "I'm beginning to understand how one could contemplate jumping into the river and ending it all."

"I jumped into the river to save you so I could get my wings," Frank reminded him.

"How could I have forgotten?"

In the momentary lull between jukebox selections, a cash register rang at the end of the bar. Frank heard it, and exclaimed,

"Oh! Someone's just made it!"

"Made what?"

"Every time you hear a bell ring, it means some angel's just got his wings."

Nick was giving them the same strange look Meadows had.

"Perhaps you shouldn't mention getting your wings around here," he suggested to Frank.

"Why? Don't they believe in angels?"

"They don't believe in edible food. Why should they believe in the celestial host?"

Nick slammed a glass down on the counter. "If you two food critics don't like it here, you can go through the door or out the window!"

Frank tried to placate the bartender. "Calm down, Nick."

"And where do you get off calling me Nick?"

"That's your name. It's right here in the script."

"The script?"

Frank began fumbling inside his coat pockets. But the bartender's attention shifted to a new arrival.

"Hey, Doc. Merry Christmas."

He turned, and found himself staring into the familiar countenance of the elder Dr. Immo.

"Immo!" Forgetting himself, he began speaking in German. "What are you doing here in this insanity? Why aren't you in Argentina, working in the genetics lab?"

Immo tried to pull away. "Kenneth, have you started celebrating early?" he asked in heavily accented English. "And what is this about Argentina? I'm an American citizen now." Immo told Nick to bring him a Carling Black Label, then began singing in the same thick accent, "Hey, Mabel--Black Label!"

He grabbed the beer out of Immo's hand. "What about the other members of Odessa? And what about your theories of using the wielder's blood to slow down aging?"

Nick cut him off. "I don't allow no Nazi talk in here! Tony, Kenny's had too much. Send him and his angel friend home."

A young man the size of a milk truck appeared and seized him by the collar. Before he could protest, he was flying out of the door into the snow. In the next second, Frank came tumbling after him.

"That wasn't in the script," Frank complained.

"What is Immo doing in Bedford Falls? After the war, I helped him escape to Argentina to continue his genetic research."

"Not in this life, you didn't. In this life, he's kindly Dr. Immo, General Practitioner and premier member of the Bedford Falls' Kiwanis Club. And staunch American. His son even ends up joining the space program."

He stared in renewed horror. "What kind of fiend are you?"

"I told you--I'm your guardian angel."

"Then why are you tormenting me??"

"To help you." Earnestly. "You've been given a great gift, Kenneth. A chance to see what the world--this part of the world, anyway--would have been like with you. And we're just getting started."

"No, we're not."

"We're not?"

He brushed the snow from his dress slacks. "I refuse to continue with this nightmare. I am going back to my own time, and my own life."

"But this is your life," Frank protested.

He ignored him.

"You haven't even met Potter yet!"

"Save him for the sequel."

He didn't deserve this.

Well, actually he did deserve it. And much worse. But he had no intention of allowing the universe to dish it out to him. As he trudged back through the bucolic wasteland that was Bedford Falls, he reviewed the religious organizations that enjoyed his largess. When he got back, they would all have to look for another corporate gravy train. He was through subsidizing anything to do with angels.

"That's not nice," Frank's voice sounded behind him.

He whirled. But it wasn't his erstwhile guardian angel coming toward him. It was an older man he recognized from photos as Elizabeth's Uncle Billy.

"George! George!"

"I'm Kenneth," he reminded him icily.

Uncle Billy was momentarily nonplussed. "Oh, yeah. That's right." Then Billy resumed his panicked demeanor. "I did what you told me, George--er, Kenny. I went over the whole house, even the rooms that have been locked ever since I lost Laura."

"Wasn't Laura your basset hound?" he asked.

Uncle Billy didn't answer. The older man began sobbing, blubbering all the while, "I'm sorry, George!"

He gave up and turned to Frank, who was unsuccessfully trying to hide behind an Ipana Toothpaste sign. "What's wrong with him?"

"He got snockered and lost eight thousand dollars of the building society's funds. Now, the bank examiner's here, and you can't cover the loss, and it's going to mean bankruptcy, and scandal, and a prison term for you."

He regarded the sodden mass that was Elizabeth's nearest relative...then the tacky decorations and seedy surroundings...then the insipid simper of his self-titled guardian angel. And stated, "Yes, I can see how I would have preferred this existence to forging a financial empire in post-war Paris. What could hobnobbing with prime ministers and kings have to compare to the company of jolly old Uncle Billy?"

"Aw, you ain't seen nothing yet," Frank gushed. "Wait'll we get to the emotional payoff at the end. There won't be a dry eye in the house."

"I'll have to catch it on DVD." With that, he stalked away, leaving the two fools standing under a streetlamp as snow drifted down upon their heads.

He went to the end of the block, then turned the corner and checked carefully to be sure no one was watching. Then he closed his eyes, clicked his heels, and uttered with all the desperation he could muster,

"There's no place like home! There's no place like home...."

"Hey, Kenny. You need a ride home?"

A vehicle pulled up across the street, its battered side proclaiming "Ernie's Cab Co.". An individual he assumed was Ernie leaned out of the window and waited for an answer.

Home. Home to his mansion filled with paintings, and fine cuisine, and his books. And his chair. Had it ever seemed so sweet? He hurried across the street and got in.

"Eleven-eleven Faust Street. And step on it."

"Are you off your nut?" Ernie countered. "Everyone knows where you live. Three-twenty Sycamore."

It was no use. He was still trapped in this Hallmark Channel hell. As though riding on a tumbrel to his fate, he let Ernie chauffer him to a residential area of Victorian houses. Number three-twenty turned out to be the largest and most antiquated on Sycamore, its facade unrelieved by the Christmas lights that flashed sporadically from the eaves of its neighbors. Its only concession to the holiday was the presence of several snowmen in the front yard, all of which had their heads and limbs hacked off.

"That'll be a dollar fifty," Ernie told him.

"About your last few mortgage payments...." he began.

Ernie hastily put the flag up on the meter. "I'll catch you later. Merry Christmas."

The cab sped off.

"That's the Christmas spirit," Frank said beside him.

"What are you doing here?" Then he noticed there were several people standing on the porch at three-twenty Sycamore. "And who are they?"

"They're the dramatic contretemps," Frank informed him.

They looked like a sheriff and a bevy of minor bureaucrats. Fighting a sense of foreboding, he stepped over the snowmen parts littering the sidewalk and climbed the porch stairs.

One of the bureaucrats blocked his path. "Kenneth Irons--"

"Let me guess. You're the bank examiner." With a sour glance toward Frank. "This is certainly inspiring me to break into a rousing rendition of 'Jingle Bells'."

The bank examiner regarded him sternly. "Mr. Irons, there's a deficit."

"I know. Eight thousand dollars." Reflectively. "Do you know I've spent that on hors d'oeuvres?"

The sheriff wasn't impressed. "Kenneth, I've got a little paper here."

"I'll bet it's a warrant for my arrest." He shot another icy glance at Frank. "This certainly outdoes a boring Christmas dinner at Chez Maxim's. Thank you so much for showing me how life could be much better with me. Merry Christmas!"

A photographer stepped forward and set off a flashbulb. He smiled through clenched teeth, and dragged Frank into the next picture. "You'll want to remember this moment when you get your wings."

The sheriff muttered to the bank examiner, "I told you he was off his nut!"

He turned on them. "Would you gentlemen like to come in to discuss my incarceration over a steaming bowl of punch? After all, it is Christmas. Ho, ho, ho!"

For some reason, that turned them all pale. Finally, the sheriff stammered, "No, I think we'll just stay out here. But if you want to let your wife know we're taking you downtown, we'll give you a few minutes. Because it is Christmas."

"Yes, it is. God bless us, everyone." He grabbed Frank by the collar. "And I didn't think I could sink any lower than driving an Oldsmobile. How foolish of me!"

"It's all gonna work out!" Frank sputtered.

He opened the front door, and hurled him in.

Hm. There were fresh bullet holes in the door, made from someone inside firing out. But he had no time to puzzle over it, for a familiar voice called,

"Kenneth! You're finally home!"

Elizabeth stood in a doorway at the other end of the entrance hall. His Elizabeth, who had turned heads as she strolled down the Champs Elysee wearing the latest postwar fashions. His Elizabeth, a woman of sophistication and charm, whom he had decked with jewels that had once belonged to an empress.

His Elizabeth, now wearing a June Cleaver house dress and a frilly floral apron. And wielding a spatula.

"Uncle Billy called," Elizabeth told him. "He says he's still trying to find that eight thousand dollars, but I have a feeling it's gone for good. And I'll bet Potter's involved in its disappearance. After all, he was the one who called in the bank examiners. Ever since Uncle Billy took you into the business, Potter's been trying to take over the building and loan and drive us back to Paris."

"And we were resisting him?" he asked plaintively.

"Of course! We couldn't let Bedford Falls be controlled by a man like Potter."

"Yes, we could."

"And now we've got all these examiners and reporters and sheriffs cluttering up the porch, scaring off the carolers."

"I believe they're here to arrest me," he informed her.

"Well, they'll just have to wait until after supper." She brandished the spatula and announced brightly, "We're having meatloaf."

He waited until she vanished into the kitchen before he seized Frank by the throat.

"What have you done with my Elizabeth??"

"I haven't done anything!"

"She's wearing an off-the-rack housedress! And fluffy mules!"

"That's 'cause in this life, she was able to give up the empty career of being an international spy, and find true contentment as a wife and mother."

His grip tightened. "I think I'm going to kill you."

"You can't kill me!" Frank squawked. "I'm already dead!"

He was unmoved. "Death is only the beginning."

"That's just for mummies!"

Before he could counter that argument, Elizabeth reappeared and scuffed over to the foot of the stairs, calling, "Ian, your father's home."

Ian? He let Frank drop and looked up in eager anticipation. Ian. As Elizabeth called out the same phrase at least a dozen times more, he took comfort in the fact that there was no way Frank could have corrupted Ian. His creation was utterly loyal, and utterly lethal to anyone and anything designated as a threat to himself. His creation was more than capable of dealing with sheriffs, and bank examiners, and wannabe guardian angels.

"Hello, Father."

His creation was also ten years old.

The dark curls were the same, as were the brown eyes and the solemn expression. And the dark, formal suit and tie. The only difference was in the heavy brogues--they were neatly tied, quite uncharacteristic of Ian. But it was Ian.

He was still assimilating that fact when another voice sounded behind him.

"Hello, Father."

A second Ian, identical to the first, regarded him.

Then a chorus of voices rang through the hall.

"Hello, Father."

They surrounded him, all dark-haired and dark clad, separated only by the merest increments of height from the ten-year-olds to a brace no taller than his knee. And all with the same stoically impassive features. Many of the sizes repeated, speaking of multiple births. A quick glance into the kitchen showed two more toddlers ensconced in high chairs, waiting to be fed. Then he noticed the bulge under Elizabeth's flowery apron.

She patted her stomach fondly. "Dr. Immo said it's definitely twins again. Or even triplets."

As he kept seeing double and triple, two of the middle-sized ones began squabbling over a stuffed toy. Elizabeth quickly intervened, scolding,

"Ian, stop fighting with Ian over that rabbit! You both know it's Ian's."

He scanned the sea of identical faces. "Are they all named Ian?"

She gave him a strange glance. "Of course they are. That was your idea, to save on monogramming charges." She handed the rabbit to a still smaller version, and stated, "Dinner won't be ready for another half an hour. You'll have plenty of time to play with the boys."

"Yea!!!" The entire pack emitted a ear-splitting shriek, then disappeared up the stairs and through various doorways. With a fond smile, Elizabeth returned to the kitchen, leaving him to stare at Frank.

"I play with them?" he managed to utter.

"Oh, yeah." Frank was hiding behind an aspidistra plant. "Every night before dinner. You're a great father."

Before he could dispute that, the horde of Ians returned.

With weapons.

He stared into a sea of swords, and bucklers, and axes, and maces. The armor-clad little warriors lined up in front of the mahogany sideboard, and raised their arms toward him in a salute. Then, with a second, even louder shriek, they charged.

He spent a microsecond wondering where one of them had gotten the pike. Then he ran for his life.

They chased him through the rooms and parlors of the sprawling old Victorian, hounding him up one flight of stairs and down another as chairs overturned, and vases shattered, and arrows thudded into the rose-sprigged wallpaper. Oblivious to the carnage, Elizabeth just smiled as he fled through the kitchen, and called out,

"Are you having fun, boys?"

"Yea!!" they all shrieked again.

He wasn't. At one point, he tried to fight back by ripping down a curtain rod and slashing desperately at the blades aimed for his vitals. But they locked shields, and advanced with the disciplined precision of a Roman cohort, even calling out commands in grammatically correct Latin. If he didn't want to end up as the Dying Gaul, he had to escape this pack of potential patricides, and fast. He leapt over an overturned armoire, and doubled back to the entrance hall.

Frank was still hiding behind the aspidistra plant. He dragged him out and hurled him into the path of the oncoming phalanx. Then he ran toward the pantry, intending to bolt himself in as Frank's screams sounded down the hall.

And was confronted with a toddler staggering toward him under the weight of a double-bladed battle ax.

He gave up. He spun on his heel, ducked a crossbow bolt, and dove out the dining room window.

Mere hours ago, he had been gliding through the countryside in a custom-built limousine, listening to Mozart. Now he was scrambling over a backyard fence as cries of "Father! Father!" echoed behind him in the night. The ignominy of it stung, but he was willing to endure anything as long as he escaped from that nest of nascent Nottinghams. And Elizabeth's meatloaf. He shivered at the memory of her few culinary attempts, and walked more briskly along the sidewalk. He had to find a way out of this nightmare before he was faced with her tuna casserole. Nothing was as bad as her tuna casserole.

When he reached the corner of Third and Main, he was forced to reassess that assumption.

The car roared out of a side street and fishtailed to a halt in the middle of the intersection, spewing slush all over him. In the next moment, a goon got out and informed him,

"Mr. Potter wants to see you."

Potter?

As if conjured by that name, Frank appeared at his elbow. "Potter owns most of Bedford Falls, except for your building and loan company. That's why he hates you, because you're the only one who dares to stand up to him. Now it looks like he's finally got his chance to put you out of business."

He was curious. "This reality is better how?"

"You gotta wait for the climax," Frank insisted.

It appeared unlikely he would make it that far. Desperately, he looked around for some avenue of escape, but a second goon got out of the other side of the car, boxing them in.

"Mr. Potter wants to see you," the first goon repeated. "Now."

No use wishing for that pike. Or clicking his heels together. He got into the car, his only consolation the sight of Frank's shredded topcoat as the other scrambled across the drive shaft hump. Perhaps there was some credence to Frank's claim of being an angel. Or at least of being already dead. No one could have taken that many sword cuts and survived.

He sat there, a seething morass of anger and panic, and bided the short journey by thinking of ways to kill--or re-kill--Frank. Then he decided death--or re-death--would be too merciful. Better to make Frank the live-in babysitter.

Potter's bank was twice the size and obvious prosperity of any other business in Bedford Falls. As the goons escorted them through the lobby to the private elevator, he noticed a group of men milling about with cameras. Before he could ascertain if they formed some additional, future torment, he and Frank were hustled into the elevator and taken up to Potter's third-floor office. There, he found himself facing a sour-faced curmudgeon in a wheelchair.

Potter's beady little eyes squinted up in triumph as he wheeled himself out from behind his desk. "Well, George--"

"Kenneth," he corrected wearily.

Potter began again. "Well, Kenneth, you need help. Your company's short in its accounts, and the bank examiner's up there. You've got to raise eight thousand dollars immediately."

He played a hunch. "Is that what those reporters downstairs want to talk to you about?"

Potter made a hideous grimace he supposed was a smile. "Yes. They called me up from your building and loan. There's a man over there from the D.A.'s office, too. He's looking for you."

"How convenient."

Potter snorted. "Look at you. You used to be so cocky. You were going to come back here and conquer Bedford Falls, and then the world. You once called me a warped, frustrated old man. What are you but a warped, frustrated young man? A miserable little clerk, crawling in here on your hands and knees--"

"I believe I walked in here," he pointed out.

"--crawling in here on your hands and knees to beg for help. Why don't you go to the riff-raff you love so much, and ask them to let you have eight thousand dollars? You know why? Because they'd run you out of town on a rail. But I'll tell you what I'm going to do for you, George--"

"Kenneth."

"Since the state examiner is still here, as a stock holder of the building and loan, I'm going to swear out a warrant for your arrest."

He turned to Frank. "What happens after this? Does someone come along and drop a house on me?"

"No, that's another studio." Frank tried to cheer him up. "This is your darkest moment, the point just before you have your revelation."

Potter was droning on. "Misappropriation of funds, manipulation, malfeasance..."

His darkest moment. Where, after being ripped from a life of power and privilege, and catapulted back to the stifling 1950's, in the stifling backwater that was Bedford Falls, he was about to be arrested because drunken Uncle Billy had misplaced eight thousand dollars. And where he drove an Oldsmobile. His darkest hour.

No, his darkest hour was still to come. Elizabeth was still cooking that meatloaf. But this one was running a close second when, unbelievably, just as Frank had predicted, he had a revelation.

It might be the early 1950's. And it might be Bedford Falls. But through it all, and despite it all, he was still himself, not some stammering all-American sap.

He was still Kenneth Irons.

He smiled.

Something in that smile cut off Potter halfway through the penal code. The old man's expression grew even more sour, and he snarled, "What now?"

"I give up. You win."

"I what?"

"You win. I was obviously no match for a shrewd businessman such as yourself. I never should have tried to set myself up against you." He hung his head. "It was all Elizabeth's doing, you know. Nag, nag, nag, about how she wanted to be the first lady of Bedford Falls. I only went along to get a bit of peace and quiet."

Potter regarded him suspiciously. "You don't sound like the George Bailey I've always known."

"That's because I'm Kenneth Irons, and because I know when I've been bested. All I'm interested in now is finding out what I have to do to avoid prosecution."

Potter managed a porcine laugh. "They've already issued the warrants."

"And with one word from you, those warrants will be ripped up. You own the D.A.'s office like you own the rest of Bedford Falls. Just tell me what you want."

Greed sprang into those beady eyes. "I want the building and loan society."

How predictable. "Whatever you say. I'll sign everything over to you." He let his head drop even further. "Just don't make me have to do this in front of the minions. Let me keep one last shred of dignity. And not to belabor the point, but if any awkward questions are asked, they can't be called to testify because they weren't witnesses."

Potter gave his grimacing smile again. The old man dismissed his two goons, telling them, "Go down to Martini's and have a couple of drinks."

He shoved Frank at them as they were lumbering toward the door. "Here. Take him with you. He likes Martini's."

"But this isn't in the script!" Frank protested.

"There's been another rewrite." He closed the door.

Potter was rummaging through the papers scattered on his desk. "I just happen to have the necessary documents here. Once you've signed them--"

He stepped around the desk and grasped the handles of the wheelchair.

"What are you doing?"

"A few minutes more won't make any difference to the building and loan," he told Potter. "Why don't we take a little tour first? I've always wanted to see the inside of your lair--I mean, your offices."

"You--you can't do this!" Potter sputtered.

"Oh, but I can." He wheeled Potter out into the hall, leaving a trail of papers scattered behind them. "You've sent your men off to Martini's to guzzle Carling Black Label beer and ogle the waitresses. And the reporters down in the lobby are too far away to hear a few faint noises coming from the third floor. No, there's just you and me...." he opened the door at the end of the hall. "...and the fire stairs."

Potter began screaming as he rolled the wheel chair to the edge and tilted it forward. "I'm afraid you made a grave error," he said conversationally. "You've been thinking of me as, well, let's face it--Jimmy Stewart. When you should have been picturing Richard Widmark." He tilted the chair another centimeter.

"Help! Help!" Potter clutched the arms as his legs dangled out over the footrest.

"Now, about that eight thousand dollars...."

"It's in my desk drawer!"

"I thought it might be. That was very naughty of you. I foresee a stocking full of coal hanging from your mantle tomorrow."

"You can have the money! Just don't let me fall!"

He pretended to consider it. "I'm afraid eight thousand dollars isn't enough any more. You've started a scandal that's blackened the name of Bailey--I mean, of Irons. The only way for you to put it to rest is for you to show your confidence in me by making me the CEO of all your financial holdings. Including the bank."

Potter was almost weeping with fear. "All right! I'll do it! Just get me away from these stairs!"

He pulled the chair back from the brink, and spun it around so that Potter could see his face. The old man was breathing in great asthmatic gasps as he stared up at him.

"But--you were always so nice!"

"But I'm not nice. I'm naughty--much naughtier than you've ever dreamed of being." He loomed over Potter. "Don't bother trying to tell anyone about our little discussion, or sending your goons after me. I know goons--I've employed enough of them, and their loyalties always lie with the money. And I'll have all of yours. As for the former, well, who'd believe a milquetoast like Kenny Irons would threaten a helpless old cripple? They'll just assume you're suffering from the D.T.'s like Uncle Billy." He smiled. "Shall we go sign those papers?"

Some time later, he emerged from Potter's car--technically, it was his car now--and stood once more on the sidewalk at three-twenty Sycamore.

"You weren't supposed to do that!" Frank's voice sounded from behind a truncated snowman.

He hauled him out. "You said you were going to show me how things would have been with my presence. You never said I couldn't be myself while you were doing it."

"But---"

"As an actress friend of mine once said, 'You can't make a leopard change its stripes.' Regrettably for her career, she was a better philosopher than a thespian, but her observation has some validity." He indicated the house, which now had a few bullet holes in the front window as well. "Shall we go in?"

Frank rubbed his hands. "Oh boy! We finally get the emotional payoff!" Confidently. "You'll see--you'll have a change of heart."

The inside of the house was dark, but enough light spilled from the Christmas tree for him to see the rows of little figures in identical brocade dressing gowns lining the stairs.

"Good evening, Father," they chorused.

"Good evening, Ian, Ian, Ian, Ian..." he went on acknowledging each in turn.

Ian spoke. "Where have you been, Father?"

"I've been dealing a death blow to our enemy, old man Potter."

"Yea!" some of them cheered, while others shouted, "Here, here!" or "Bravo!"

"Where is your mother?" he asked Ian.

"She went looking for you with Uncle Billy."

"Can we play with you some more?" Ian asked.

Frank dove behind the aspidistra plant again.

He was about to organize a test of Frank's supposed immortality when Elizabeth returned.

"Kenneth, where have you been?"

"Conducting an inspection of the fire stairs in Potter's building."

She never even questioned that. "Kenneth, you must come into the living room immediately! They're on their way."

He allowed her to lead him into the room and position him in front of the Christmas tree.

"Now you stand right here, and don't move," Elizabeth told him. "I hear them now!"

At her signal, Ian ran to the front door and flung it open. Uncle Billy, blubbering now with joy, came in carrying a clothesbasket filled with cash. Ernie followed, and after him dozens and dozens of townspeople, all bearing shoe boxes and coffee tins, and pocket books. And glaring daggers at him.

Uncle Billy dumped the basket of money onto a table marked by numerous sword cuts. "Isn't it wonderful?"

One by one, the others did the same, adding their small bills and change to the growing pile. Uncle Billy broke into a fresh spate of tears.

"Elizabeth did it, George!"

"Kenneth."

"Elizabeth did it! She went over and borrowed a couple of Martini's boys, and sent them all over town rounding up everyone who's behind on their payments! You never saw anything like it!"

Ernie slouched forward and emptied the cash out of a mayonnaise jar. "Merry Christmas," he snarled. "Minus a dollar fifty."

Next came Nick the bartender bearing a bowl overflowing with coins. "I went and broke the jukebox."

"Undoubtedly it was a mercy killing," he told him smoothly.

Nick grabbed a couple of bills from the stack. "That's for the loan of the boys."

One arm around Elizabeth, he watched as Christmas Club envelopes and social security checks were added to the pile by the building and loan members. He felt no sympathy for any of them. If they had money for food and Christmas presents, they had money to keep up with their loan payments. As the mob of sullen, angry people continued to mill about the room, he murmured to Elizabeth,

"Perhaps a bit of music might lighten the atmosphere. And their wallets."

She threaded her way to a bullet-scarred piano and began to play "Hark The Herald Angels Sing". A few souls half-heartedly sang along, but most of them just continued to mutter among themselves.

It was at this point that the sheriff and the bank examiner appeared.

He half-expected another dramatic contretemps. But the bank examiner sidled up and surreptitiously made a generous donation. He was followed by the sheriff, who shot an angry look as he ripped up the warrants.

Uncle Billy valiantly tried to kindle the Christmas spirit by waddling in with a huge bowl of punch. "A toast!" He dipped a cup into the bowl, and held it high. "To my nephew, George--"

"Kenneth."

"The richest man in town!"

Judging from the fumes, the punch was well over a hundred proof. Smelling free liquor, the crowd descended upon the bowl, quickly draining it dry. Elizabeth continued to play, and more and more of them began singing in earnest. To his horror, someone smuggled in an accordion and began to accompany the atonal cacophony. Worse, someone else refilled the bowl, and the mob showed every sign of settling in for a long winter's Christmas party.

He was looking around for Frank, suspecting he was the one who had refilled the punch bowl, when he spotted the script sitting on top of the pile of cash. As the throng launched into "Auld Lang Syne", he picked it up, and read the inscription scrawled across the title page.

"Dear ~~George~~ Kenneth. Remember--no man is a failure who has a piece of the gross. Love, Frank."

A singular feeling flooded through him. Frank was right. Freddy Kruger Goes To Washington did have the potential to become a mega-blockbuster.

Somehow, somewhere, a bell started ringing. Uncle Billy lurched over and breathed punch fumes into his face. "Hear that, George?"

"Kenneth."

"My teacher always told us every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings."

He pushed the old sot back towards the booze. Then he made his way to the foot of the stairs and announced, "Boys, I think it's time you escorted our guests to the door."

"YEA!!!"

He was humming a German carol when the screams began. As delinquent borrowers stampeded past, he reflected that there was little point now in telling Elizabeth and Uncle Billy that he had the missing eight thousand dollars tucked safely in his coat pocket. It would probably just add fuel to the fire, a task Ian was accomplishing competently enough by feeding pages of Freddy Kruger Goes To Washington into the embers.

Perhaps it was the smoke, or the fumes from the overturned punch, but the whole room began to swirl around him. Elizabeth, the injured stragglers crawling for the door, and even the tree began to dissolve.

His last thought was, how cute! Ian already knows how to operate a machine gun....

*****

He was standing in the middle of the bridge that lead to Bedford Falls. He looked around, but there was no limousine, or Ian. There was, however, a disgruntled figure trying to stomp out the smoldering remains of what had been a movie script.

"It wasn't supposed to end like that!" Frank fumed. "It was supposed to have a warm, happy denouement."

"I was happy," he pointed out. "And I was certainly warm once Ian set the Christmas tree on fire."

"But you didn't have a change of heart!"

"That only works with people who deny their true natures. Whether in Paris or in Bedford Falls, I would still have been me. Remember--'a leopard can't change its stripes'."

Frank completely missed the point. "That's so true. No wonder I don't have my wings yet. You were cast completely against type."

"My type is the billionaire media mogul, industrialist, and arms dealer type. If you would just return me to my original reality...."

"Maybe it was the wrong vehicle." Frank rummaged through his coat pockets. "I got this great script treatment the other day. It'd be perfect for you."

He was getting angry. "My own life was perfect for me! I was only experiencing a momentary lapse of purpose!"

Frank wasn't listening. "It's called A Holiday Story. But we can change that. It's set in 1950's small town America. You and Elizabeth are living a middle-class life in a simpler place and time. But it's getting close to Christmas, and your older boy keeps pestering you for a Red Rider BB gun--"

As Frank started babbling about a leg-shaped lamp, he climbed up onto the railing and jumped.

*****

He was floating.

No, he was freezing. And there were voices above him, some shouting, some angry, and one saying,

"Oh my God! They killed Kenny!"

He opened his eyes, and began coughing up river water.

"Oops!" the same voice said.

"Mr. Irons is not dead." It was Ian, a darker shape against the darkness.

He grasped Ian's coat sleeve. "What day is it? How long have I been among the spirits?"

Ian drew back. "You were in the water approximately two and a half minutes. That is how long it took me to eliminate the assailants."

The assailants? He struggled to a sitting position, and saw the flames consuming the overturned limousine. He was back. And he was alive.

"And I don't have to eat her meatloaf!" he exclaimed.

"I believe you are suffering from hypothermia," Ian declared.

He didn't correct him. He allowed himself to be bundled in a blanket, then to be taken by an ambulance to a private clinic. After that, there was a quick flight back to New York that allowed him the infinite pleasure of watching the lights of Bedford Falls grow smaller, and then disappear--forever, he hoped.

Much later, he was wrapped in his silk dressing gown and comfortably enthroned in his chair, with a hand-bound copy of Milton and a glass of vintage port. The fire blazed fiercely, warming the last of the chill from his bones, and it began to seem like the whole nightmare had never happened. Not the attempt on his life--he was inured to those after so many years. No, it was the specter of domestic life amid the denizens of small-town America that drove him more deeply into the wine. The first thing he had done upon returning home was to check Elizabeth's frozen remains to be sure she wasn't somehow wielding a spatula.

Ian took his place on the other side of the fire, head lowered and hands at the small of his back. It was Ian's customary stance, and reassuringly familiar. Nonetheless, he looked quickly behind him, just to make sure there wasn't another one lurking there. Or several.

All that met his gaze was the Christmas tree left over from his last party. He had ordered it set up to display a priceless collection of German Imperial and Faberge ornaments, knowing all the while that most of his guests could not distinguish between jeweled antiques and ones purchased at Wal-Mart. He had then left directly for Boston after the party, and had not thought to have the tree taken down. Now, it sent a chilly reminder through him every time he glanced at it.

He turned his gaze instead to the fire.

Ian did not move. He knew, however, that Ian wanted something. It was a game they played, one that he usually won. He took another sip of wine, opened the Milton, and waited.

"I have been reconsidering your offer of a Christmas gift," Ian said at last.

"Have you?"

"There is a new prototype sniper weapon being developed by Kriegtech. It is more powerful and more accurate than anything currently available. I would like a Mark Eight Kriegtech sniper rifle. With the advanced night scope."

He spoke without thinking. "You'll shoot your eye out."

Ian actually stared at him.

To cover, he explained hurried, "It is just a figure of speech."

Ian returned his gaze to the floor. "It sounds more a figure of Christmas-induced dementia."

"Do not seek to diagnose me!" He spoke sharply, but in reality he was not angry. Unpleasant as the hallucinations had been, they had restored him to himself. The ennui was gone, replaced by renewed strength and purpose, and a reaffirmation of who he was. And a new appreciation of his life. Yes, there had been choices, and in every single one he had been himself. Even when he was being George Bailey.

He decided he would get Ian his sniper rifle after all.

A tinkling sound disturbed his thoughts.

A crystal bell high up on the Christmas tree was swinging in an unseen breeze.

He turned a page of Paradise Lost. "Ian, silence that bell."

Ian pulled out a Glock and blew the top of the tree away.

The volley also took out a Botticelli on the far wall, but he was unconcerned. Its provenance had been somewhat suspect anyway. And he could always buy another one. He sipped his port, and let his thoughts drift with eager anticipation to the day after Christmas, Boxing Day. How ironic that Ian would be celebrating it with such literal effect upon those who had ordered the ambush. He wondered if that irony would be appreciated by the celestial host, then decided he did not care.

He was Kenneth Irons.

And it really was a wonderful life.