Is There Really a July Christmas?
(WA, DC)
Christmas Case #02020
The Redskin Curse
A requirement for all magic spells is that you must sacrifice something great or dear to you. Sorry to inform you, that’s just how magic works. While this is true of all black magic spells, I will admit I am not sure about white magic. That is a horse of a different color, so to speak. The truth was July Christmas was running out of things to sacrifice. He was even missing a pinky finger, but he refused to tell anyone why. He slammed the sack down that he was carry over his back like Ole St. Nick. He opened it and found there were only a few magical items remaining.
In 1985 Joe Theisman was injured in what was a truly horrific football accident. 33 years later, the same date November 18th, another Redskin quarterback, Alex Smith was injured in almost exactly the same way. What any of this has to do with July Christmas is complicated. It also has to do with Tecumseh the Native American Indian chief and the battle he had with William Henry Harrison in 1811. After the battle of Tippecanoe, it was Tecumseh’s brother Tenskawatawa who had supposedly originally put a curse on Harrison. If you recall William Henry Harrison died after only forty days in office as President of the United States.
In 2020, the very same tall red-haired negro who had given Tenskawatawa an object which had allowed the curse to be so effective loitered outside of Swampoodle. Washington DC. He looked as if he hadn’t aged a day. Something had gone horribly wrong, and the red-haired tall negro believed it had to do with the Washington Redskins changing their name to the Washington Football Team. In fact, that was the reason 2020 was so fucked up. The curse had somehow multiplied. July Christmas had been there when Tecumseh had warned the white men, “Harrison will not win this year to be the Great Chief. But he may win next year. If he does... he will not finish his term. He will die in his office. You think that I have lost my powers. I who caused the Sun to darken and Red Men to give up firewater.... I tell you Harrison will die. And after him every Great Chief chosen every 20 years thereafter will die. And when each one dies, let everyone remember the death of our people.”
Except America hadn’t remembered the death of Native American people, the country had been on a bit of a nativist tear lately. The name Redskins had been chosen in 1933 to honor Native Americans and now they had forgotten that too. July Christmas didn’t know how he could unfurl the curse. Some curses are better left untouched. Furthermore, he, like the writer of this piece was a liberal and didn’t really want the name changed back. But 2020 was shitshow that was for sure. Something needed to be done.
After, the great chief Harrison had died and then Lincoln and McKinley were shot. The curse seemed to have broken when Reagan was shot but lived, but it hadn’t and now it was back tenfold. He did not know what he could do as he sifted through his knapsack of magical items. He pulled out a Native American Indian peace pipe, he packed it with something that was most likely not tobacco and then pulled out a lighter and took a pull. The smoke encircled his head like a ring of fire or a hurricane that he was standing right in the eye of. He could go to the owner of what was now The Washington Football Team, but he didn’t see what good it would do. The owner had only changed the name because companies like Nike and FedEx had removed their apparel from their website and threatened a boycott. He would have to change more than just the owner’s mind; he would have to change the mind of America.
“I’d say there’s two chances of that. No way…no how,” July Christmas said to himself. No sir, this would take magic and mostly likely the strongest kind of black magic there was, shadow magic. July Christmas who was normally fairly sure of himself, was uncertain of how to proceed.
He called Bub, his ‘boss’ so to speak, the man was full of bight ideas as usual. The phone rang and rang, on like the twentieth ring, someone picked up but there was a lot of background noise, “Jesus, how did you get this number?” the voice on the other end inquired.
“This is the same number I always use,” July replied. He could hear someone vomiting in the background, “Where are you?”
“Never mind that,” said the scratchy voice on the other end, “What’s the problem now?” The vomiting had stopped, but now a woman was moaning loudly in the background.
Ohhh…Oooo true …. Ohhh…Oooo…Ohhh…My
July couldn’t tell if she was in pleasure or pain. It sounded pleasurable, but he thought better of that.
“It’s the Redskin curse…they changed their name and the curse…the curse has somehow multiplied tenfold…. maybe even more…haven’t you heard what’s happening on Earth in 2020?” July scowled.
“Same cesspool it’s always been, if you ask me,” said the scratchy voice known as Bub. There were weird burbling and popping sounds, were those sounds coming from a human? July doubted it.
He tried to stay on message and not picture what Bub might be doing to the woman in the background, “The virus is out of control, the environmental and political climate are about to topple, I fear we may be on the verge of collapse.” July exclaimed.
“Sounds like that should be right up your alley,” Bub guffawed and then started coughing. There was a drilling sound, and the woman was making inhuman sounds again or maybe it wasn’t a woman at all.
“I’ve lost my way,” July looked like he might cry, “Bub I need your help.”
The drilling stopped, but now there was a sound like air passing through a very small keyhole, Bub exhaled, there was the sound of bees or maybe it was just static on the other end of the line.
“I don’t see what any of this has to do with me,” Bub said harshly.
“Please,” July asked sounded like he was about ten years old.
“Go see Fitzmagic, he’ll know what to do,” Bub told July.
“I really don’t want to see him,” July admitted.
“What choice do you have?” Bub asked him.
July hung up the phone. Shit, he thought, I hate South Beach, but he really had no choice. July traded a salt lamp from his magic sack under it’s dark light you could see people for who they really were for enough money for a plane ticket to Miami. He had eight magical items left. He knew he needed to somehow get more. He waited a week, contemplating what to do and just to build up his strength. He flew down to South Beach a little over a week later. He was weakened by the decadence almost as soon as he got off the plane. July found it painful to move and his sack seemed to weigh a ton. It was odd, Vegas did the same thing to him, and it wasn’t the heat because he was fine in Houston. Nope it had something to do with the people, their attitude seemed to suck the life right from him. July retired to the restroom, opening his magical sack, there were a pair of shoes in there that he knew would help. He could barely walk, but once he put the shoes on, he could at least take rather slow steps.
What was he going to say to Fitzmagic? They had not left things on exactly good terms. At least he had a little time to think, from the airport he had to rent a town car to drive him the thirty-five miles to the Everglades. Fitzmagic was a retired NFL quarterback who looked more like he was part of a biker gang than a football team. And of course, he lived in the backwater mansion on acres of protected wildlife with manatees and plenty of alligators and swamp creatures, seemed about right.
The town car took July as far as the gate, but the walk from there was rather difficult. Fitzmagic was in the garage working on a Harley. There were parts and tools strewn about the floor. July could barely raise his arm as he knocked on the side of the garage, “Fitz old boy, I need the medallion back.”
Fitz slid out from underneath the bike, “You gotta a lot of nerve coming here.” Fitzmagic was wearing blue jeans, he was shirtless with a hairy chest and a big burly beard which was his defining feature.
“It’s not up to me,” July replied, “Things are unraveling, as you can clearly see.”
“I suppose I should give a shit,” Fitzmagic said. He wiped grease off his hands and arms. He was admittedly steamed.
The air was thick and humid, July found it very hard to breathe. Reality seemed to fade for just moment before coming back into focus.
“The paradoxes threaten to rip this very world apart. Mask vs no masks. Conservative vs liberal, science vs religion. The problem is people don’t actually live in the same reality. The population will destroy itself through unrest and violence.”
“You saying there’s multiple realities?” Fitzmagic questioned.
“At the present, yes there are.” July Christmas explained, “It’s as if there are two separate realities and half the population lives in one and half in the other.”
“How’s that possible?” Fitzmagic asked perplexed.
July Christmas made a popping sound with his mouth his face seemed to change in complexion and shape, “Black magic, as near as I can tell it has to do with the Redskin curse, both Tenskwatawa’s and the team’s name being changed is causing a paradox.” July Christmas explained, “What you don’t know is that Tenskwatawa’s pinky toe is inside the medallion.”
“That’s what the funky looking things is,” Fitzmagic almost sounded relieved.
“You already know if you play quarterback for the Washington Football Team something bad will happen.” July explained.
“What like I’ll fracture my leg?” Fitzmagic asked.
“Maybe you’ll just hurt your hip, but you may never walk again.” July Christmas explained.
“Fucking ridiculous,” Fitzmagic swore.
“Is it?” July Christmas asked, “If I recall you claimed the medallion allowed you to throw for five hundred yards.”
“Why I ain’t no chief,” Fitzmagic complained.
“A quarterback is a type of chief.” July said reluctantly.
“I still don’t understand,” Fitzmagic explained.
“Me either. Magic doesn’t like to be followed. The owner of the Washington Football Team is somehow connected to William Henry Harrison and the original curse, which I reluctantly am responsibly for.” July admitted.
“Magic don’t like to be followed, what the fuck is that supposed to mean? And Harrison what year was that?” Fitzmagic seemed confused.
“Magic is mysterious by nature it leaves no trace and I’m not sure, but it was many years ago.” July said shrugging, he knew the year was 1811, which would have made him how old?
Fitzmagic went to a drawer in the garage and pulled out the medallion. “What are we supposed to do with it.”
“Bub, said you would know what to do,” July admitted.
