A Stop In Saint Nicholas

A Work of (Fan) Fiction

By

Paul Landri & Jason Clark

Twenty miles outside of a small town called Saint Cloud in the wintry wastes known as late December in Minnesota, with its sub zero days and twenty below nights (with the wind chill factor, you might as well forget about your car starting early the next morning) and soft blankets of snow falling every other evening giving the entire area a somber, peaceful air, a man trudges through the nearly waste deep snow banks where a back road used to be. He is dressed as heavily as a man on the run can be; white GorTex parka, snow pants and long johns (white and red respectively,) a balaclava wrapped around his face, the steam from his breath nearly freezing around his mouth; all of these outward articles match with the lone exception of the pair of heavy brown woolen gloves Betty had given him three Christmases ago. Back when things were good. Before the accident. Before the rage and the rampages and the constant feeling of needing to move from place to place. To never get too comfortable, to trust no one but himself (and even that was a stretch because if he got too comfortable with himself, thinking maybe this day or that day he was finally getting better, he would go off. Something would trigger him. Like the time in Green River, Utah when he got hassled by those two cowboys at Rick's Diner. Hadn't he told them to kindly let him eat his steak and fried potatoes in peace and he would be on his way? Hadn't he told them, warned them, that he was getting angry? And when Robert Bruce Banner, former nuclear physicist and holder of not one but twelve advanced degrees in different scientific studies the likes of which put him on par with both Tony Stark and Dr. Reed Richards, was angry, you certainly wouldn't like him, no sir. Hadn't he told those two drunken cowboys, who were none too pleased a stranger was sitting in their favorite spot, and wouldn't let up until Bruce saw red then turned green?)

He did warn them. And now the one horse town of Green River, Utah, population 1,286 was just a hole in the ground with a population of Zero. There had been many casualties and Thunderbolt had been called to clear the area, but by the time Thaddeus Ross had arrived, Banner was long gone. He could jump ten miles in a clip and he woke up under a pile of red rubble in a barren dessert wasteland somewhere near Elko, Nevada. He would walk for six days, eating bugs and cactus fruit until eventually an old timer in a beat up Chevy saw the wretched looking Banner, shirtless and sun burnt, his oddly purple pants a tatters and his thumb out on the side of the road, and offered to give him a lift to the nearest Men's Shelter, about a three hour drive south on Rt515.

In the passenger seat of the Chevy. Banner slept. Or part of him slept. His eyes had been heavy, fallen closed, only to creep back open, his irises leaking green. The old man didn't pay him any mind, just shifted gears as they headed up into the mountains. The red oil pressure dummy light flickered on the dash but it could've been invisible for all the attention that seem to be paid to it. Banner's mouth opened and there was a voice that didn't quite belong to him, like it someone paying rent by the week, even though it'd lived there for years now.

"Why you stop for me?

"No sense letting someone die in the desert, my boy. You weren't looking so keen, if you don't mind my saying."

There was silence for a moment. "It been rough lately. Sleep too much, sleep too little. Eat bugs. Feel burnt."

There was a rhythm to the old timer's nod that was in time with the blinking light on the dash. "The desert can be a harsh mistress. There are only two places like it – the bottom of the sea and the Arctic. They're all as barren as can be to look at. Chew you up and spit out." He glanced over at the man half-asleep in his car. "Weather like that can drive you mad."

"Me not... I don't like... being mad. Or angry. Nobody likes me when I'm angry."

"Well, don't you fret kid. I've got just the place in mind where you can take a load off and rest. I think you'll like it too."

"Why your light keep blinking?"

"Reminds me of home." And with those words in his ears, he drifted off to sleep.

Banner laughed beneath his balaclava, frost forming across its surface. He had to say this at least: Saint Cloud certainly wasn't anywhere near where ol' Thunderbolt would be looking for him. It was the small blessings you had to count. He still couldn't believe the beast inside had crept to the surface so slowly as to speak through him but again, Bruce Banner had learned to be thankful for small victories, if you could call waking up in the frozen north a victory. He pulled a small piece of paper from his pocket. On it was scribbled a time and a date and coordinates. He jutted breath through his nose. Betty would be waiting for him at those coordinates. He had better get a move on.

A weak sun was beginning to spread across the horizon in a feeble attempt at dawn. As he walked across the snowy back road he loses his footing on a secret patch of black ice which has frozen and melted, frozen and melted half a dozen times before the December snows cover it, a booby trap.

He makes a startled cry of surprise which is drowned out by the whipping wind. His heart beats faster and a flash of irritation, slimy black like used motor oil fills his head. He regains his footing but he already can feel it. It's a nasty, familiar feeling, like a wound tearing itself open, or a ligament torn years ago strained again. A phantom pain that turns the whole world green.

He feels his mind slip, each bit of cognition shut down like a row of breakers in an electric box all blowing – one by one. His reason shuts down as the inky black irritation ignites into a green rage. He can feel his heart beat faster, his temper flaring (ice make puny Banner fall down. Banner always make mistakes. Banner weak and smallandnowonderdaddybeathimhewassucha badboymommyleftbecauseBannerbadand) and his breathing becomes shallow. He can feel it coming but in the nick of time, he remembers what good old Doc Sampson taught him. Steady his breathing when the thoughts come. Focus on an object a few feet in front of him. Recognize it. Describe it to himself and move on to another object if he has to. Breathe in and out deeply.

A pine tree. He thinks, forcing the Green thoughts out of his mind, he breathes in the dagger cold air. For a moment he feels relief for his hot temper as the frosty air fills his lungs, Twenty feet tall, a quilt of snow covers the needles, like…like… frosting on a ginger bread house. He breathes in again and feels better. Calmer. Something about the thought of the ginger bread house gives him a slight pause and a feeling of euphoria overcomes him. It is strange to him. He's never made a gingerbread house before. It was never a part of any Christmas tradition in the Banner household. Betty, his sweet Betty, never even made one. Or maybe she did and Bruce didn't know it. Either way, the thought filled him with a certain warmth that made him feel safe. Calm. Better.

He regains his footing and brushes as much snow off of himself as he can. A flood of relief washes over him. No monster this morning, thank God. He continues on the desolate back road, his thumb sore and cold from exposure. He tucks it into the glove. No cars for miles. He doesn't care. He avoided the monster and that was reason enough to rejoice. He would press on. He was almost at the meeting place Betty had written down the coordinates.

Bruce walked for another hour as the snow cover decreased from waist deep until it was just above his shins. The sun shone through a film of clouds pregnant with snow. Pine and spruce trees checkered the horizon as he walked through a small clearing. He has begun to sweat profusely through his balaclava and decides to take it off. It feels good. The cold air on his hot skin is invigorating. He looks in the distance and sees something that, for the first time in a while, makes him smile.

ST. NICHOLAS ¾ MILES.

It's the town from the coordinates. His heart lightens and he smiles a little. It won't be long until he is able to see Betty, even for a few hours. He hasn't seen her in nearly a year. He tries as often as he can to send her a note or post card (Never with a return address and never writing any sort of message which will give away where he is hiding. Too dangerous, that. Postmarks alone usually put him in danger for weeks if he wasn't careful about it.) He sometimes feels like he should write to her, to tell her how scared and lonely he sometimes got or how terrified he was of her father finding him and shuttling him to some secret prison where he would never again see the light of day. He knew Ross was as crazy as Captain Ahab and twice as determined to see the monster dealt with. It was the tenacity that scared Bruce the most. Mostly, he wanted to tell her how much he loved her and how once a cure is found for this horrible affliction he will come back to her and they will marry and have a child or two and live a normal life. His lightened heart aches for a moment. Best not to think about that what-may-be. He wasn't cured despite everything he has tried but when he gets settled again, maybe in Canada or Idaho he would finally figure it out. He dare not reach out to his colleagues. That, too, was a kiss of death.

He began walking, his pace up slightly.

Just a little further.

The town of Saint Nicholas (Population: 108) was not so much a town but an overgrown truck stop. At the center of town was a restaurant called Clyde's (Meatloaf our specialty, showers one dollar) surrounded by a small general store, a gas station, a consignment shop (spelled Shoppe, though one of the "P" lights had burned out long ago) and a post office. For as small a place as it was, Bruce noticed it was decorated cheerily for Christmas. Blinking colored and white lights adorned the lamp posts, decorations like garland in the shape of holly and candles topped the posts. In the morning light, it looked almost cozy and definitely inviting. He took off his glove and rummaged through his many pockets, scrounging for whatever money he could come up with.

He dug up twenty two dollars. He looked over at the restaurant and as if taking a cue, his belly rumbled. Twenty two dollars in a small truck stop like this meant he could probably eat like a king, and then some, but though he was very hungry (he forgot the last time he has actually eaten a decent meal) it was the shower he was after. Lots of truck stops has places for the long haulers to get cleaned up, and do some laundry. He wondered if he could convince the manager to let him grab some shuteye in a backroom. He may have to slip the guy a five, but he could still get himself presentable and afford food when he met Betty.

He trudged on towards the restaurant. Looking around, he saw empty streets and crisp snow, which made sense considering the early hour and the tiny population. There was a small row of apartment buildings toward the far right of the town. Bruce wondered how such a small place stayed afloat. He grabbed the door handle and gave it a push, a small bell above the door jingled. Bruce found himself chuckling. Of course the truck stop in St. Nicholas would have jingle bells above the door.

As he came out of his amusement at the bells, he was almost knocked senseless by the competing aromas of the place. A melange of smokey bacon and thyme from breakfast sausage, toast cooked almost to burnt, butter frying off in a pan, the sweet smell of maple syrup (not that Aunt Jemima stuff, but the real deal, thank you very much) and of good, strong coffee. His stomach howled at him.

"Merry Christmas!" A cheery, feminine voice called from behind the grill top. "Seat yourself!"

Bruce cleared his throat and thrust his balaclava in his pocket, "I was hoping to use your showers before I sit."

The woman, never looking up from her cooking, said, "Showers are to the left. A buck'll buy you five minutes, fifty cents buys you an extra minute." Her voice was thick with a northern accent, unmistakably Minnesota Nice. Bruce smiled and thanked her without actually getting a good look at her. He walked by a few old timers sitting in a booth, their coffees steaming. One fellow was wearing a knitted sweater. A horrible looking blue thing with brown reindeer on it. The other man wore a flannel shirt and hunting cap with ear flaps. They looked at Bruce and for a moment and Bruce felt uneasy. The ugly sweater guy smiled wide, revealing false teeth.

"Merry Christmas, young man." He said, Bruce couldn't tell if he had an accent like the lady in the kitchen. He smiled shyly and mumbled Merry Christmas back to the oldster.

Bruce walked towards the shower area and made change at the machine. The stall was suited for a shorter person, but he didn't care. He pulled out a small bag containing a bar of soap and a small bottle of shampoo from his pack. He put the quarters in the machine, eight quarters for seven minutes, stripped, and got in. He didn't bother to wait for the water to warm up. He had seven minutes and wanted to make every second count.

He lathered and rinsed twice and and washed his hair three times. The water felt good once it warmed up. He dried off and took out a clean set of clothes. Tan slacks and a purple and black flannel shirt and put them on after he dried off. He was due for a shave, but he had lost his shaving kit some time ago. The pants were loose as was his shirt. He looked in the mirror. He was practically swimming in his clothes.

Gotta eat more. Bruce thought, though he had an idea that he wouldn't be dying of hunger anytime soon. He would have to pick up a belt somewhere. Maybe at the little general store if he had any cash left over from breakfast.

Packing up his things, Bruce headed back to the restaurant. Ugly sweater guy smiled wide again, and this time, Bruce found himself smiling easier. There was another exchange of "Merry Christmases" and the awkwardness had bled away some. With an unwanted smile (it was so much easier to be anonymous if no one had a reason to remember you, and smiles get remembered,) Bruce found himself a seat at the bar.

"Showers to your liking hon?" the woman at the grill called out. The oldsters, Flat Hat and Ugly Sweater had fresh food, so she had turned around at some point.

"Yes, ma'am."

"So what can I getcha? You want the special? Only five bucks."

There was a pain where Bruce was pretty sure his stomach was clawing its way out so it could chase down those perfect smells. "Sounds fair. What all do I get for five bucks?"

There was laughter; hers at the grill, the oldsters in the booth, the echoes feeling like the restaurant was packed. For a moment, Bruce worried, on guard for the stream of black bitterness and green rage but none came. There was no malice here, just love.

"Honey, for five bucks, you get one thing."

"What's that?"

"A full belly."

Somewhere deep within him, there was a deep grumble in appreciation. Bruce pretended that it was his stomach. The woman at the grill, spun around, slinging a plate in front of him, slapping down sausage links, potatoes, and a thick piece of ham. "Here you go sweetie," she said, beaming through a broad smile, a beaded brow from leaning over the grill, and rosy cheeks.

Bruce picked up knife and fork, unable to contain his smile now. As he reached down with his fork, and stabbed a sausage, he noticed her watching him. His hackles started to rise again. "Is something the matter?"

"No no, sorry. Didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. Just wanted you to know something."

Relieved, Bruce took a mouthful of sausage and chewed hungrily. After a swallow, he murmured "What's that?"

"You have the most beautiful green eyes."

The statement startled him and he felt dread creep into his filling belly. His Eyes were hazel with only a hint of green. How could his eyes be green unless he was about to turn? He was content. Warm and safe. He felt no anger or even the slightest hint of irritation. He felt...peaceful. He looked up at the woman and feigned a smile. The hash-slinger, a stout gal with blonde hair and pool-blue eyes looked him dead in the eyes and frowned briefly.

"Huh." She said in a perplexed tone. "sorry, but I could have sworn..."

Banner smiled, wider this time (and with some relief,) and said quickly, "Probably just a trick of the light. My eyes are hazel, but sometimes they can look green." He added, not untruthfully, "It happens all the time, Miss..."

"Jodie. Name's Jodi."

Bruce nodded and glanced briefly at his sausage, "Miss Jodie. My name is Evans. Robert Evans."

Jodie flashed a smile. It was a kind smile. It reminded him a bit of Betty and for a second he felt a twinge of excitement. She would be here soon.

"Just passing through, Mister Evans?" She asked.

Bruce nodded, "actually I'm here to meet someone."

This time it was Jodie who nodded, "Here of all places? Sweetheart?" She went over to the coffee pot and poured him a fresh cup. "No charge."

"Thank you, and yes." Bruce knew it wasn't the best idea to explain why he was here to someone he didn't know, but that odd, peaceful feeling felt strong. He didn't know why he felt so at ease in this particular diner, but he did.

Jodie nodded again, "if you don't mind me saying so, you look as if you haven't had a good meal in weeks."

Bruce let out a laugh, "I travel a lot for work. I'm a salesman so I eat on the go."

Jodie looked at him skeptically, "I see. Well, since it's Christmas and I'm feeling the spirit, how'd you like a stack of pancakes? Free of charge?"

Again, his stomach let out a grumble. He had scarfed the ham and sausage and had begun work on the potatoes and he knew he'd still be hungry after he had cleaned his plate. He smiled, "That would be very kind of you, but I can pay for them."

"Nonsense!" Jodie said with a laugh, "It's Christmas and this will be my present to you." Jodie walked back into the kitchen to prepare the hot cakes. Bruce smiled and was then joined by the two old fellas.

"Jodie!" The guy in the blue sweater called, "gonna help myself to another cup of this mud you call coffee!"

"You know where it is, Earl!" Jodie called back, "Make sure you fill up Dean's cup while you're at it." Bruce glanced over at the other old timer and then back at his own mug.

The man named Earl smiled at Bruce, "Ain't she a doll?" He asked, "If I was thirty years younger..." And laughed an old man's laugh that was rich and full. A grandfather's laugh. He slapped Bruce on the shoulder. Usually such a move would irritate him, he didn't like to be touched even before the accident but instead of irritation, he found himself smiling in kind.

Jodie came back to the counter with a stack of pancakes giving off a healthy dose of steam. They smelled divine, he detected a hint of vanilla in them. A slab of butter slid across the surface like a fallen hockey player. She put the plate down in front of him and passed him the bottle of syrup. Bruce's stomach grumbled again. He had no doubt he would make short work of these hot cakes.

"If you were thirty years younger, Earl, I'd still want nothing to do with you!" She said and the two of them laughed. Suddenly Early puled something from his trouser pocket and held it over his head.

Mistletoe.

"Whaddaya say, Jodie? Make an old man's Christmas?" He flashed a smile and for a moment Bruce saw him as a young man. Dark hair and a roguish grin. He wouldn't need mistletoe to get a kiss from any woman back then, Bruce guessed.

Obligingly, Jodie gave Earl a peck on the cheek. "Now go back to your booth before I give you a lump of coal." She made a fist at the old man. Earl put his hands up in an "I give up" gesture.

Earl took his coffee and a second cup for his buddy Dean. Jodie went back into the kitchen, leaving Bruce to get started on his pancakes.

He was halfway through them, savoring each delightfully maple-y morsel when, from behind, the sound of jingle bells lilted in the near silence of the small diner.

Bruce turned immediately, mid chew, and almost choked on his pancakes.

Betty had arrived.

She was dressed in a heavy hunter's green long coat. Her long, auburn hair covered in a knitted hat which was solid gray. She wore matching earmuffs and gloves. Her cheeks were apple red from the outside chill. Almost immediately she removed her overcoat, revealing a slender frame in a perfectly fitting red sweater and tan slacks.

"Betty!" Bruce said. He didn't raise his voice. It was quiet enough in here and he didn't want to startle the two old timer who had gone back to reading their newspapers. He stood to meet her, and had to grab a hold of his ill fitting pants. They nearly fell off because of his too slim frame.

Betty smiled. It was as pretty a smile as Bruce had ever seen, even though she looked a bit sad. He didn't blame her one bit. Meeting in the middle of nowhere, and on Christmas to boot.

She didn't say anything, just rushed over to him (Her coat discarded,) and threw her arms around him and held him tightly. Bruce put his hands around her and buried his head in her neck. She was both warm and cold at the same time. She smelled like lavender.

"Oh Bruce." She whispered, sobbing slightly. She pulled away from him and looked into his eyes with her wet ones, "Oh Bruce, Merry Christmas."

Bruce was on the verge of tears himself. An odd feeling came over him. His heart was beating quickly, something he always had to be wary of because it could lead to Green thoughts, but this time nothing happened. No Green thoughts or flashes of irritation. His cognition was in tact. A single tear fell from his right eye.

"Merry Christmas, Betty."

They moved from the where Bruce was sitting to a booth on the far end of the restaurant. Dean had put some money in the Juke Box and Nat King Cole was singing about turkey and misteltoe Snow was falling heavily now. Betty had a cup of steaming hot tea and picked up the mug with two hands and took a sip.

Bruce broke their silence, "Does Thunderbolt know where you are?" He asked.

Betty swallowed her tea and shook her head, "Of course not. And don't call him that. It's a stupid name." She made a look of disgust, "He is as far away from this part of the country as he can get."

Bruce shifted his eyes left to right, right to left, "Where?"

Betty gave a faint smile, "The Texas-Mexico border. He is under the impression the Hu… That you are down there."

Bruce nodded at this, "What gave him the impression that I am that far south?"

Betty's smile grew, revealing perfect teeth, "He may have gotten a tip from Rick Jones pretending to be a rancher who saw a big green thing slam into his barn and crush a tractor."

A smile crept across Bruce's face and he let out a laugh. Thank God for his pal Rick Jones and thank God for pay phones and thank God for Thunderbolt, oh sorry, Thaddeus Ross's blind tenacity.

Betty slid her hands across the table and laced them with Bruce's. Her hands were warm from holding her mug and very soft. "Bruce..."She started, but Bruce cut her off.

"Betty, I know what you are going to say and I told you it's way too risky and wouldn't be fair to you." he sighed. This was a familiar conversation to them both and each time they have it they both wind up feeling hurt.

"I don't care about moving from place to place, Bruce. I was an army brat, remember?" Betty said.

Bruce's smile turned to a frown, "Betty, I can't. Even if you came with me, how would you be able to find me if I have another outburst? Last time I got sick, I wound up in Elko, Nevada. I just need to find a place to settle down. Saskatoon or Anchorage or some other remote place.

Betty was frowning, too. She found herself tearing at her paper napkin. "What about Tony?"

Bruce raised his eyebrow, "Stark? Ha! I burned that bridge three years ago when those two brothers from another dimension went to war down here. I don't think the Avengers would be able, nor want, to help me."

"What about Reed Richards?" Betty asked, her voice quietly pleading, "If there was anyone who could..."

Bruce waved his hand dismissively, "we barely know each other. The only experience I have with him was the time the Army bought a few of his machines for my gamma research. I wouldn't even know how to get a hold of him. I hear the Baxter Building gets tons of letters a day."

"I heard," Betty said, a glimmer of hope in his voice, "there is a doctor in Greenwich Village...a new age doctor who..."

Bruce took her hands and kissed them. "Betty, lets just...let's just enjoy being here together. I don't know about you, but this has been the best Christmas I've had in years." He kissed her hand again and Betty smiled, color rising in her cheeks.

"That reminds me," Betty said, "I have something for you."

"Oh, Betty, you didn't have to..."

"Hush." Betty smiled, "I won't hear any protest, Bruce Banner." She dug into her coat pocket and took out an envelope. "Here. Merry Christmas." She pushed the envelope to Bruce. Who took it and looked at it curiously.

"Betty..." He opened the envelope and saw a few hundred dollar bills.

"I don't like the thought of you not eating while you're on the road and not being able to sleep under a roof and..." her voice broke and she was sobbing again, "Oh Bruce, I love you so much. I can't bear to see you like this. You're so..."

"Thin?" Bruce said and smiled. Betty let out a small laugh through her sobs. "I know, I look like hell, but I can't take this from you." He tried to slide the money back to her, but she stopped him."

"Bruce, if you don't take it I'll be very angry with you." She sniffed and wiped her nose with her torn up napkin, "and if you think you're bad when you're angry then you have another thing coming."

Bruce chuckled. He slid the money into his pocket. "Ok." From behind him, he heard change jingle as it was put in the jukebox. A song was selected. Bruce smiled. It was Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.

"Do you want to dance?" He asked. Before she could answer he was on his feet, her hand in his and the two of them danced a slow two step. His hand on the small of her back. Her arms around him.

He saw that Earl and Dean were standing up, watching them with joyful grins. Earl gave Bruce a thumbs up. Jodie was also watching, a dishrag in her hand.

"This is nice." Betty said. "This has been a great Christmas, Bruce."

He leaned in and kissed her. It was sweet. It was like coming home.

Faintly he heard the words

Through the years we all will be together, if the fates allow

"Wake up, Bruce." Betty whispered.

"What?" Bruce asked, puzzled. He looked at Betty.

But suddenly she wasn't there.

He awoke in a beat up looking shower stall, a window towards the end of the bathroom blew in snow and icy wind. He was still in his white parka. It was cold and he was shaking despite being fully clothed. A thin sliver of white light shone through the broken window. Where was he? Where was Betty? How long had he…?

A dream.

It had all been a dream.

He stood up and walked from the empty stall. The bathroom door had been torn off some time ago. The place smelled like mold and rotten wood. He walked into the main room and remembered where he was.

It was Clyde's Diner, but no one had eaten here in years. Overturned and broken chairs littered the floor, booths had been stripped of their vinyl. A nest of some sort had been built by some animal on the light fixtures. The jukebox was also destroyed, broken glass lying on the floor like so much old tinsel. The walls had been torn open and all the copper mined from them. The old wooden door opened and closed, slamming against the jamb.

A dream. Suddenly it dawned on him. He had been caught in a blizzard and needed shelter. He was snow blind and weak from walking. This was the only shelter he could find.

He walked over to the door and saw that it wasn't snowing as hard anymore, but it was still frigid. He must have been out for hours because he could see the sun through the snow clouds directly above him.

"Must be noon or thereabouts." He muttered. "Gotta get a move on."

He stepped out of the deserted and broken down diner into an equally deserted and broken down town. Saint Nicholas, it seems, had picked up stakes long ago. Broken windows and boarded up doors, a bit of graffiti, offensive to Bruce, read in an ugly brown ALL MuTies Must Die! And, as if in rebuttal (in red,) Magneto was right! Join the Brotherhood!

He walked to the edge of town and found himself on another back road. He started walking. North. Ever North. He sighed. The snow falling near his mouth melted and froze before it hit the ground. Some Dream. Some Christmas. Alone in the snow in a broken and forgotten Minnesota town with one stop light. He frowned. This was his life. That of a vagabond prince. A man with a beast inside and a thumb sore and raw from hitchhiking the highways in hiding. He was tired, but the road stretched on.

He thought of Betty and the dream. How real it felt. This Christmas, at least, he had found a sliver of peace. Even if it was from within his own mind. A mind that could be all at once his best friend or worst enemy.

Bruce walked down the road a piece and popped his thumb out from the brown wool gloves Betty had given him three Christmases ago. It would be a lonely, freezing night with bitter winds and wet shoes and numb toes but he would survive. No hypothermia for Doctor Bruce Banner this Christmas or any other cold, dark night.

For the monster who fed on his rage and his fear would give him this sad gift of his existence every Christmas.

Possibly forever.

-To all who struggle, to those in pain: A very Merry Christmas and wishes for a peaceful 2018.

- Paul Landri and Jason M. Clark