Tamara didn't know what Malcom's problem was.
The short-haired woman walked into the warehouse that she was now calling work, and spotted the man staring out the window and to the fresh snow that was blanketing Chicago.
"Hey, Malcom," she greeted politely, sipping her coffee, and holding his out.
He didn't respond, just kept staring out the window. She walked around to the side, and repeated his name. The blankness in his expression scared her a bit.
"Malcom? What are you doing?"
He sighed. "It's the first of December, Tamara. It's started."
"What are you talking about? What's starting?"
Whoosh!
Tamara whirled around, a few choice expletives coming out her mouth as she did so, and was amazed to find the bland warehouse office now covered in Christmas garb.
"What- What the hell just happened?"
Malcom sighed. Poor, poor Tamara. She didn't know what was in store.
"He's… just a teensy bit obsessed with this holiday," he explained, rubbing the back of his neck. "Try not to mention it around him, if you could."
"Why? What's the Critic gonna do if he hears Chris-"
"Shhh!" Malcom nearly shouted over her. "Okay, you know how he reacts to the…" Malcom looked around and whispered, "To the bat credit card?"
From the next room, the pair could hear the all too familiar screech of "A BAT CREDIT CARD?! YOU SONS OF BITCHES, PIECE OF-"
The rest of that sentence was drowned out by the all too familiar firing of several bullets that no normal handgun should be able to carry.
"Yeah," Tamara replied, dead pan. "I think I have an inkling."
"Well, amp that up by a million, add some caffeine, and the enthusiasm of a coke addict. Then you've got about a tenth of his enthusiasm for the holidays."
"Jesus."
"Yeah. I think he was saying something about some kind of patch or something to keep him from going total cuckoo, but let's just see."
"Well, come on, that's a bit extreme isn't it?" The short-haired woman asked. "I mean, it's-"
"Don't say it!"
"-You-know-what," Tamara rolled her eyes, "He shouldn't have to hold back for the holidays."
"You haven't seen what it is like," Malcom insisted. "Seriously, just let him do the patch thing."
Tamara opened her mouth to retort, but at that moment, the door to the recording room opened and out stepped the Critic in a large, cream-colored sweater, a red tie over it, and his traditional plain black ball cap.
"Good morning, Malcom, Tamara," he greeted serenely, only less like the Dalai Lama, and more like someone on horse tranquilizers. "Lovely weather, we're having, isn't it?"
She was about to reply that it felt more like a snowman's ass outside, but Malcom interrupted her. "Yes," he said in a slightly too high pitched voice. "We were just talking about it, actually, Critic."
"Ah, it's so pleasant to have coworkers who get along," the Critic breathed, his eyes focusing on the space just above Tamara and Malcom's heads. "Well, I shall see you two later. We've got such a terrible movie in the DVD player, and I want you guys to be there while I watch it."
"We'd love to, Critic. Lead the way."
The Critic smiled vacantly and began to walk away, and Tamara could see a small white patch on the nape of his neck.
"This isn't right. He shouldn't have to repress himself," Tamara muttered, taking another sip of her coffee. She had to take that patch off of him.