Where the Days Go
The Final Installment of the PpG Christmas Trilogy
By Powerprof
The lesson of Beauty and the Beast is that a thing
must be loved before it can become loveable.
– G.K. Chesterton Orthodoxy (paraphrased.)
For Parselmouthus, who always ... believed.
Jojo trudged down the ice covered steps of his volcano top observatory. Twice he nearly slipped on the thick ice that coated the steps, much as it had this very night two years past. He might have cursed the fact that he couldn't maintain his usual menacing cadence, except that somehow he'd lost his grasp on the idea of menace, and the cadence was gone with it. He walked more slowly, and even leisurely, and while he had somewhere to be, he didn't want to get there so quickly that he missed the sights a new found vision would have for him this Christmas eve. He was well bundled-up against the unusual weather that was going to give Townsville its second white Christmas in three years, but somehow felt exposed, even naked, and when he inwardly shuddered, it was not because of the cold.
He felt this way because something had happened two weeks ago that was the consummation of a process begun the year before. It had thoroughly disarmed him. Now exposed and weak before feelings and thoughts that were as alien to him as a Bizzaro world would be, he felt the nakedness of a soul long couched in an ever-deepening darkness suddenly thrust before the blinding light of a noonday sun.
But there was little heat in that light. That would come later, he suspected. After the 'layers' had been peeled away. For now there was only a bright cold, very much like the winter sun that had shone this morning, before giving way to the approaching storm.
"So be it," he thought moodily, but not unhappily. Best not to disturb the processes at work in him now by thinking about them too much, for regression, collapse and ultimate moral ruin were still an all-too-present danger. It would always be so. And this was good, or at least necessary.
He was carrying a bag over his shoulder, and in it were four packages of varying sizes. Mojo Jojo, the mad inventor, would-be destroyer of the Powerpuff Girls and everything good, had turned his thoughts to more arty expressions, thoughts of creativity, instead of destruction. Reaching the edge of the park, he slipped a bit on some ice, and when he regained himself, he saw his reflection in a store front window and chuckled a little at how awkwardly positioned he was. And he saw a piece of something sticking out of his pocket. It was the first draft of a letter. He tucked it back in and chuckled some more. How foolish he was, he thought, to have written a letter to Santa.
In the days after recovering from the hangover inflicted by the last villains' Christmas party he'd attended, Jojo (even now, known to the general public as Mojo Jojo, the Scourge of Townsville) struggled in vain to recall the exact workings of His Most Ultimate Plan to Destroy the Powerpuff Girls Once and for All. It had been a plan so inspired that it was more art than science. But that moment of inspiration was disturbed and his plans destroyed by Bubbles and her attempt to give him a Christmas present. Well, Bubbles hadn't destroyed anything, actually. Mojo Jojo in his paranoia had done that. And the brain cells in which his plan resided were probably wiped out in the subsequent binge at the Villain's Christmas Eve party where he'd imbibed more heavily than ever had before. Throughout the night he was conscious of that strange bartender's eyes watching him with implacable disgust. And every time he noticed the staring, he quickly ordered another drink.
As he headed home the next morning, Mojo, badly hung-over and hearing everything only too well, heard two people talking. One remarked about how nice it was that there was never any villainy in Townsville during Christmas. The other half-jokingly remarked that it must be Santa's present to the whole town. And in that moment, it all clicked. He had always thought there was something strange about that bartender. But could there really be a Santa? It was childishness to believe in such things. Besides, if one such as Santa actually existed, surely he would conform to expectations of the caricatures and parodies? A jolly fat man who just wanted everyone to have a good time? The unobtrusive do-gooder of Miracle on Thirty Fourth Street? The weak, clueless goodie-goodie of The (admittedly lame) Nightmare Before Christmas? It had never occurred to Mojo Jojo that "goodness" could actually be a serious affair, or that it could ever be anything other than a joke.
But now, Jojo realized, the joke was on him. It was he who had been childish. He was like a four year old in his desire for naked power, but with a genius mind. And now he'd seen how it is "evil" that, in the end, descends into parody and caricature, because it has nothing positive in it, and it can only exist as a parasite on the good. And so it must descend into parody, for it subverts the host, and ends up rejecting even more than it subsumes until "there is no there, there". "Mojo Jojo" was nothing but a caricature that over time would have strangled anything real in him. He fingered the letter in his pocket.
Mojo Jojo could not have known the storm of crisis that erupted when Santa got his letter. It wasn't very often that Him was seen anywhere near the North Pole. Him hated the place, but was occasionally obliged to show up … under certain conditions. Upon seeing him, the reaction among the elves ranged from shock, among those who knew of the Arch Demon but had never met him, to knowing glances among the inner circles who realized that if "he" was here, something big was going down somewhere. Santa, grim, met Him at the door to his office. He was holding the now legendary letter from the genius chimpanzee known as Mojo Jojo. The big guy and the devil traded no pleasantries, but went straight into the office. As the door swung shut, the elves heard Santa say "I know you don't want to be here, and you know I don't want you here, so let's cut to the chase. We both know the rules when I get a letter like this, and …"
Mojo had written and mailed the letter in a fit of rage and frustration augmented by the pains of a massive hang-over. It took twenty pages filled with his usual self-justifying, self-aggrandizing prolix to get to his only request: he asked for Santa to prove himself, by giving him a way to defeat the Powerpuff Girls once and for all. Having finally despaired of ever defeating the girls, Mojo Jojo was trying to conjure the gods. And in this, the devil gets his opportunity. Santa didn't do the death and destruction shtick, so Him would now have to step up and play the devil's part in whatever was coming. That was fine with Him, although the fact that an issue had reached a point where it must be decided for all time was always disquieting. Risks would have to be taken. Timing was everything. Mojo was Him's kind of guy, and he had to find a way to guarantee that Mojo would fall into his hands at the final moment. It would be easy. If Mojo could only remember it, his "Most Ultimate Plan to Destroy the Powerpuff Girls Once and for All" would suffice. Him would make sure he did.
The door to Santa's office swung open, and Him summarily left. After Him was gone, Santa emerged and bellowed "Get me Bernard, at once!"
Jojo passed through the center of Townsville with only slight discomfort at the sight of the Mayor in his Santa suit passing out Christmas gifts to the city employees as they left for home. He noticed Ms. Bellum resplendent in a very form-fitting red velvet suit – was that real fur in the trim? - and caught himself appreciating how remarkably lovely she looked. Like most villains, or at least their caricatures, Mojo Jojo was a particularly egregious aesthete. Jojo still appreciated beauty but now found a new seriousness in it. A few people took note of him, and watched him apprehensively. Jojo tried to smile reassuringly at them. It would probably take years before anyone here would trust him even a little. Some probably never would. He couldn't blame them. The Last Battle, as he now thought of it, was only a week ago, and while the people of Townsville were well-rehearsed in repairing the town, evidence of the ferocious battle could still been seen.
As he passed into the next part of town, he reviewed the events of the past few months one last time. Last fall, two months after his latest plan to defeat the Powerpuff girls went down to a very crushing defeat, he remembered how he came home from shopping to find a large envelope with a bright red ribbon on it stuck to his door. It was his plan, his ultimate plan to defeat the Girls. Santa had answered his letter. In the affirmative. And he was early! Or so it seemed. In his glee, Mojo Jojo quickly cast aside the ramifications of this.
The heart of the plan was a Chemical X dampening field generator. That was what he couldn't remember how to build. But now he had his plans back. The dampening field exploited an energy exchange that took place between Chemical X and those whose metabolism incorporated it. Technically, it didn't dampen the Chemical X at all. Chemical X itself seemed impervious. It simply was. This robot could generate a short-range field that would sap the girls strength when they got close enough to it. It might be fun to slowly show the girls what they were up against, but Mojo made up his mind that there would be no more villain's games. No more preening and posturing and monologuing. With Victory assured, he would go for the quick, and permanent, defeat. He decided not to activate the field until they were all well within its range. The rest of it was simple: a thick skinned, rugged battle robot armed to the teeth, in more ways than one. It had multiple arms and each of these could deploy bunches of thin, super strong wires to secure the powerless girls once the field had drained them. And then he, Mojo Jojo, would deliver the coup de grace personally. He laughed. And even then, he briefly noticed a new edge of bloodthirstiness that had crept into his thinking. It was something he'd never quite felt before: a lusting for the Powerpuff's defeat as he had never known it. There was heat in the rage. He liked it, but he did notice that it was almost as if it was fire from … somewhere else. The brief moment of introspection passed and Mojo Jojo headed out.
It was two weeks after Thanksgiving and the battle was joined. It serves no real purpose to describe the specifics of the battle save to say it that for duration and ferocity it was the most memorable in the all the annals of the Powerpuffery. Sounds thundered among the steel canyons of Townsville as they never had before, and the girls quickly realized that Mojo intended to leave everything on the battlefield. Buildings were skewed at crazy angles as the ground shook with the intensity of the fighting. Mojo's plan to engage the dampening field was hampered because the girls were never in range all at the same time. At one point he had two of them in range, but rather than show his hand, he somehow managed to stay calm. This fight was to the finish, all or nothing. Even so, in the brief moments of respite Mojo was surprised by how calmly he waited for his chance. Buttercup shattered the first set of wires in which he'd momentarily caught her, but he kept calm. Blossom managed to punch a hole through to his cockpit with her eye beams, and small explosions bloodied his face, yet still he held his ultimate weapon in reserve. In fact, he had never felt so peaceful. The battle had raged all day. Night fell, and on it went.
And then it happened. The battlebot had given better than it took, and the girls resorted to the Fiery Furious Feline. Just before they struck, Mojo threw the switch. He – as he cagily realized he might be - was momentarily stunned by the field himself, for he too was a child of Chemical X. When he regained his senses, he saw his battlebot's automated response systems had done their job. All three girls were thoroughly wrapped up in wire as if a giant, metal-spinning spider had cocooned them. He could scarcely make out who was who.
His hand reached for the laser pistol at his side as he climbed out of the cockpit. He jacked the setting to maximum as the battlebot positioned the three prisoners in a row before him. He put the laser to the head of the first bound figure, but then … it was just too hard to keep from gloating. As the girls, shocked by their loss of power struggled in vain against their bonds, he burst into a monologue that just kept coming, and coming, like the ravings of a maniac prosecutor before a kangaroo court. It might have gone on for an hour except …
"Ahem."
Mojo, his face skewed maniacally, turned.
"Who dares interrupt me in my moment of victory," he growled, breathing heavily from the orgiastic pleasure of final victory, "in my moment of ultimate triumph, of incontrovertible and ineluctable glory?"
"Over here."
Mojo saw a man, who couldn't have been more than three feet tall, standing by the battlebot. He was holding a package. It looked like a Christmas present. There was a familiar air about the little man.
"Oh," Mojo smiled, gratefully. "It's … you?"
"Nah. I just work for him. Name's Bernard."
"Well, be sure to thank him for his … GIFT," and Mojo laughed maniacally as his hand swept grandiosely toward the three prisoners, "Mu-wa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha …"
The elf whistled so loud it might have been heard at the North Pole.
"That wasn't from him. That came from … somebody else. This is your present."
Momentarily curious, Mojo happily walked over and took it. Then remembering his purpose he whirred around and prepared to finish his mission.
"Aren't cha gonna open it?"
"Yes, yes, right after I finish …"
"I'd open it now … if I were you," said Bernard, with an authority all out of proportion to his size. Suddenly Mojo, who had never before had a situation so well in hand, felt his grip on it slipping.
"Now?" he said uncertainly, as he turned to look at Bernard who had inexplicably produced a turkey drumstick and was casually munching on it. Bernard merely nodded slowly.
Mojo smiled unctuously, and said, "of course."
The girls in their struggles had managed to shift the wire mesh enough for them to see what was happening. It also became possible to see who was who. There was no mistaking the wrath and the fear in Buttercup's eyes. Blossom had the look of someone furiously trying to figure a way out of this trap. Bubbles looked genuinely scared to death. But when see saw Bernard she became still, though the other two continued to struggle.
Mojo picked up the package indifferently at first. Then, smiling in mock obsequiousness at Bernard, he shook it. The package felt very light, and made no sound. Mojo opened it and recognized it at once. He reached inside and pulled out a piece of singed, burned yellow plastic. It was to only thing that remained of Bubbles's present to Mojo last Christmas.
"Some joke…" Mojo muttered. "You say I got my plans from someone else. So be it. It was a better present than this."
"You need to look at it more … closely," said Bernard, amusedly. He knew what was coming.
Mojo complied, and as he did he began to see … something. The tattered remnant of Bubbles's present began to glow. There were moving images dancing around like someone was projecting a movie onto it. Slowly, Mojo became entranced.
"Now," said Bernard, very matter-of-factly, "The only reason you're going to get to see what you're about to see … is because somebody once decided to give a damn about you."
The plastic exploded in a flash of light, and Mojo lost consciousness.
When he came to, Santa was standing over him, bigger than life, and he was speaking with such force that to Mojo it sounded like shouting, even though Santa didn't appear to be exerting himself in any way.
"…Now all your miserable life, you figured fear and domination was the way of the world. Heaven knows there was enough evidence to support that point of view. And I'll grant you that you got off to a bad start. But it's time for you to decide where you're going to go from here. Now because that little girl decided you were worth something, I'm obligated to take this shot. Otherwise, I don't have much time or use for the likes of you, so let me just sum it up, right here, right NOW!"
Mojo couldn't understand why Santa's indifference seemed so frightening a thing to him, why it suddenly became so important to become someone for whom Santa did have the time and a use.
"You are never going to be able to destroy those girls. Period."
Silly fool, thought Mojo, I already have. Or I will when I wake up from this dream.
"I know what you're thinking, so let me repeat myself. You can never destroy those girls.
Why?
"I'll tell you. In the moment you do, you will be destroyed with them. And deep down, you know that. You know why your plans always fail? Because you don't really want them to succeed. As far as your sentience goes, you are inextricably bound to their fate. But that's also why you can't let go of your hostility toward them. You said it yourself once, Mojo. Your powers spring from the same source as theirs. To destroy them, you must destroy that source. They are your rivals, the power to which you aspire, but at the same time, the power that prevents you from acquiring that power. And worse, you will fail to destroy them every time, because they cannot be destroyed. Not really. They are … an idea, as much as they are persons. Oh, you might be able to destroy this particular incarnation of the idea, but there is a part of them that only love can touch. That is their essence. And that you can never reach."
"And you have no love in you – except perhaps the love of yourself that is 9/10ths self-loathing, so you can't understand how love will reform them, no matter how many times you do it. But it will, and all you can do is to continue to tear yourself apart as you try -and fail- to destroy them yet again. What was created on that day in the Smart Kid's lab was … a new dispensation, if you will: something never seen before, but something as immutable as the laws of physics. You may as well try to blot the sun from the sky. You cannot win, because if you destroy them, you destroy yourself. You will either lose your sentience and genius now, or to decay and death."
"Why are you like this, you wonder?"
"There is a desire in everything that is created to seek out its and be joined to its creator. But in you it manifests itself in an anger that the created thing is not the grounds of its own existence, and self-reinforcing cycle of self-destruction sets in: destructive because it must attempt to surpass its creator, self-destructive because it cannot. You are indeed, evil, Mojo. But you've never really put your genius to understanding what that really means…"
But Mojo was no longer hearing any words. The words were too solid. He felt them in every part of his being. He felt the age, toil and ultimate infirmity of a thousand possible futures descending upon him all at once. It was like being deconstructed at the subatomic level. There was even a vague sense the Him was somewhere nearby and permeating every remembered pain. He now saw himself at the end of his life, with a clear access - which he might otherwise lack in old age- to all the memories of his myriad lives. He remembered a thousand possible futures in which he triumphed a thousand times against the girls and was undone a thousand times in the process, reduced back the level of a mere chimp, and quickly dying having been worn out by possessing sentience in the first place. No matter how the situation varied, the result always came up within a narrow range of possibilities. He saw that if he ever could undo the girls, he would undo the nexus of Chemical X's machinations in this universe. Somehow, they were original, and he, derivative. There was no changing that. He could no longer see any way to push the girls into the abyss without himself falling in as well. His gifts were but the fallout from the fission and fusion that created them. They were the "intended ones", and he was but an unintended consequence. He would either accept that or spend his life miserably kicking against the goads of necessary conditions. Either way, the brute fact determined his lot. There was no escape. But what of free will, he wondered. It is guaranteed by the freedom to destroy himself. Part of Mojo found this conception mockery.
But another part now saw just how deep his psychosis went. Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again hoping that somehow the result will be different. It wasn't so much his fighting against the girls that made him insane. It was his constant attempts to destroy them knowing he could not but perish with them, yet fighting them anyway. He was like a cartoon character sawing off the branch on which sat, with nothing but a long fall to a hard collision with the rocky ground while hitting every branch on the way down to look forward to. Until now, the madness had seemed a part of him, like a comfortable pair of boots. It had seemed something that was an integral part of his image of villainy. Now he saw it as an all-too-serious thing. And deadly, but in ways he didn't like.
Worst of all was the vision that overturned everything Mojo believed about such concepts as "intellect" and "progress". He had thought that however hard it would be to defeat the girls, he would eventually do it. He would keep getting smarter, and better, and finally one day this demand that "they must not exist" would be settled in a great battle. And oh how great would be the glory of his victory, for the tougher the opponent, the greater the win. But he didn't always win, and now, a single vision out of the two or three clustering about his consciousness as the "most likely to happen" began to predominate. It was the one where he became evermore feeble and pathetic in his attempts, and matters reached a point where whenever he mounted his latest offensive, only one of the girls would come to battle him, and even then it was with an air of indolence and annoyance as if to say, "Ho-hum, Mojo's at it again. Wee. Can we hurry this along, please?"
How soon before they were phoning it in?
At the end of this horrifying trajectory he saw himself old, feeble, and failing: and the girls, mature, gifted, and of remarkable, individual beauty actually coming to visit him out of pity. And when he became conscious of their presence, he would rouse himself for a round of vituperation, hurling threats and working himself into a coughing fit. Then the girls would leave, and the last one out would be Bubbles, so angelic, looking sadly back and closing the door with a finality that made him shudder. Which was worse? To undo them and himself and his reason, or to fail and be able to remember each failure collected around a cold vacuum of hatred and nothingness. To be or not to be?
"They cannot die," Santa intoned, "… but you CAN, … and you WILL. One day."
No matter how different the days, they were all going toward the same place. There was no stopping it. Mojo knew these visions clustered around his mind precisely because some part of him desired these outcomes. But now there was a momentary splitting apart of his essence that allowed him to consider whether this was really him, or something … tacked on. Was it Him that desired these outcomes for Mojo Jojo? How near Him felt. Yes. How much he … desired Mojo, longed to be joined to him in some irrevocable way. Yes, he realized, there were forces at work that would see to that ultimate moral ruin was the final outcome for him. Santa, silent now, and looking implacable as a stone, had somehow gotten to Mojo.
But the devil must have his due. And thus, Him now stood next to Santa, in his usual form, but very tall, as if he were trying to muster the stature of St. Nick by sheer height. He spoke at his most mellifluous and soothing.
"Well, dear Mojo, I see someone has been doing his best to make you see the supposed 'errors' of your ways. But I get my day in court, too. This won't take long," Him sneered, eying Santa with a sideways glance. "I suppose that somehow you're starting to get the idea that I make you do all those wonderfully nasty things you do. How charming. And hopelessly simplistic. Don't kid yourself. You see, Mojo, strictly speaking, I … well, don't really exist. Except as a … desire, an inclination within you and nearly everyone else. And as such, yes, I will admit that on occasion I - well, let us say, strengthened you, but the staggering heights of villainy that you have achieved you did quite on your own. I could go into a lengthy list of your supposed crimes, I know them all. I was there for all of them, and they were all soooo delightful to me. I will even confess that on occasion I have found you to be the most evil creature I've ever met. Outside myself, of course. You should be proud. But rather than go into all that, let me settle this matter by asking you one, very simple question."
Santa stiffened a little, but still stood silently by. Mojo caught the hint, and could sense the danger, though not the reason.
"Even if it was me helping you all along, was I really helping you to go somewhere you didn't already truly want to go? To do something you didn't really want to do?"
Mojo Jojo thought for a minute. He was about to say something, when, for the first time in his life … he did the smart thing. He did the opposite of what he wanted. He kept his mouth shut.
Him, suspecting a trick, upbraided Santa.
"Ah, ah, ah, Jollyman, you have to let him speak. You know the rules."
St. Nick merely shrugged to indicate that he wasn't doing anything to stop Mojo from speaking. Mojo caught that hint as well. Why is Him insisting on an answer? It was the last epiphany that would come to him this night. In some way - he had no idea how - Him's question was of a "So, do you still beat your wife?" nature. Either way he answered would trap him in the same endless, psychotic cycle. But for the life of him he couldn't figure out why.
"Come, come, Mojo. Let's hear your answer."
Mojo shuddered to his very core. He now knew something very permanent depended on what he did next. For reasons passing understanding, he could hear himself breathing heavily. His hands were starting to shake. He was scared. If he did respond, there could be no denying that he had chosen his lot every step of the way. Looking at Santa, almost pleadingly, he asked, "Do I have to respond?"
Santa, his face stony, said nothing.
"But Mojo," Him smiled unctuously, "it's a simple question. Yes or no. Haven't you longed, foolishly yes, but longed to supplant even me as the evilest of evil? It's really beneath you, you know, to avoid answering so simple a question when your whole life has been dedicated to proving the truth of the answer. Have I helped you go anywhere you didn't want to go with all your heart? "
Mojo shook with the terror that had overcome him.
"Do I have to respond?"
Santa was still silent, but in his eyes there was a hint of interest in Mojo's fate that hadn't been there before. Him got very close to Mojo's face. His voice dropped two octaves as he growled, "Have I helped you do anything you didn't want to do with all your heart?"
"Do I have to answer?"
There were actually tears in Mojo's eyes, begging Santa for a reply. Santa said nothing, nor did he move in the least. But then, a tiny smile began to form at the corners of his mouth. The smile broadened, and even had a hint of … was it malice, or something that only looked like malice to the casual observer?
"No."
And in that moment, something snapped. Lilith opened her hand. Jojo gave up his Mojo. Him's wailing of defeat and his vow to get Mojo "back in the fold" was the last thing he heard.
Bernard had thrown the switch to shut off Mojo's Chemical X dampening field generator. And then, he looked at Bubbles and said, "Merry Christmas, kiddo. Sorry it took us so long. You sure don't ask for easy things." Then, after chucking the bone from the drumstick into a nearby trash can, he disappeared.
Jojo hardly knew himself, as he came to in the present. He knew himself even less as he mounted the BattleBot and released the girls from the death grip - which they were probably about to overcome anyway, and which, if they weren't, would have cost him his life and far more. Shocked, the girls dropped to ground. Fear was thick about them. Mojo had genuinely seemed about to carry the day. As never before, the girls were helpless. Their fear turned quickly to anger; anger such as they'd never had. They were not just about to give Mojo the beating to end all beatings. They were summoning energies they had never before used. They were going to end this feud for good.
"You're going down hard this time, Mojo," seethed Buttercup.
"Who?" thought Jojo.
"Permanently," growled Blossom.
But something restrained the girls.
"Oh yes, my name was Mojo once," he mumbled. But not anymore. He had chosen to live.
Bubbles, while equally enraged and fearful, understood now, and said simply, but with Blossom-like authority, "Wait, girls."
Whatever had held the girls back was gone. And with its departure Jojo heard one last thing: a distant voice echoing that "failure is always possible."
"What are we waiting for?" Buttercup muttered, surprised by Blossom's "permanently" but in complete agreement.
Jojo, in a daze, said nothing, but simply began walking away.
Bubbles said, "Let's go home, girls."
"Waddaya mean 'go home'?" Buttercup barked.
"It's over. Maybe for good," Bubbles smiled.
Blossom stared hard at the departing figure of their arch nemesis until he disappeared from view behind a thickening curtain of descending snow.
"She's right, Buttercup. Let's go home."
"Mojo Jojo, come see us next week," Bubbles yelled as only she could into the howling wind.
She didn't know whether or not he'd heard her.
Jojo was getting closer to his destination. He had been able to get through the obstacle course of kitschy decorations and scenes of merriment in many homes without any "bourgeoisophobia." In fact, there were a few things, childish and sentimental things, that were … touching: a store owner cutting some kids a break on a present they wanted for their mother, but couldn't quite afford: two newlyweds out on their first Christmas Eve stroll: a child being pulled through the snow by the family dog in a small sleigh, as the parents walked along: some surprisingly good, banana flavored candy canes. It was good to be alive this night, and seeing things in a new way. He even felt a bit grateful for the five year old girls who'd constantly thwarted him, for they had thwarted his own attempts to destroy himself. Ah, how near a thing it was, this odd, unexpected chance at redemption. And failure hovered over him like sword of Damocles. It could all be undone, all too easily. Someone would be watching lustily for that.
As he got closer still to his destination, he couldn't help but ask himself a final question, one final time. Did it really happen? Bernard, Santa, the tattered piece of Bubbles's gift, the way it all turned into a sort of trial with Him as the prosecuting attorney? Were these things real? Or was it all a delusion caused by the effects of the Chemical X dampener on his own sentience? And most important of all, how was it that Him's question was a trap? It seemed terribly important to solve that riddle.
All of this was driven home quite nicely as he passed by the usually abandoned bar where the Villains of Townsville were once again getting smashed in their Christmas Eve villainy pre-emption party. Jojo even chuckled as he imagined Him slamming down drink after drink in disgust over his recent defeat. He had come this way on purpose: so that he could pass by … and not go in. Then an odd thought struck him. He stepped up to one of the boarded-up windows and peered between the slats. Looking thoroughly at the scene, once, twice and even a third time, Him was nowhere to be seen.
'How interesting …,' he thought, but as he renewed his journey, he slowly realized something. Him was in there all right. Jojo may not have been able to see Him, but, he was sure, everyone in there could. And so, he found at least a partial answer to the riddle. And with that …
'Enough!' he thought. That was the past. The future, uncomfortable though it might be for a time, was before him. He had presents to deliver, and he firmed his meandering mind around the mission. His feet were a little cold. A fire had gone out in him, and part of him missed it. But perhaps with its loss, other, better things could come in, and he could now accept the warmth of others. And that would make him whole. It would take time. But he would do it.
An hour later, he mounted the steps of a certain house. He might have hesitated before knocking on the door, but he would not be given the chance. As with the prodigal son, someone was watching for him.
The door opened. Three sets of eyes shimmered in the shadows. Jojo looked down, his face heavy with sad expression of one that now carries a solid realization of his evil.
"Do you come in peace, Mojo Jojo?" came Blossom's voice.
"Just … Jojo. Please." He nodded, with a slight feeling of resignation. "Yes. I come in peace."
"Promise?" asked Buttercup, who for all their sakes would play the skeptical Elder Brother for a while.
He nodded again, but this time with the faint trace of happiness.
"I'm so happy you came," Bubbles beamed. "Please come in, Mister Jojo."
"Mister Jojo."
He liked that.
Now he wouldn't have to change the monograms on his bath towels.
Yes.
He liked that very much.