+J.M.J.+

Disclaimer:

I do not own the concepts, characters, etc. of the original It's a Wonderful Life; I believe the copyright of the film has expired (which explains the proliferate reruns and video versions). Philip Van Doren Stern wrote the original story on which Frank Capra based his classic film.

Author's Note:

I wrote this partly for my own amusement, partly in answer to Connie Willis, who wrote some rather pointed comments about IAWL in the introduction to her Miracle and Other Christmas Stories, otherwise a great collection of short sci-fi/fantasy Christmas stories. It wouldn't be the Matrix Refugee is she didn't find something to disagree with: much as I admire Ms. Willis's stories, I disagree with her regarding IAWL—to me it will always be the best Christmas movie of all time. But I do agree with her on the fact that the film has a major loose end, that the real villain of the piece, Mr. Potter, goes unpunished and unrepentant. So, I have taken up the challenge. Read and enjoy and review. I accept constructive criticisms, but if you're just going to bash my take, I suggest you keep your bile to yourself.

Where Moth and Rust Corrupt

An It's a Wonderful Life Sequel

By "Matrix Refugee"

Fletch touched Potter's shoulder. "It's almost midnight," he said. Potter, who sat forward in his wheelchair, elbows on the edge of his desk as he examined the last of the account books, barely stirred.

"Mr. Potter, it's almost midnight," Fletch repeated.

Now aware of the hand on his shoulder, Potter shook it off. "Be quiet, boy," he growled.

"The doctor said you need more rest or your bronchitis will relapse," Fletch urged.

Potter glanced up at his bodyguard-cum-wheelchair pusher. "Hah! I've outlived every doctor I've ever had. I could buy them all out if I wanted to."

"You won't be able to if you don't get some rest," Fletch insisted.

Potter reached his right hand into his waistcoat pocket and drew out his watch. Sure enough, the hands stood at midnight. "Blast it," he murmured, stuffing the watch back into his pocket. Aloud he added, "All right, take me home. But we have a stop to make first."

"Where, sir?" Fletch asked, pulling his master's chair away from the desk and wheeling it across the office.

Potter allowed himself the luxury of a smile, a half-smile because of the palsy that crippled much of his left side. "The Bedford Falls jail, to see how our frustrated young man likes his new office."

Fletch collected his master's hat and coat form the rack just inside the door and helped him put them on. He took the lap robe from its special hook, unfolded it, and tucked it around Potter's legs before putting on his own fedora and topcoat. He opened the office door and pushed the chair into the bank lobby; Potter took a ring of keys from inside his coat and locked the office door himself.

The night guard in the lobby nodded to them and got up from his chair to open the door to them. Fletch wheeled the chair out into the night and the falling snow.

Potter's low-slung Packard stood waiting against the curb. Malloy, the driver, armed with a brush on a long handle, bustled about, trying to clear the snow off the car. Falling flakes had already formed a white drift on the young man's coat collar.

"Stop that scraping, boy; you're wasting your time," Potter growled.

Malloy straightened up. "Just throyin' t' get the wurst o' the snaw off yer car, sorr," Malloy said, smiling nonchalantly. He stumped around to the back of the car and opened the rear door. Fletch started to jockey the wheelchair into position to roll it into the open door, but Malloy put out his hands and lifted it, Potter and all, and carefully set it down on the car floor, where the rear seat would have been. Fletch elbowed under Malloy's arm, closed the rear door and got into the front seat. Malloy folded his long frame into the driver's seat, started the car and pulled away.

"We're stopping at the police station first, Malloy," Fletch informed the driver.

"Sure, sure. Thanks far the far warnin'," Malloy replied.

Potter poked Fletch in the neck. "Tell him to stop chattering and drive." Malloy only nodded.

They pulled up before the Bedford Falls police station. Malloy got out first and beat Fletch to the rear door; even though the older man had a shorter distance to travel, he found himself staring up into Malloy's big brown eyes over the top of Potter's bowler hat when he turned to open the rear door. The two of them lugged Potter and his chair up the steps to the station door.

"Watch it on that ice," Potter groused, jabbing a hand down at a few crumbs of broken ice in the corner of the steps.

"Indeed, sorr," Malloy said.

Fletch took over once they got Potter and his chair over the threshold. Sounds of laughter and loud voices wafted from the inner recesses of the station. No one sat at the front desk when they entered, Potter reached up and pounded on the desk. A young officer came in from the squad room, laughing and shaking his head. Seeing Potter, his pink young face sobered, but only for a second.

"Can I help you, Mr. Potter?" he asked.

"I've just come by to see about your newest prisoner," Potter said.

"Well, he should sober up by morning," the rookie said. "They always do."

"Figures, these little clerks always drown their misery in drink instead of facing them like men, not that they were men in the first place," Potter said to nobody in particular. "I trust you have him thoroughly secured by now? He didn't cause any trouble, I trust?"

"It took little to secure him: he fell asleep on the way over, and he's still asleep now."

"Let me see him."

"Well, it's not necessary, unless you're a relative or his lawyer."

"I am neither; let me see the prisoner any way!"

The stripling looked about, trying to focus. "I'll ask the chief." He went out.

Now I've got you just where you belong, you warped, frustrated young man, Potter thought. But for his heart, he would have allowed himself the luxury of a good laugh.

A moment later the rookie returned with a ring of keys. "I'll take you to him, Mr. Potter, but it's really not necessary."

"I'll decide what's necessary or unnecessary!" Potter snapped.

The youngster led them down a corridor, then helped Fletch carry Potter down a flight of stairs to the basement. He led them along the short passageway lit by one bare arc light in a steel cage and lined with all of five cells, most unoccupied except for one. The rookie led them up to it. Potter leaned over to gaze into the cell, at this rabble-rouser finally cornered…

He looked at a shirt, fat man in his early fifties, bald except for a white fringe about his ears, his overcoat pulled up around his round face, snoring blissfully, his breath reeking of eggs and brandy.

"Well, where is he?!" Potter demanded. "Where's George Bailey?"

"Last I knew he and his family and just about the whole town were having a shindig at his house, what with his brother home from the war and getting the Congressional Medal. Bert went out to find him when he ran out on his family in a fuss, but he found him alive on the Hudson Bridge, acted like he'd hadn't seen Bert in ten years, but he ran straight home. Last I heard he was still there with them."

"What became of the warrant? What about the DA's men? The reporters?!"

"They threw it out. No sense locking up a man who managed to produce the cash that went astray."

Potter thought he felt something burn in his chest. Indigestion, he thought, though he knew the sensation lay too high. His hand went to his breast pocket.

"Confound you! I want that overridden; if you don't bring him in here, I'll have you demoted and blacklisted form the police union!"

The rookies smiled calmly. "If you don't believe me, Mr. Potter, maybe you should go see George Bailey yourself."

"Take me out of here, take me to George Bailey's house," Potter ordered. Fletch turned the chair away and tried to drag it up the stairs himself, but the rookie had to assist him.

Back in the car, Potter fumed in silence as Malloy drove them down Main Street and turned onto Sycamore Street. Curse these Baileys and all their kind! They'd molly coddle these useless lower classes into utter unproductivity if we let them and their kind have their way. They'd take the funds out of the hands of the competent and waste them on the utterly incompetent, who'd drain this world of its resources. Them and their women and brats. All mouths to be fed, but they can't give anything back. The fungus of civilization…

To be contined…