Shoestring TV Re-Release: Christmas Bonus Brawn - "Helligabend"

Original Air Date: 12/25/2024

On a quiet, wintry night in the City of Dante, Sheriff Leo Brawn walks the streets of Hell and reflects on love, loss, and the strange new life he’s built among the damned. As Christmas Eve arrives in Hell 2.0, familiar traditions resurface in unexpected ways—through memories of family left behind, friendships forged in fire, and a chosen family gathered at the Highwater Saloon.

In this reflective and heartfelt episode, Leo discovers that even in Hell, there is room for warmth, community, and hope—and that some promises, no matter the distance or the realm, refuse to die.

Narrated by Stitch Mainville as Leo Brawn

Jason introduces listeners to Topaz and Stillman.

Chapters

• 2:12 Night Patrol And Private Grief
• 6:10 Stars, Parallel Worlds, And Memory
• 10:40 The Question Of Holidays
• 15:41 Work, Darkness, And Secret Promises
• 20:01 Coffee, Conspiracies, And Dante’s Map

Transcript

SPEAKER_00: 1:21

I sure if I'm Dante, I often walk the streets to familiarize myself with the city that I now protect. But these strolls have less to do with my professional responsibility than they are a way for me to wrestle with and hopefully reconcile my thoughts. Although I couldn't go so far as to say that hell has frozen over, it's a chilly night in Dante. I'm not sure I'll ever get used to it, even if I'm not complaining. You expect nothing but fire and unrelenting heat, but tonight I can feel a pleasant, cool, gentle breeze. I look up to the night sky, clear and full of stars. A bright moon shines down, but not the moon we share with our loved ones back home. Perhaps it's written in some tome or ancient book that describes this place located amongst the stars and what Captain Mangot recounts as a parallel universe. But what part of the cosmos and how deep into the ever-expanding void of space is hell buried? Those are questions for another time. Tonight my focus is far more closer to home. My loved ones, Louise and Harry, that's that's where my thoughts normally lie on nights like these. And this evening is no different. The inconsolable anguish of emptiness that remains unvanquished. A loss that is impossible to explain. I wish I could tell them that I'm actually okay. As good as can be expected, considering my fate. And that in a strange way I've found a new life. Even dare say made some friends. I wish I could tell Louise about Max, that he used to be a cop in London, and that he loves chocolate even more than she does. Or that I met a bona fide movie star, Willie Topaz. Even if, of course, he's dead. The sights and sounds I've witnessed, believed to be relegated to our most secret fears and nightmares that are now my reality. That I don't share in that burden alone. I have a team. There's people here that have my back. That I got a promotion, sheriff. I had to die to get the bump, but I wish I could look at Louise and tell her I did it, baby. Point being, I I found a reason to go on. Not by my own doing, mind you. I had no say in the matter. It's just the way it is. As I travel these streets, there's a bench in front of a bakery where I'll sit for a while. I'll close my eyes and indulge in a sensory overload of baked breads and pastries. We've all come to know this place as the No Name Bakery. That's because the owner can't settle on a name. The aromas in place of signage or billboards are advertisement enough. During my sit, I'll often pull out the notebook I carry in my coat pocket and review my growing list of questions. Sometimes I can check it off, the answer to my inquiry finally revealing itself, but more often than not, I just add a new entry to the list. I've been staring at one question I wrote soon after my arrival. Are holidays celebrated in Held 2.0? I've dreaded this question. The simple presence of the question opens the damn to my cherished memories, and my mind is flooded with images of my wife and son on the special moments we shared during the holidays. Time works differently here. I've never committed to truly calculating the difference, but I know the passage of time seems to slow down here. Now, where I've done the math, I've marked the days, weeks, and months since my arrival. And although I can't pinpoint the exact day back on Earth, we have officially arrived at Christmas Eve here in Hell. Back home, my family and I celebrate the tradition called Heilhabend. And being of German descent, the name Braun, meaning Brown, descended from the original spelling B-R-A-U-N. My great-grandfather, Bertram Braun, changed the spelling of the last name after seeing flyers and pamphlets, all boosting the power of the American dream. I have no idea how much of the English language my great-grandfather could actually read, let alone speak, but once the immigration arrival record was placed in front of him, he had the presence of mind to change the spelling, and the rest was history. In our household, as part of the Heilahaban tradition, we would actually exchange gifts on Christmas Eve after a huge dinner. I think, honestly, Louise and I just couldn't wait to get to the gifts. Not the ones we got for ourselves, but being able to watch the surprise and excitement that the gifts brought to our son, Harry. This would leave all Christmas Day for playing and enjoying all that was received from the night before. Harry certainly had no complaints. All the exhilaration and joy, it had nothing to do with the gifts themselves. It was the time with my family I cherished. I can say I never took it for granted. Being a homicide detective where you witnessed the absolute worst in humanity, the cruelty that we can toll out, and the tragedy left in the wake of such a selfish, heinous, and final act, it can weigh on you. When you're up close and personal with this darkness day in and day out, well, some with even the most armored hearts can break. I never did. But it was because there was always a light at the end of the tunnel, something I reminded myself of often. As long as I was standing on my own two feet at day's end, I knew I was walking into a loving home and greeted with nothing but love and affection. Hearing my son's voice yell with excitement, Daddy. To see my wife Louise's face smiling, warm, caring, and a small fraction of relief behind her beautiful hazel eyes, relieved that I came home safe and sound. It's a testament to her strength. Being a high-tiered criminal defense attorney, she's not far removed from the treacherous landscape that I was entrenched in. And yet, when that door would open, the familiar smells and sounds of my sanctuary would both ground me and elevate me. You see, the goal wasn't to solve the case, although I was dogged at my pursuit, but the end game was to make it home. I'd often wake in the night next to Louise and caress her cheek, and I'd whisper to her while she slept, don't worry, darling. I'll make it home. This was a secret promise I kept to myself and to her. A promise that was eventually broken. After the no-name bakery, I'll make my way to Jumpin' Jehosaphat's coffee. Now, dairy, it spoils in hell, so you can't get half and half or creamer. But the coffee brewed here in Dante is the best damn coffee I ever had. I don't know if this speaks to the true nature of coffee or that caffeine addiction is borderline deadly sin in its own right. But the richness of flavor that comes from a pipe and hot cup of Joe from jumpin' Jehoshaphat's is an otherworldly delight. It's also where Sebastian and Gillian, those lovebirds, would get to know each other. Where it was first discovered that my path to hell and the circumstances that led to it are murky at best, that there appear to be hidden agendas and conspiracies abound. Lucky me, I guess. After a delicious coffee, I'll venture beyond the outskirts of Dante to the ornamental fish pond. It's a beautiful, albeit abandoned landmark that also became the underwater prison for my pal and second in command, Maximilian. The pond is now empty, nothing more than a concrete-laden hole in a grassy field. The deal I made with the devil himself, Satan, to free Max from his limitless torture in exchange for playing a part of being sheriff, enforcing law and order in a lawless town. Max claims there is more to the cards he was dealt than just a desire to lead the Whitechapel murder investigation that determined his lot and death, but no one fully knows the reason behind his cruel fate. When the world around him, after the transformation, began to change, and he too was abandoned like this pond, he was forgotten, left to suffer. I'm happy to say not anymore. Setting foot back in downtown Dante, I watched the people of this city, those out and about, some laughing, others solemn and keeping to themselves. I'll often stare into the city itself, bewildered and yet comforted all at the same time. The traffic lights change from red to green in a place where rules are meant to be broken, but the drivers all wait their turns patiently. The steam rising from vents and evaporating into the cool night air. Visuals you'd expect in a city full of industry and infrastructure, and apparently all made possible in the time it took to snap one's fingers. Despite the fact that there's no economy in hell, there are shops and stores selling variety of goods and services, not for the acquisition of money, but simply to provide. There's something honest and pure about that. Large brick apartment buildings, some windows with their curtains drawn, others open, flickering with the illumination of televisions as the residents settle in for the night. Vehicles of all makes and marks, mostly from the late 70s and 80s, parked on the corner, moving through this bustling city. If I could take a snapshot, you'd be hard pressed to call this anything but a normal night in Pittsburgh or some other major city. As time passes, it comes increasingly difficult to detect the artifice, uh, small missing details. As this place becomes more alive, more thriving, more real. As I ponder the state of things, my overtaxed mind is interrupted by the cheerful tunes of Possum Bobby, the house band that plays almost nightly the watering hole, and what has become a permanent hangout for the members of the ORA. The High Water Saloon, a bar you'd expect to find in Dodge City or place frequented by White Herp. Instead, it's located in downtown Dante, on the corner of Avenue X and Cerebus Avenue. Barkeep Felix always greets you with a smile and pleasantries. Places your drink of choice on the bar and on the house, as he likes to joke, and lends a helpful ear. I take my drink, an old-fashioned, from the bar and turn towards the agents of the ORA and the friends I've made along the way. They sit in a booth which has become our regular hangout. They look at me, all smiles with their glasses raised. Willie Topaz, former action movie star, looking as stylish as ever, adorned with his signature cowboy hat, holding his ungodly creation, the Topaz Sopraz. Then there's Gillian. She was somewhat of a mystery when she arrived, guarded and protective. I don't blame her. Having reached a lofty position in the CIA only to be betrayed by the very agency you worked for. It would be hard to trust just about anything, and yet I feel she can lean on me. And the feelings mutual. There's Max nursing a beer, still taking in his newly found freedom. I'm just happy to see him enjoying himself above water and breathing the free air. Lori Stryker, bunk rocker, and one of the bravest demon hunters I've ever encountered in my short time here. I know she has an axe to grind, but her fearlessness in the face of evil unknown could fill endless chapters. Someday, maybe I'll write a book about it. And then there's June Chesterfield. A former elementary school teacher turned a badass demon hunter. She could drink any patron here under the table. Smokes like a chimney, but although she's wiry, she's as tough and stalwart as a Sherman tank. That rough exterior only matched by her loyalty, humor, and humanity. She takes a shot of whiskey and then chases it down with Chesterfield hooch from her flask. There are others who can't be here tonight, Captain Manget for one. I've never shared a drink with her, an error I hope to remedy in the future. Gorm, too, should be at the table, but he looks after our good captain. They're both here in spirit. I joined the group at the booth and place a wrapped gift on the table. You see, I happen to mention my family tradition of Hylahaband to my agents, my friends. And after spending about a half an hour teaching them how to pronounce it, we made a pact to start a new tradition here in Dante. I can't claim to say we're breaking new ground, but henceforth, every year around this time, we'll celebrate Hellahobband. Huh. A clever, if simple, twist on the name. We'll break bread, enjoy some well-mixed cocktails, and swap stories before we exchange gifts. I take out my notepad and look at the question I've dreaded since I started making lists. Do we celebrate holidays in Hell 2.0? Well, I can check that one off. I look at these loyal friends, this merry band of men in arms. I often find myself beaming, overwhelmed by laughter, and for the briefest moments, that inconsolable anguish of emptiness is temporarily filled to the brim with happiness. And in these moments, I secretly turn inward and picture Louise sleeping, my fingers lightly caressing her cheek. The raucous sounds of the bar slowly fade, and I can picture myself leaning in towards her. The smell of her skin, the serene sound of her slumber, and quietly declare my promise to her. Don't you worry, my darling. I'll make it home.