voice in most uncomplimentary terms. The engineers (who were heterosexual, not that it matters) took exception to being called "fags" and shouted back at him.

       The bartender noted the commotion and recognized that the source was the tour director from the credit card incident earlier. He summoned security again. Security arrived and recognized the instigator too. The tour director was asked to leave the bar. He did, but that wasn't the end of the incident.

       A short while later, one of the two remaining engineers got up to go to the washroom. Outside of the washroom he found the tour director, who was spoiling for a fight. This engineer gave the tour director a piece of his mind. The tour director, probably noticing that this fellow was quite a bit bigger than he was, slunk away. The engineer was so agitated that he forgot to go to the washroom and returned to the bar.

       Ten minutes later the other (smaller) engineer went to the washroom. He had been warned by his companion, but found no one waiting outside. A few minutes later, while this engineer was washing his hands, he heard a sound behind him. He turned to find the tour director stepping up to him to launch a further verbal tirade. This engineer did not want to listen to the tour director's ranting, so he tried to push past him. The tour director then struck the engineer several times in the face with his fists, knocking the engineer through the door into the hallway.

  Three wedding guests were just then walking down this hallway, minding their own business. Suddenly the smaller engineer fell out of the doorway at their feet, followed closely by the Christian tour director. In front of these horrified guests, the Christian tour director grabbed the engineer's ears and kneed him in the head, knocking the engineer out cold. The tour director then adopted a martial arts stance and informed the stunned wedding guests that he was a “good old boy” and would take them all on. The guests fell back and the tour director strutted to the front desk. There the Christian tour director asked the desk clerk to call the police to deal with the “people harassing him.”

       Moments later my partner and I arrived. I found myself talking to the Christian tour director while my partner interviewed everyone else involved. Meanwhile paramedics were treating the injured engineer.

       The tour director must have figured me to be another “good old Christian boy” since I was a police officer in uniform. He explained to me how he had been harassed by “faggots.” He told me that his female companions had been chased off by inconsiderate hotel staff. The tour director told me that he and his group were “God-fearing Christians” and deserved special treatment. He appealed to me as a “good Christian officer” to arrest these “fags.” This was the tour director's second major mistake.

       At this point I came to the conclusion that this director certainly did deserve special treatment. Therefore I performed a magical act: I made the director disappear.  Into the back of a police Paddy wagon that is. This good old Pagan boy had the director charged with aggravated assault. Within a half and hour the director had appeared in front of a Canada Immigration Duty Officer, still wearing a stunned expression.

       I've never been to Georgia. I can only hope that pompous asses like this Christian tour director are a rarity down there. I think that this tour director must have come from the Church of Do-As-I-Say-But-Not-As-I-Do. I hope that police officers in Georgia share my views with regards to this type of behavior. Hopefully this tour director’s Church shares them too.

       In a perfect world all police officers are impartial and fair. In a perfect world the Yule season would be a time of peace and happiness.  Whether you were a victim or a suspect, it wouldn’t matter what your religious beliefs were. Unfortunately the experiences of my Wiccan colleagues and I have shown that this world isn’t yet perfect.

 

Kerr Cuhulain

Yule, conclusion

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Text Box: Book of Shadows excerpt:  Blackie Spit, Yule 1993.
		The snow flakes are spiraling down in the pre-dawn darkness. My coven trudges through the snow to the crest of the sandy hill at Blackie Spit. Our breath forms ghostly banners in the biting cold. Kindling is laid around a fragment of last year’s Yule log. We crowd around it to block the wind so the flame will catch. As the crackling tongues of flame begin to lick the wood we turn our faces to the lightening sky in the east. We raise our voices in song to sing the sun up. As the sun’s disc peeks above the horizon we extinguish the fire and save a fragment to start next year’s fire. Silently, we quit the hill. Minutes later the coven’s vehicles make a convoy back to the house to have a Yule breakfast and share presents from the gift tree.

<  Kerr in plainclothes with pentagram openly displayed.

Dispatches:  Volume 1 No. 7   Yule/Alban Arthan/Mean Geimhridh/La Ceimbroadh 2006