When Elves Attack: A Joyous Christmas Greeting From the Criminal Nutbars of the Sunshine State

by Dorsey, Tim

  Rita turned back to the teen. “Please don’t do that again to your sweet grandmother. So, you really do believe in God?”

  “Yes.” Nicole shot her mom a glance, then back to her grandmother. “But I choose to follow Satan.”

  “Ahhhhh!” Hands over Rita’s ears again.

  Martha shrieked.

  Jim slowly covered his face with his hands.

  Nicole was still cracking up as she rose from the table and headed for the door.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” yelled Martha.

  “To the mall.”

  “No, you’re coming back to this table and sitting down right this minute!”

  The door slammed behind the teen.

  Rita’s hands fell from her ears. “I’ll be dead soon.”

  MEANWHILE . . .

  South Dale Mabry Highway.

  A ’72 Chevelle jumped the curb in front of a sub-budget motel.

  “Serge,” said Coleman, glancing over his shoulder into the backseat. “That’s a pretty big turkey.”

  “The biggest they had.”

  “But there’s no way we’ll be able to eat it all.”

  “That’s the whole point of Thanksgiving!” The Chevelle skidded up to their room. “Cooking way too much friggin’ food, cramming the fridge with mountains of leftovers, and then the race is on against salmonella. The most exciting holidays are the ones where not everybody is going to make it.”

  Coleman opened his door. “You sure we’ll go unnoticed at this motel.”

  “We loaded all that copper, didn’t we?”

  “Yeah, but then we dragged that tied-up guy from your trunk and into the room.”

  “Did anyone complain?”

  “The guy.”

  “Besides him?”

  “No, but I feel pretty exposed right next to this busy highway.”

  “Look, if Cuban spies can go unnoticed, we’ll blend in like ninjas.”

  “Spies?”

  Serge reached in the backseat and grunted to lift the turkey. “See the military checkpoint down at the end of this road? That’s MacDill Air Force Base, home of Central Command. Most people don’t realize it, but everything important in the world is coordinated on that tiny tip of land at the south end of the Tampa peninsula. Iraq, Afghanistan, you name it.”

  “What does that have to do with Cubans?”

  Serge waddled toward their door with the giant frozen bird in his arms. “Back in the nineties, Castro sent spies here to monitor the base. Total farce. Against an installation sealed that tight, what are a few of Fidel’s boys going to do? It was all just window dressing so Castro could tell the other Latin leaders, ‘Shit yeah, I have people in Tampa.’ . . . Coleman, get the door for me?”

  Coleman inserted the key and turned the knob. “They didn’t spy?”

  “No, they starved.” Serge entered the room and hit the light switch with his shoulder. “Castro so totally destroyed his island’s economy that he couldn’t pay them anymore. They ended up pawning their binoculars and taking jobs as dishwashers. And because they were so broke, they lived in motels right along this strip, maybe even this one.”

  Serge tossed the turkey on the bed and it bounced two feet.

  “We’re just going to eat the turkey straight?” asked Coleman.

  “Of course not.” Serge ran back to the car and returned with a large paper sack. “Thanksgiving is why they invented Kentucky Fried Chicken. We got all the fixin’s.” He began removing items. “Here are the biscuits and super-large sides of mashed potatoes and gravy, macaroni and cheese . . . Doesn’t it smell great?”

  Coleman turned on the TV. “Football.”

  Serge dug deeper into the bag. “And the pièce de résistance, coleslaw to die for.” He tossed the last Styrofoam container to Coleman. “Ice that down in the sink like the Pilgrims did with the Indians.”

  Coleman went in the bathroom. “But how will we cook the turkey? Everything else is ready.”

  “Have to eat the turkey later. It’s all side dishes until then.”

  Serge sat down at the desk facing the wall and tucked a napkin in the collar of his T-shirt. Coleman sat next to him, facing the same peeling wall. Serge set his fists on the desk, a plastic utensil gripped upright in each one, and smiled back at his buddy in their crack-den motel. “Now, this is fuckin’ tradition.”

  Coleman dove into the mashed potatoes. He stopped. “Serge, what about the guy?”

  “The guy? . . . Oh!” Serge threw his arms up. “My manners!”

  He walked across the room, opened the closet, and stared down at a young, hog-tied man with duct tape across his mouth. “You completely slipped my mind. I’m so embarrassed. Come! Join our feast!” Serge dragged him across the carpet.

  Coleman munched a biscuit and turned up the TV. “The Dolphins are playing the Lions.”

  “The Dolphins?” Serge let go of the hostage and wandered over. “I love the Dolphins! What’s the score?”

  “Don’t know.” Munch, munch.

  Serge pulled up a chair in front of the TV. “It’s third and long. Pick up the blitz! Pick up the blitz! . . . Ooo, they didn’t pick up the blitz.”

  Coleman pushed the rest of the biscuit into his mouth and popped another Pabst. “What’s that noise?”

  Serge’s nose was practically against the TV screen. “What noise?”

  “That noise.”

  Serge turned the volume down. “I hear it . . .” He turned around. “Oh, forgot about him again. Just left him on his belly. My attention span.”

  “Because you stopped taking your meds.”

  “Exactly. I like my attention span.” Serge got up from his chair. “Lets me juggle multiple tasks and get more accomplished. Follow the space program, work on my total solution for the Middle East, thwart customer-service people who make up answers, determine if fifteen minutes really can save me fifteen percent, develop renewable energy source from golf balls lost in ponds, retrieve priceless brass plaques . . .”

  “That guy’s wiggling around the floor pretty good for someone hog-tied,” said Coleman. “I think he’s trying to say something.”

  “Probably wants to tell us what side dishes he wants.” Serge leaned down and ripped the duct tape off the captive’s mouth.

  “Ow!”

  Serge smiled with big white teeth and held a Styrofoam container under the man’s nose. “Good coleslaw! Nobody makes it like KFC. Go ahead, have the rest.”

  “Serge,” said Coleman. “Doesn’t he need plastic utensils?”

  “No, I’ll just set it on the floor in front of his mouth.”

  “Please!” said the hostage. “Don’t hurt me!”

  “Hurt you?” said Serge. “Why would I do that? Oh, I know. Like when we came to your apartment last night and requested the plaques back. And if I remember, I asked real nice, too. I might have said ‘cocksucker’ a few times, but that’s always taken out of context. And what did you do? First, you cut my friend with a knife . . .”

  Coleman held up his arm, showing a fresh bandage on a flesh wound.

  “ . . . Then you pulled a gun on me. Luckily I had pulled mine first. Even then, I didn’t take your style of hospitality personally. But what crossed the line was when I tried to reason with you about the importance of those plaques—real nice again—explaining the difference between them and air-conditioning coils, and what did you say about the people whose names were engraved?” Serge got out his gun again and tapped his chin in thought. “Yeah, I remember now. ‘Fuck ’em.’ ” He shook his head. “Not good. That’s the problem with this generation. No sense of history. They haven’t the foggiest notion of all the sacrifices that have been made so they can safely lounge about this country texting and tweeting . . .”

  The man began whimpering.

  “Not the crying again,” said Serge. “Obviously you don’t know anything about me. I take the high road. The answer isn’t to attack you. Our nation’s too divided for that. No, the constructive rem
edy is to educate you and welcome you into the program. It’s Thanksgiving! So I’ve invited you here today as my guest, to break bread and celebrate the men and women on those plaques. Look around you! This room is chock-full of liberty. Some mold, but more liberty.”

  Coleman raised a beer. “Pursuit of happiness.”

  Serge nodded. “And pursuit of happiness.” He replaced the tape on the captive’s mouth and clapped his hands a single time. “You hungry? Let’s start getting that turkey ready!”

  “But, Serge,” said Coleman. “How are we going to cook it? There’s nothing in here.”

  “Got it covered.”

  Serge grabbed his car keys and ran outside to the trunk of the Chevelle. He came back carrying a large metal device, and kicked the door closed behind him with his foot.

  “What’s that?” asked Coleman.

  Serge carefully set it down next to the plaque burglar. “Remember that menu of Florida newspaper headlines that keep repeating themselves every holiday season?”

  “Yeah?”

  “This is one I forgot to mention.” Serge reached inside for a page of safety instructions and tossed it over his shoulder. “Hand me that turkey.”

  THREE HOURS LATER

  A dozen police cars converged in the parking lot of a sub-budget motel on South Dale Mabry Highway near the air-force base. Yellow crime tape. Forensic team.

  A white Crown Vic rolled up. The detectives got out and stared at the incinerated and gutted room.

  A stretcher rolled out the door with a covered body, still smoldering.

  The lead investigator approached the sergeant in charge. “What have we got here? Another meth-lab explosion?”

  The sergeant took off his hat and wiped his forehead. “That’s what we thought at first.”

  “What else could possibly have caused it? In all my years, I’ve only seen destruction this total at drug labs.”

  “You know those same newspaper headlines you see every year? Floridians trying to keep warm by barbecuing indoors?”

  “He was barbecuing?” The detective watched them load the stretcher into the back of a coroner’s truck. “What an idiot.”

  “Not barbecuing. We found a large deep fryer in the room. And a big turkey. There won’t be leftovers.”

  “Deep-frying a turkey?” The detective looked back at the room. “But a grease fire wouldn’t cause that kind of damage. The door’s blown off the hinges and charred like a briquet.”

  “Wasn’t your average grease fire. Forensics hasn’t officially ruled, but it’s looking like they were deep-frying a frozen turkey.”

  “Jesus, you never deep-fry a frozen turkey. It goes off like a bomb. A big one.” The detective opened a notebook and shook his head. “Well, like you said about those headlines, every year, two, or three. This guy really was an idiot.”

  “Or a genius,” said the sergeant.

  The detective stopped writing. “What are you talking about? . . . Wait a minute. You said ‘they’ were deep-frying. I thought there was only one body.”

  The sergeant held up an evidence bag. Melted nylon cord. “Our friend was hog-tied. He had some help in there with the basting.”

  “You mean this was a murder? But what kind of sick—”

  A uniformed officer trotted over, finishing a conversation on his walkie-talkie. “Sir, we just got a report from the VFW hall. Someone returned those stolen plaques.”

  “Great,” said the sergeant. “But what’s that got to do with this?”

  “They left a note. An apology. Maybe not, I don’t know. But there was a driver’s license, and the address of this motel room. We might have just ID’d the victim.”

  The sergeant glanced sideways at the detective. “Score one for the good guys.”

  The detective stuck his notebook back in his jacket. “Send me the case report. I’ll make sure it gets filed under a very tall stack of papers.”

  Chapter Three

  THREE WEEKS LATER

  Christmas songs. A line of small children waiting to see Santa. Others sitting on a foam mat watching a puppet show.

  “This new mall’s unbelievable,” said Jim Davenport, walking past the Gap. “Look at the ice-skating rink.”

  “I hate this time of year,” said Martha Davenport.

  “But look at all the kids having fun.”

  “We had to park a mile away, not to mention the insane traffic on the way over.”

  “Martha, it’s the holidays.” They continued along the upper level past kiosks for cell phones and sunglasses.

  “Wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t have to shop for your mother. She returns everything, you know.”

  “Not everything.”

  “You’re right. She prominently displays anything you get her. That’s an attack on me.”

  A group of gleeful children with colorful balloons ran by shrieking.

  “Martha, you’re letting her get under your skin.”

  “I’m dreading this next visit.”

  “But we have to visit,” said Jim. “It’s Christmas.”

  “God, that last visit. Can you believe what Nicole said?”

  “Because she sees how my mom gets to you.”

  “That makes it okay? Like it’s sport to her?”

  “No, it was terrible,” said Jim. “I grounded her, remember?”

  “Lot of good that did. She just kept going out. You’re not firm enough with her. And now she wants a tattoo!”

  “I’ll sit down and talk to her.”

  “Be firm this time.”

  They went into the Apple store. The balloon kids shrieked by the entrance, followed by two elves, one tall and thin with ice-blue eyes, the other short and pudgy with a round, non-intellectual-looking head.

  “Serge,” said Coleman. “Are we shopping?”

  “No, I just love coming to the mall at Christmas, digging how stores tap into the whole holiday spirit, especially the bookstores with their special bargain displays.”

  “Displays?” asked Coleman.

  “Big ones near the front,” said Serge. “If you want to show someone you put absolutely zero thought into their gift, you buy a giant picture book about steam locomotives, ceramic thimbles, or Scotland.”

  “But why are we wearing elf suits?”

  “To spread good cheer.”

  “What for?”

  “Because of the War on Christmas.”

  “Who started the war?” asked Coleman.

  “Ironically, the very people who coined the term and claim others started the war. They’re upset that people of different faiths, along with the coexistence crowd who respect those faiths, are saying ‘Season’s Greetings’ and ‘Happy Holidays.’ But nobody’s stopping anyone from saying ‘Merry Christmas.’ ”

  “And they’re still mad?”

  Serge shrugged. “It’s the new holiness: Tolerance can’t be tolerated. So they hijack the birth of Jesus as a weapon to start quarrels and order people around. Christmas should be about the innocence of children—and adults reverting to children to rediscover their innocence. That’s why we’re in elf suits. We’re taking Christmas back!”

  “So how do we spread this good cheer?”

  “Maybe by skipping. Let’s try skipping. You see someone skipping, and you wish wars would stop. Children skip all the time, but you become an adult and forget to skip. Let’s skip.”

  “Wait up!” Coleman skipped alongside Serge. “But I still don’t get this elf thing. How can we be elves if the mall didn’t hire us?”

  “And that’s what everyone thinks.” Serge skipped and waved at curious shoppers. “But there’s no law that says you can’t just unilaterally decide to be an elf, buy a costume, and hit the mall. That’s the whole key to life: Fuck the conventional wisdom on elves.”

  “So then that makes us . . .”

  “That’s right: wildcat elves.”

  “But, Serge, what if someone says something?”

  “What are they going to say?” Serg
e stopped skipping. “It’s like clipboards. You walk around all smart and serious, writing on a clipboard, and people stand back in respect. Or orange cones. You can buy them at any Home Depot. Then you set them out according to your needs, and the public thinks, ‘He must be official. He’s got orange cones.’ Those are the Big Three: clipboards, orange cones, elf suits. People don’t question . . . I need coffee. There’s the Coffee Circus.”

  The Davenports emerged from the Apple store. Outside, a line of small children stood in fear against a wall. Their balloons floated to the ceiling. Tears rolled down little cheeks.

  A mall cop pointed at them menacingly and shouted. “Stop running and screaming! This is a mall, not a playground! If I catch you again—”

  “Hey!” yelled Martha Davenport. “Don’t talk to them like that!”

  “Are you one of their parents?” demanded the security guard.

  “No, but there’s no reason—”

  “Then butt out!”

  Martha stepped forward. “What did you just say to me?”

  Jim tugged her sleeve. “Martha . . .”

  The mall cop leaned into her face. “I said, butt out!”

  “Or you’ll what?”

  Jim tugged her sleeve. “Martha . . .”

  The mall cop sneered. “Or I’ll toss you out of the mall!”

  “Excuse me,” said Jim. “Please don’t talk to my wife like that.”

  “I’ll toss you out, too!”

  Martha stormed off.

  “Martha! . . .” yelled Jim. He ran and caught up to her as she walked briskly past the Jelly Bean Barn. “Martha, where are you going?”

  “I’m going to report him.”

  “But he’s a mall cop.”

  “Oh, big position of authority.”

  “No, that’s the point. Mall security sometimes attracts a certain type. And that guy demonstrated he has an authority complex. What if he gets fired?”

  “That’s what I want to happen!”

  “But who knows what kind of retaliation he’ll take. He clearly has impulse problems.”

  “You could use some impulse problems.”

  Jim did his best to keep up with her raging stride. “But I’m out of town a lot on business. I don’t want to worry about you and Nicole while I’m gone.”