Gift-Wrapped & Toe-Tagged: A Melee of Misc. Holiday Anthology

by Dr. Freud Funkenstein, ed.

  The search was more a spontaneous, playful pageant than an earnest hunt for the missing figures. Realistically, the searchers didn’t have much of a chance. They made a lot of noise, and went only where they thought it would be pleasant or interesting to go. The thief, who was apparently a nut, would have had little trouble keeping his peculiar loot out of sight.

  But the searchers were so caught up in the allegory of what they were doing that a powerful expectation grew of its own accord, with no help from the paper. Everyone was convinced that the holy family would be found on Christmas Eve.

  But on that eve, no new star shone over the city save the five-hundred-watt lamp hung from a balloon over the mansion of J. Sprague Fleetwood, alias Mad Dog Gribbon, the victim of the theft.

  The mayor, the president of a big manufacturing company, and the chairman of the Real Estate Board rode in the back seat of the mayor’s limousine, while Hackleman and I sat on the jump seats in front of them. We were on our way to award the first-prize scroll to Gribbon, who had replaced the missing figures with new ones.

  “Turn down this street here?” said the chauffeur.

  “Just follow the star,” I said.

  “It’s a light, a goddamn electric light that anybody can hang over his house if he’s got the money,” said Hackleman.

  “Follow the goddamn electric light,” I said.

  Gribbon was waiting for us, wearing a tuxedo, and he opened the car door himself. “Gentlemen—Merry Christmas.” His eyes down, his hands folded piously across his round belly, he led us down a path, bounded by ropes, that led around the display and back to the street again. He passed by the corner of the mansion, just short of the point where we would be able to see the display. “I like to think of it as a shrine,” he said, “with people coming from miles around, following the stars.” He stepped aside, motioning us to go ahead.

  And the dumbfounding panorama dazzled us again, looking like an outdoor class in calisthenics, with expressionless figures bobbing, waving their arms, flapping their wings.

  “Gangster heaven,” whispered Hackleman.

  “Oh, my,” said the mayor.

  The chairman of the Real Estate Board looked appalled, but cleared his throat and recovered gamely. “Now, there’s a display,” he said, clinging doggedly to his integrity.

  “Where’d you get the new figures?” said Hackleman.

  “Wholesale from a department-store supply house,” said Gribbon.

  “What an engineering feat,” said the manufacturer.

  “Took four engineers to do it,” said Gribbon proudly. “Whoever swiped the figures left the neon halos behind, thank God. They’re rigged so I can make ’em blink, if you think that’d look better.”

  “No, no,” said the mayor. “Mustn’t gild the lily.”

  “Uh … do I win?” said Gribbon politely.

  “Hmmm?” said the mayor. “Oh—do you win? Well, we have to deliberate, of course. We’ll let you know this evening.”

  No one seemed able to think of anything more to say, and we shuffled back to the limousine.

  “Thirty-two electric motors, two miles of wire, nine hundred and seventy-six lightbulbs, not counting neon,” said Gribbon as we pulled away.

  “I thought we were going to just hand him the scroll right then and there,” said the real estate man. “That was the plan, wasn’t it?”

  “I just couldn’t bring myself to do it then,” sighed the mayor. “Suppose we could stop somewhere for a stirrup cup.”

  “He obviously won,” said the manufacturer. “We wouldn’t dare give the prize to anyone else. He won by brute force—brute dollars, brute kilowatts, no matter how terrible his taste is.”

  “There’s one more stop,” said Hackleman.

  “I thought this was a one-stop expedition,” said the manufacturer. “I thought we’d agreed on that.”

  Hackleman held up a card. “Well, it’s a technicality. The official deadline for entries was noon today. This thing came in by special delivery about two seconds ahead of the deadline, and we haven’t had a chance to check it.”

  “It certainly can’t match this Fleetwood thing,” said the mayor. “What could? What’s the address?”

  Hackleman told him.

  “Shabby neighborhood out on the edge of town,” said the real estate man. “No competition for our friend Fleetwood.”

  “Let’s forget it,” said the manufacturer. “I’ve got guests coming in, and …”

  “Bad public relations,” said Hackleman gravely. It was startling to hear the words coming from him, enunciated with respect. He’d once said that the three most repellent forms of life were rats, leeches, and public relations men … in descending order.

  To the three important men in the back seat, though, the words were impressive and troubling. They mumbled and fidgeted, but didn’t have the courage to fight.

  “Let’s make it quick,” said the mayor, and Hackleman gave the driver the card.

  Stopped by a traffic signal, we came abreast of a group of cheerful searchers, who called to us, asking if we knew where the holy family was hidden.

  Impulsively, the mayor leaned out of the window. “You won’t find them under that,” he said, waggling his finger at the light over Gribbon’s house.

  Another group crossed the street before us, singing:

  For Christ is born of Mary,

  And gathered all above,

  While mortals sleep, the angels keep

  Their watch of wondering love.

  The light changed, and we drove on, saying little as we left the fine homes behind, as the electric lamp over Gribbon’s mansion was lost behind black factory chimneys.

  “You sure the address is right?” said the chauffeur uncertainly.

  “I guess the guy knows his own address,” said Hackleman.

  “This was a bad idea,” said the manufacturer, looking at his watch. “Let’s call up Gribbon or Fleetwood or whatever his name is, and tell him he’s the big winner. The hell with this.”

  “I agree,” said the mayor. “But, as long as we’re this far along, let’s see it through.”

  The limousine turned down a dark street, banged over a chuckhole, and stopped. “This is it gentlemen,” said the chauffeur.

  We were parked before an empty, leaning, roofless house, whose soundest part was its splintered siding, a sign declaring it to be unfit for human habitation.

  “Are rats and termites eligible for the contest?” said the mayor.

  “The address checks,” said the chauffeur defensively.

  “Turn around and go home,” said the mayor.

  “Hold it,” said the real estate man. “There’s a light in the barn in back. My God, I came all this way to judge and I’m going to judge.”

  “Go see who’s in the barn,” said the mayor to the chauffeur.

  The chauffeur shrugged, got out, and walked through the snow-covered rubbish to the barn. He knocked. The door swung open under the impact of his fist. Silhouetted by a frail, wavering light from within, he sank to his knees.

  “Drunk?” said Hackleman.

  “I don’t think so,” murmured the mayor. He licked his lips. “I think he’s praying—for the first time in his life.” He got out of the car, and we followed him silently to the barn. When we reached the chauffeur, we went to our knees beside him.

  Before us were the three missing figures. Joseph and Mary sheltered against a thousand drafts the sleeping infant Jesus in his bed of straw. The only illumination came from a single oil lantern, and its wavering light made them live, alive with awe and adoration.

  On Christmas morning, the paper told the people where the holy family could be found.

  All Christmas Day the people streamed to the cold, lonely barn to worship.

  A small story inside announced that Mr. Sprague Fleetwood had won the Annual Christmas Outdoor Lighting Contest with thirty-two electric motors, two miles of wire, and nine hundred and seventy-six lightbulbs, not counting neon, and
an Army surplus weather balloon.

  Hackleman was on the job at his desk, critical and disillusioned as ever.

  “It’s a great, great story,” I said.

  “I’m good and sick of it,” said Hackleman. He rubbed his hands. “What I’m looking forward to is January when the Christmas bills come in. A great month for homicides.”

  “Well, there’s still got to be a follow-up on the Christmas story. We still don’t know who did it.”

  “How you going to find out who did it? The name on the entry blank was a phony, and the guy who owns the barn hasn’t been in town for ten years.”

  “Fingerprints,” I said. “We could go over the figures for fingerprints.”

  “One more suggestion like that, and you’re fired.”

  “Fired?” I said. “What for?”

  “Sacrilege!” said Hackleman grandly, and the subject was closed. His mind, as he said, was on stories in the future. He never looked back.

  Hackleman’s last act with respect to the theft, the search, and Christmas was to send me out to the barn with a photographer on Christmas night. The mission was routine and trite, and it bored him.

  “Get a crowd shot from the back, with the figures facing the camera,” said Hackleman. “They must be pretty damn dusty by now, with all the sinners tramping through. Better go over ’em with a damp cloth before you make the shot.”

  Patrick Kill

  DEAD SANTA

  TEARS WELLED IN Santa’s eyes as he stared across the snowy windswept field. Blood seeped into the snow as elves and reindeer lay shot to death, bodies jerking slower as the North Pole’s arctic air gusted, freezing flesh and bone.

  Santa dropped the gun and cupped his hands over his face. He couldn’t believe what he had done. The countless lists from children had been pouring in at a fevered pace. Stress levels were high. Santa, being burned out at making toys year round, sought his escape by sneaking into his den to watch pornos. Santa knew he had become obsessed with these videos. He no longer cared about anything else, including his job. He found himself spiraling out of control, growing more hostile toward Mrs. Clause and the elves, but he never thought it would have progressed to this.

  Santa heard a muffled cry as he looked up to see Lorel, his favorite elf, still alive, but convulsing wildly in a snow drift. Santa lifted the gun to the elf’s head and pulled the trigger. Brain matter sprayed across the snow until it resembled oatmeal floating across a sea of milk.

  Mrs. Clause would be home soon. Santa was petrified that he would lose her after she took one glance at what he had done. Where would he go? What would he do? He knew he could no longer continue to deliver gifts on Christmas because now his heart belonged to porn, not the children.

  Santa fell to his knees and cried. He lifted the gun, jamming the barrel into his mouth. His finger shook against the trigger.

  A strange sight suddenly distracted him. A mirror image of himself stood next to him, gawking down. But this man’s beard had been shaved into a goatee and he sported a black and white suit instead of the traditional red.

  “Who are you?” Santa managed to speak, gagging on the barrel.

  The man’s guttural laugh echoed across the snowy plain. “I think it would be cliche to call me Satan Clause, but you may refer to me as your replacement since your services are about to be terminated.” The man’s eyes twinkled with mischief.

  “What makes you so sure I’ll let you take over?” Santa asked, looking back at the man to find that he had changed into a women who wiggled a pair of oversized breasts in his direction. He closed his eyes, but could only conjure other images of blondes and brunettes and red-haired “Santa’s Helpers,” dressed in leather with whips and chains and candy canes lining up to tease him, please him, and dominate him like all naughty girls wanted to do.

  Santa tried to fight the temptation, but could only manage to imagine himself having wild sex with women in the back of his sleigh.

  “I’m so sick,” he cried, “I don’t deserve to be Santa anymore.”

  He reached out for the woman’s breasts and recoiled, shaking his head. “I’ve got to control myself.” He felt the heat of his erection melting the snow beneath him.

  The woman slipped out of her clothes and lay before him, waiting. He shoved the gun deeper into his mouth and pulled the trigger. A brief vision flashed through his mind as the woman melted into the same figure in the black and white suit. Then everything gushed away.

  * * *

  The stranger smiled as the last gurgling breaths escaped Santa. He looked across the field, taking in the variety of corpses strung atop the snow. With a wave of his hands, the corpses came back from the dead. Elves rose blankly and retreated into the warmth of the toy factory. Reindeer stood, shaking off blood, and huddled once again as a pack.

  “This will be a Christmas unlike any other,” the dark Santa muttered, hearing sleigh bells echoing across the field. Mrs. Clause drifted closer and the dark Santa snapped his fingers and said, “Take care of her,” and the reindeer sprung to life, chasing after her sleigh.

  From a distance he watched as the reindeer stomped Mrs. Clause into the snow. The pack settled over her body, picking at her flesh and ripping her limbs apart.

  * * *

  Eight-year-old Chris tossed and turned. Christmas morning was only hours away. The neighboring house’s lights flashed into his darkened bedroom as he glanced at the clock which read 6:32. He shifted uncomfortably and thought about all the presents he might get. He imagined a big red bicycle with a red bow next to the tree.

  Snowflakes drifted outside as he focused on the neighbors snow-covered roof, wondering how Santa could manage to drag an entire bike down a chimney.

  His eyes grew heavy as he watched the hypnotizing flurry of snow fall.

  Suddenly he heard bells outside. He jerked upright in bed then wandered groggily over to the window and parted the curtains.

  “Santa!” he said.

  A rusted sleigh swept down from the sky and skidded across his front lawn, uprooting dead grass and mud. As Chris looked closer, he noticed the reindeer looked sick and deranged, their bodies missing portions of flesh. Bones protruded from their ribcages, their jaws half-missing.

  Chris tried to shake the remnants of dream from his consciousness, but again looked onto the strange site of Santa wearing a black suit. Though he was indeed plump with a big round belly, he was missing a beard—only a spiky white goatee appeared, covered with frost.

  Santa spit a large yellowish-green wad of phlegm on the front lawn then cleared each nostril out. It wasn’t long until he located the Bethlehem scene set up next to the mailbox. The dark Santa peered down at the baby Jesus in the manger, then proceeded to punt the tiny plastic figurine across the lawn. It bounced against the siding and settled in the snow-covered bushes.

  Chris ran down the hall and opened his parent’s bedroom door.

  “Mom…Dad…Santa’s really here!”

  His parents shifted, moaning, half-asleep. “Go back to bed, Chris, it’s not morning yet.”

  “But—”

  His father bolted upright at the sound of the front door being kicked in.

  “Chris—go to your room and lock the door,” his father said, jumping out of bed and grabbing a baseball bat in the closet.

  “But it’s just Santa!” Chris argued, departing the room for the stairwell.

  Halfway down the stairs, the door splintered into fragments as the dark Santa entered.

  His father, rushing behind him, tripped on the steps and plummeted down the flight of stairs, resting unconscious beside Chris’s feet.

  Chris looked up at the Santa, confused. The dark Santa browsed through the house until he found the plate of cookies and milk.

  The dark Santa flung the cookies to the side and dumped the milk into a plant. “Give you a hint, kid,” the strange Santa said, “Next year try liquor and beer nuts—you’ll get more presents!”

  Chris looked back at his father who was s
lowly waking up.

  “So what do you want for Christmas, kid?”

  Chris smiled, feeling excitement pulse through his body. “A big red bicycle.”

  The dark Santa squinted into the bag and shook his head. “Now how the hell am I suppose to cram a fucking bicycle in here?”

  Chris shrugged.

  “Fuck the bicycle, kid. Everyone knows bicycles are for pussies.”

  “But how am I suppose to get to my friend Timmy’s?”

  “Hitchhike or something, I don’t give a rat’s ass.”

  The dark Santa rummaged through his burlap bag and pulled forth a pair of women’s panties. “Whoops, that’s from the last house,” he said, his face blushing. He sifted through the bag again and pulled out a Bic lighter. He handed it to Chris with a pack of cigarettes.

  “Is this all I get?”

  “Yes, you greedy little bastard. Those cigarettes cost an arm and a leg these days.”

  Chris pouted, crossing his arms.

  The dark Santa sighed. “Oh, all right,” he said, pulling from his bag a magazine. He tossed it to Chris who scanned the cover and smiled after noticing two young blondes, wrapping their naked bodies around each other, tongues extended into whipcream-filled navels and cleavage.

  “Wow!” Chris said, “This is the best present I ever got.”

  His father grabbed the magazine away and stood before the dark Santa. “You get the hell out of my house or I’m going to beat you senseless, you sonofabitch!”

  The dark Santa snapped his fingers as a flash of green and red shot through Chris’s vision and knocked his father into an adjacent room. Chris whirled to see a tiny elf lodged onto his father’s jugular. Another elf came streaking out of the bathroom, its pale face appearing twisted and deranged.

  Chris cringed as the other elf lodged onto his father’s crotch. His father screamed, kicking desperately. The window shattered as more elves jumped atop his father, all biting and burrowing into his father’s body.