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

by Dr. Freud Funkenstein, ed.

  “Okay, okay, okay...why did she leave you, Kris?”

  “It all began two weeks ago when I attended the annual Immortality and Faerie Convention in Iceland. It’s a lot of fun, and a great opportunity to catch up with old friends—and to get drunk off your gizzard.”

  “Of course it is.”

  “And when I returned home from the convention, Mrs. Claus was quite gone.”

  “And why did she leave you?”

  “Apparently I had, um...well, apparently I had actually forgotten to bring her, you see.”

  “How the hell could you forget to bring your wife, Kris?”

  “I could have sworn she was with me, Love Doctor! Why, I even thought we had had a pleasant conversation during the sleigh-ride over Greenland. And I was certain she had made a practical point on the nature of elves in society today while flying over the Atlantic. And as we came upon Iceland, I could have sworn she had agreed with me wholeheartedly on the evils of the Internet.

  “But it wasn’t until late Sunday afternoon, with the convention nearly over and me suffering my usual hangover—elderberry beer always does that to me—that I realized she wasn’t with me. I dashed home only to discover she had packed up and left, and to where I do not know. Knowing that she loves the beaches of southern California, I came down here on a fool’s hunt for my beloved wife. Oh, I love Damme de Winter with all my heart, and I would do anything to win her back. I’m a wreck without her, and now Christmas itself hangs in the balance. Lord, if only she knew how sorry I am! Please, Love Doctor, tell me what should I do?”

  “How often do you tell your wife that you love her?”

  “I do so every day. Or, well, I did until she left me. Lord, I’m a miserable husband.”

  “No, you’re not, Kris. You are a very typical husband. But that’s not good enough. You need to be a great husband. You need to let her know that she’s your top priority, Kris.”

  “Well, I have been sort of putting work first lately. All these new electronic gizmos are hell to keep up with. My elves and I have been working overtime on Wii games alone. Well, that is, when they feel like working.”

  “We’re sticking with Santa thing, huh? Okay, fine. Kris, try putting her first, as often as you can. Treasure her and everything she brings to your relationship. And for the love of God, don’t leave her behind next time.”

  “You are a good man, Love Doctor. I’m especially proud of—”

  “What’s that, Vern? Another call has come through?! We’ve now got two linesworking! Hooray! Goodbye, Kris, and good riddance—you flippin’ nutcase! Put her through, Vern.”

  “She’s through now, Stephen.”

  “Oh, thank God! Okay, you’re on the air with Stephen Bright the Love Doctor.”

  “I’m on the air?”

  “Yes, ma’am, you are.”

  “Is this the Love Doctor?”

  “Yes, ma’am, you’re talking to the one and only Love Doctor.”

  “Good! How dare you speak to my husband that way, you ungrateful, little man!”

  “Oh, this is ripe. Let me guess...Mrs. Claus?”

  “You bet your arse it is. Never have I heard such disrespect for my dear husband. How dare you hang up on him, you mean little man! To think my loving, hard-working husband actually admired you and your show—”

  “Go easy on him, Damme. Believe it or not, he spoke words of wisdom. Words I needed to hear again.”

  “Sinterklaas!”

  “Yes, the one and only.”

  “But I thought he hung up on you!”

  “Oh, he could never hang up on me, love. And I’m glad you found your way through their, ho-ho, downed phone lines.”

  “Did you have something to do with that?”

  “Maybe a little.”

  “You sly devil.”

  “Only sometimes. I’m really sorry, Damme.”

  “I know you are, you stinker.”

  “I promise to make it up to you.”

  “I know you will.”

  “I was a fool for taking you for granted. Do you forgive me?”

  “Of course, my sugar bear.”

  “That’s my girl! Ho-ho! Now, would you care to accompany me to dinner tonight?”

  “Ooh, I would love that!”

  “I know of a little restaurant deep in the Hollywood hills, by a magical oak tree. There’s an old elf there who makes the world’s greatest corn chowder.”

  “Sounds delightful! But how will I find you, dear?”

  “That’s easy, Damme. Just look to the left of the moon and wish with all your heart—”

  “Or I could just call you on your cell.”

  “Or that, of course.”

  “Let’s hang up here, honey buns. I think we’ve given these people enough of a show. Besides, we have Christmas to save.”

  “As always, love, you are most correct. Oh, and Love Doctor, I want to thank you again for all your help.”

  “Um, you’re welcome, Kris.”

  Click. Click.

  “Are they gone, Vern?”

  “Yes, Stephen.”

  “Did she just call him honey buns?”

  “Yes she did, Stephen.”

  “I need alcohol, and lots of it. This is Stephen Bright the Love Doctor, and I’m out.”

  * * *

  The security guard’s eyes snapped open. He unlaced his fingers from behind his head and sat forward, momentarily disoriented.

  He blinked once or twice until he remembered he was at work. He had dreamed, of all things, that Santa Claus had called his favorite radio show.

  Chuckling quietly to himself, the old guard got up from his desk and began making his rounds. His first stop was at the office building’s front door. And there, as he gazed through the smoky glass, he saw something he would not soon forget.

  He had lived in Los Angeles all his adult life, and never had he seen snow. Until now.

  It was everywhere. Covering cars and sidewalks and streets.

  “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  Mark Thomas

  CHRISTMAS TAIL

  TWAS THE NIGHT before Christmas and all things considered, he could have done without the hassle. The factory was its customary visual assault of tinsel, decorations and uprooted spruce. He sighed, put on a festive face, pushed the door, and entered the workshop. Standing with hands on expansive hips he surveyed the busy scene.

  Piles of presents stretched as far as his eyes could see. Figures scurried this-a-way and that-a-way; lost in purpose, almost too busy to notice the boss was on the floor. He hated this bit – he took a deep breath.

  “Ho-Ho-Ho!” he boomed.

  The pace slowed slightly as heads turned to look at him – some acknowledged his presence with a wave or a nod but carried on after a moment. One stopped, turned and raised a hand in greeting then came over.

  “Evening boss, timing is impeccable as always!” The old elf noted with an appreciative grin. “Ready for the off?”

  “Ready as I will ever be. This doesn’t get any easier you know.” Santa cricked his neck side-to-side and shook his arms like a boxer warming up for a prize fight.

  “There is one small problem, sir...”

  “Hmm?” He was only paying partial attention.

  “It’s Rudolph. He’s gone and sprained his ankle and I, er, don’t think he’ll be up to the trip guv.” This jolted the jolly red chap from his pre-delivery reverie.

  “What? Don’t be so bloody daft man. We’ve been doing this for hundreds of years and he has never failed to lead the team!” He stopped; a strange look came over his face. “Actually, there was that time in sixty three, but we are contractually obliged not to mention that.”

  “Regardless sir, I don’t think it’s wise to have him lead this evening. May I suggest Blitzen. Very good runner when pushed, sir.”

  He stared down at the elf, who took a small step back, visibly wilting under the gaze.

  “Very well, get them ready. It’s Blitzen to lead then,”
he boomed.

  “Right you are Boss!” The elf jumped to attention and shot off out the door towards the stables, hat bell jingling madly. He could hear the deer arguing among themselves; impatient buggers.

  He walked back across the yard to the cosy snow covered cottage where Mrs. Christmas was preparing supper. She jumped as he banged the door open; snow swirled around his feet as he stepped inside. He stomped to remove the snow caked to his boots.

  “I thought you would have been off by now.” She asked, “What’s up dear?”

  “Oh, nothing really my love, it’s just I’m going to be short-deered tonight. Rudolph’s not coming out for the run, injured ankle or some such.”

  Mrs. Christmas looked sympathetic.

  “Never mind Nicholas, I hear Blitzen is a good runner. When pushed that is.”

  “Yes, that he is, but I don’t like leaving a deer behind on the busiest night of the year.” He sighed and walked over to the coat peg and pulled down a huge red coat, a red hat and furry gloves so big that it looked like he had despoiled a pair of rabbits. He dressed silently and when complete, crossed the kitchen and gave Mrs Christmas a peck on the cheek.

  “I’ll be off then,” he said, turning and walking to the door.

  “Ok dear. Be careful and please remember sixty-three. The sherry is just there for show. Ok?”

  He paused, appeared to think about something for a second then shrugged and walked out into the harsh night. The front door slammed shaking loose soot down the chimney.

  Mrs Christmas watched her husband walk up the road to the waiting team of reindeer and shook her head. She took off her apron, glanced at the clock on the wall. Walking to the back of the kitchen she stops to gaze in the mirror, primps her hair, and adjusts her bosom.

  There is a quiet knocking on the door; she walks over, pauses for a moment, and then opens it. Her face lights up with a smile and a faint red glow. Rudolph winks.

  Mark West

  THE NIGHT OF THE PARTY

  THE PARTY HAD been going well, until Tim Garrett decided to make his move.

  The Brooks-Hammond Associates Christmas party was a big occasion, with every member of staff - from warehouse operatives through to the directors - attending. Held in the Gaffney Royal Hotel, everyone was expected to dress the part and behave accordingly. Of course, this never usually happened but minor infringements of both - like the sales girls in their tiny handkerchiefs of tops, or a warehouse man doing a drunken dance - were overlooked.

  Amanda Clarkson was standing outside the ballroom, quietly smoking a cigarette, to get a respite from the pounding beat of the disco. For some reason, her office had sat at a table next to a set of speakers, where it was impossible to hear any conversation or think straight.

  Even with the ringing in her ears, the hotel had that quietness to it that well-heeled establishments tend to have. Thick carpets muffled footsteps, the walls were covered with expensive wallpaper and paintings and the noise of the party was contained by the heavy doors. Out here, on her own, she could collect her thoughts before heading back into the onslaught of loud music and drunken conversation.

  "Well hello there."

  Amanda turned to see the speaker and cringed. She'd only been working at B-HA for six months, but had heard all about Tim Garrett, National Retail Sales Manager. A short, pudgy, balding man, he thought he was God's gift to young women and didn't hesitate to prove it. Amanda had been informed that, at twenty-one, she'd be a prime target and had better watch out.

  "Hi," she said.

  "Tim Garrett," he said, smiling broadly at her, "NRSM. And who might you be?"

  "Amanda, I work in Finance."

  "A new girl, eh?" The smile dissolved into a leer.

  She nodded, moving slowly towards the ballroom door.

  Garrett was leaning on the doorframe of the Gents. His tie was halfway down his chest, the knot tiny where he'd pulled it without loosening it first. His shirt - dark blue with white collars and cuffs - was dark at the armpits and there was a crusty trail of gravy down his front. His face was streaked with thin streams of red, where sweat had caused the colour to run in the party hat he was wearing at a jaunty angle.

  "So how are you?" he asked and launched himself across the corridor, grasping the wall for support.

  "Not bad," she said, reaching behind her for the door handle. One of the sales girls told Amanda that Garrett had cornered her at a previous Christmas party and managed to get his hand down her top before she could shake him off. "How are you?"

  "Happier now I've seen you," he said and grinned at her, the pantomime face of the pleasantly pissed.

  "Well, I was just going back in."

  He lurched along the wall, ever closer to her. "What are you out here for, anyway?"

  "To have a smoke and clear my head."

  "Looks fine to me," he smiled.

  "Thank you. Look, I'm going to go in."

  "You're not trying to get away from me, are you?" he said slowly. He was still moving and she could smell him now - sweat, cologne and beer.

  "Not at all." She hoped her face wouldn't betray the lie.

  "Good, because you sounded rude then. Don't you like the look of me?"

  What did she say to that? "You look a bit unwell."

  "Well you look wunnerful, love."

  She resisted the temptation to try and cover her knees, which her round-necked black dress didn't quite reach. "Thanks. Are you coming in?"

  He was almost upon her now, just a few feet to go. "Nah, I wanna discuss some expenses."

  "I don't do expenses," she said, still reaching for the door handle. Where the bloody hell was it?

  He pushed off the wall and, lurched two quick steps forward and put his arms out, until he was in her face, an arm on either side of her head. The smell of him almost turned her stomach.

  "Who cares?" he said and licked his lips. Amanda noticed that his tongue was coated yellow.

  "Can you step back, please?" she said carefully, starting to feel a little worried.

  "Why fight it? You know you want me, everyone does."

  Tingles of fear darted through her belly. "Look, there's been some mistake. I just want to get back to the party."

  "Don't fight it, Mandy. I've got a room, nobody needs to know."

  "I will though." She tried to push him back but he was using his arms for support and she couldn't get any leverage against his bulk. "Please, get away from me."

  "Mandy, Mandy, Mandy, what's the problem?"

  Now she was scared. "I'm sorry, but you are. I don't like this, really I don't."

  "Well none of my other bitches has ever complained." He moved his right arm and flopped against her. "Lovely tits," he said, moving his shoulder against her left breast. "Anyone ever told you that?"

  She felt her eyes well with tears. "Please get off me, or I'll scream."

  His right hand was resting on her thigh and began to move down, searching for the hem of her dress. She pressed her hands to his shoulders and tried to push him away, digging her nails in. The pain didn't seem to affect him and his hand continued its steady progress.

  "Leave me alone or I swear I'll fucking scream."

  He giggled. "Potty mouth."

  She brought her knee up quickly and he folded over it, his breath woofing into her face. He went down like a sack of potatoes, his hands cupping his groin, tears spilling down his cheeks.

  "You bitch," he gasped, "you fucking bitch."

  "I warned you," she said, wiping away a stray tear with the back of her hand.

  "I'll fucking kill you."

  Amanda stepped around him, frightened of what he might do if he got up. She didn't want to be here, she just wanted to be at home.

  Garrett brought his knees up to his chest, his face scrunched up with the pain. "You wanted it, Mandy, you know you did. No-one'll ever believe you."

  Starting to cry, Amanda walked quickly out of the hotel.

  * * *

  It was the week before Christm
as, cold with a clear sky. Flashing lights and multi-coloured decorations hung from the lampposts and were draped between buildings, but Amanda ignored them. She didn't feel in the Christmas spirit anymore and the tears swamping her eyes blurred the lights and made it difficult to see.

  She felt stupid and weak - she'd been told what he was like, so why didn't she go back into the ballroom as soon as he appeared? And what would happen on Monday - would he say anything or complain about her? What if he was right and no-one believed her version of events?

  Taking a tissue out of her handbag, she dabbed at her eyes - she must look a right state by now, with trails of mascara running down her cheeks. Her coat was still in the ballroom, but she wasn't going to go back for it. She would get a taxi home, tell her boyfriend Roger that she wasn't feeling very well and go to bed and try to forget about this whole sorry mess.

  Feeling slightly better that she'd made up her mind, she walked up Market Street towards the taxi rank.

  * * *

  Gaffney seemed to be alive with revelers. Groups of people poured out of the pubs, laughing and joking, holding one another up or engaging in play fights. Girls walked past, with tinsel boas draped around their necks. Men staggered in the road, shirts undone, lipstick kisses on their cheeks.

  The taxi rank occupied most of Dalkeith Place, but it was surrounded by four pubs and there must have been close to fifty people milling around, with no sign of any cabs. From her right, through an alleyway that led to the Cornmarket Hall and swimming pool, came a gang of four lads.

  "Aye aye, look at that beauty."

  She looked away quickly and kept moving. Don't make eye contact with them, just ignore whatever they say.

  "Hey, love, do you fancy a Christmas kiss?"

  She wished they'd leave her alone.

  "Come on, it's Christmas. You can't ignore us now."

  Resigned - they were coming towards her, what could she do? - she slowed and turned her head.

  All of them were wearing pale Ben Sherman shirts and chinos - they looked as cold as she felt. None of them could have been older than her, but they all looked the worse for wear and bleary eyed.