When Elves Attack

by Tim Dorsey

  “Daddy!” Nicole crawled over, crying, and pushed Snake off him. “You’re bleeding!”

  “I’m okay, honey.” Jim got up and hugged his daughter. Then he looked over at Serge. “Thank you.”

  Serge’s mouth was solemn. “You two just go in the house.”

  Jim looked down. “But what about—”

  “Don’t worry about him,” said Serge. “Forget all this happened. Right now you need to get inside and take care of each other.”

  Jim nodded, and he and Nicole walked toward the porch steps with arms around each other.

  ONE HOUR LATER

  A shuttle bus pulled up the driveway at Bayshore Manors.

  The staff gingerly helped four elderly women out of the vehicle.

  The facility’s director came out in alarm. “Where’d you find them?”

  “A club in Ybor City,” said the driver. “With shirtless male bartenders.”

  “How’d they get the shuttle bus?”

  A shrug.

  “Okay, take them inside. It’s getting late . . .”

  The quartet of women shuffled into the dayroom to watch Seinfeld in syndication.

  “They caught us,” said Edna.

  “So what?” said Edith. “They just brought us back. I told you we wouldn’t get in trouble.”

  “They’re going to do something,” said Eunice.

  “No they’re not.”

  One of the caregivers walked over with a look of concern. “You really had us scared. Please don’t do that again.”

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  The woman walked away.

  Edith smiled at the others. “See?”

  “Well, at least it was fun while it lasted,” said Ethel.

  “What are you talking about?” said Edith. “That just whetted my appetite.”

  “But they locked up the keys to the shuttle bus,” said Eunice. “We won’t be able to get away now.”

  “So we’ll call a cab.”

  “And do what?” said Ethel.

  “We need to hook up with someone we already know, for safe harbor.” Edith got up and shuffled across the room. “So they won’t be able to track us down next time.”

  “Where are you going?” asked Edna.

  “To the computers.”

  “I don’t think they’ll let us on after what we pulled today,” said Ethel.

  “Of course they will,” said Edith. “They’re always encouraging us to get online and keep our minds sharp.”

  A few minutes later, the rest of the G-Unit huddled around Edith, tapping away on the keyboard.

  “Facebook?” said Edna.

  Tap, tap, tap. “You can find anybody on Facebook.” A few more keystrokes. Edith sat back, gesturing at the screen. “And I just found him.”

  “That guy?” said Ethel.

  Edith leaned forward again and typed. “I’ll just send him a message, and then we wait and keep checking the computer until he responds.”

  “How do you know he’ll respond?”

  “I hit him with a snowball.”

  TRIGGERFISH LANE

  Two hours after sunset. Four lawn chairs sat in a row on the front yard, facing the house.

  A patio table at the end, with bottles of booze and an ashtray full of roaches.

  “Hurry up already!” said City.

  Country took a hit and stubbed out another joint. “Stupid Christmas lights. This better be good.”

  “It’s going to be great!” said Serge. He held a pair of electric cords a few inches apart. “Countdown: three, two, one!” He plugged them in.

  Their faces lit up with awe at the bright, reflected light of over a thousand colorful little bulbs.

  “Ooooooooooo.”

  Even City and Country were impressed.

  “I especially like what you did with the palm trees,” said City.

  “Looks like a Corona beer ad,” said Country. She turned back to the house. “But what’s that dark spot. The lights didn’t go on.”

  “That’s Coleman’s project.”

  “Serge,” asked Coleman. “Can I do mine now?”

  “Just one second,” said Serge. “I want to set the mood. Did you know that the first Christmas ever celebrated in North America took place in the Sunshine State? It’s true: In 1539, the discoverer Hernando de Soto held festivities in Tallahassee, and since it’s Florida, the spot is now marked by a kiosk.” Serge looked up at the stars. “What must it have been like in such a pioneering time to experience Christmas in the yet-unexploited peninsula. Better still, what if de Soto had Christmas lights? These are the questions that need to be asked. What kind of decoration would such a courageous explorer create to commemorate the first Christmas in the New World? Let us pretend.” Serge turned to his pal. “Go for it!”

  Coleman held his own electrical cords. “Three, two, one!” He plugged them in. “Cool!”

  The others stared curiously at the strands of Christmas lights forming an outline on the wall of a giant dick and balls.

  “De Soto had unusual tastes,” said Serge.

  Across the street, Martha Davenport watched through the window with binoculars. The last set of lights caught her attention. “What the—?”

  Serge stood up. “But we’re not finished! My finest hour awaits!” He walked to the porch and returned with bigger wires and a control box like he was going to run a toy train set.

  “What’s that stuff?” asked Coleman.

  “I got the idea from when I used to have a toy train set.” Serge patted the control box. “I customized this from parts I bought at Radio Hut. The two big dials are variable voltage controls. I twist them back and forth to brighten and dim the lights.”

  “What for?”

  “The crowning jewel of my kick-out-the-jams Christmas display! It’s like building models as a kid. And what was the best part of building models?”

  “That’s easy,” said Coleman. “Blowing them up with M-80s.”

  “Except I’m not going to blow something up. Actually sort of, but not really, but, well, you’ll see.”

  Coleman reached in his pocket. “I definitely need to blow some gage for this.”

  “Mellow,” said Serge. “We’re on a neighborhood street. It’s bad enough Country finished that last roach out here. We don’t need to do anything strange to attract attention.”

  “I got the answer.” Coleman snapped his fingers. “I’ll use a one-hitter that looks like a cigarette.”

  “Regular brain trust out here.”

  Coleman packed the end of a thin metal tube painted white. “But those wires don’t look like the others.”

  “Because they’re not.” Serge held one up for illustration. “My crown jewel needed more amperage, so I ran these special high-capacity extension cords from one of those weird outlets behind the oven in our kitchen. Then I spliced the control box to manipulate the effect. You know those crazy Christmas displays on YouTube where the lights dance to music?”

  Coleman passed the hitter to Country. “There’s going to be music?”

  “No, but some serious audio. I was going to do this project anyway, but then a special feature fell into my lap . . .”

  From the darkness: “You’re a dead man! I am so going to kill you!”

  Coleman turned to Serge. “I don’t think Mr. Snake is enjoying this as much as we are.”

  “Because he doesn’t have a personal involvement in the project like us. But that’s about to change in a big way.”

  Serge reached for the left dial and ever so slowly turned it clockwise. Lights grew brighter.

  The foursome raised their eyes. Snake sat in a chair at the very top of the roof, wrapped countless times with rope and Christmas lights . . . Getting brighter . . .

  Coleman leaned over. “What’s the second dial?”

  “Volume control.”

  Coleman strained for a look at the roof. “I don’t see any speakers.”

  “Snake is our speaker.”

  �
��But how . . . ?”

  “You know all those piercings he has?”

  “Like a pincushion.”

  “The other dial controls a second set of lights, except I removed the lights and wired their sockets to his piercings.”

  Coleman took a hit. “Righteous.”

  “Observe.” Serge looked up and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Are you going to stay away from Nicole?”

  “Fuck you! I’ll do whatever I want!”

  A quick twist of the dial.

  “Ahhhhhh! . . . Dammit!”

  “And I also want you to stay away from Jim and his whole family.”

  “Eat shit! . . . Ahhhhh! . . . Stop doing that!”

  Serge winked at Coleman. “I think you get the picture.”

  “But, Serge,” said Coleman, glancing up the street at people on porches. “Aren’t you worried about the neighbors calling the police?”

  “I have a strong feeling they’re with me on this one. Everyone loves Christmas displays.”

  “So you’re going to keep asking him questions like that until he agrees?”

  Serge shook his head. “I’m not really interested in anything he has to say. Certain personality types tend to pull you into negativity. It’s best not to dwell on them . . . Especially when we’re out here to enjoy a special holiday moment.”

  “Rock on, dude!”

  “The key is to twist the dials simultaneously, so the lights are in sync with the audio. I’ll start with an easy one. Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony.”

  Dials twisted four times.

  “Ahh! Ahh! Ahh! . . . Ahhhhhhhh!”

  “Sounds just like it,” said Coleman.

  And so Serge ran through a full program of songs.

  “What was that last one?” asked Coleman.

  “ ‘Flight of the Bumblebee.’ ” Serge pulled the control box close. “And now the grand finale. I’m just going to use the left dial, ever so slowly increasing the current to the lights. And because those lights aren’t designed to stand the kind of power for an oven, they’ll begin to explode individually, like popcorn in a microwave. The bulbs’ filaments will burn out pretty quick, but also pretty hot.”

  “Will it electrocute him?”

  “No, but he won’t like it.”

  The dial began turning.

  At first a few isolated pops spaced out seconds apart. Then, in rapid succession: pop, pop, pop, pop, pop . . .

  It continued in a sadistic drumroll until the last light finally exploded.

  From the roof: “Okay, okay, you win! I’ll never go near Nicole or her family again!”

  Neighbors on porches up and down Triggerfish Lane uniformly broke into applause.

  Serge glanced at Coleman. “Like I said, total respect.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  TWO DAYS BEFORE CHRISTMAS

  An older-style Cadillac sat at the end of the Davenports’ driveway.

  Serge stared through binoculars.

  “What’s going on?” asked Coleman.

  “Jim’s mother is visiting for Christmas dinner.”

  “But it’s not Christmas yet.”

  “I think there’s some static between her and Martha.” Serge watched her set the table with the best china. “Jim told me Martha goes off the stress meter whenever her mother-in-law visits.”

  “They fight?”

  “Worse, this silent constant looming tension, Martha on the verge of a complete psychotic meltdown the whole time . . . So Jim told me they have his mom over just before Christmas, and then her parents just after. They reserve Christmas Day itself for immediate family when their older children drive in from out of town.”

  Across the street, Rita Davenport entered the dining room to help Martha set the table.

  “Mom, I really got this. Go talk with Jim and enjoy yourself.”

  “Don’t be silly. I can’t just stand around while you’re doing all the work.” Rita picked up a napkin, wiping down a fork Martha had already set beside a plate.

  Martha’s jaw clenched, blood pressure ticking upward. She faked a smile. “Excuse me a minute.”

  “Take your time.” Rita wiped a spoon. “I’ve been doing this my whole life.”

  Martha marched into the kitchen. “Jim! She’s wiping off the utensils I’ve already set.”

  Jim briefly covered his eyes with his hands. “Okay, I’ll go talk to her.”

  “What are you going to say?”

  “Just try to relax.” Jim went into the dining room. “Mom, you don’t need to do that.”

  “What? I’m not allowed to help?”

  “I’ve got some new family photos I’d like to show you.”

  “Photos? Why didn’t you say so? I must see.” She followed Jim past the kitchen doorway and into the den, where framed photos stood atop an antique bureau.

  Martha tiptoed down the hall to eavesdrop.

  “Oh, Jim, these pictures are absolutely beautiful. The children have really grown.”

  “Yes they have, Mom.”

  “And I love how they’re displayed on the bureau . . . Do you have a dust cloth and some Pledge?”

  Martha’s hands balled into white-knuckled fists . . .

  Back across the street, Serge lowered the binoculars. “I feel so bad Martha and I have gotten off on about ten bad feet, because I really like Jim, and she’s so terrific for him. But of course the reality of the situation is obvious: The absolute best thing I can do for both of them is never to go near their house for the rest of my life.”

  Coleman swayed with a bottle of rum and grabbed a chair for balance. “Huh?”

  Serge stared at Coleman a moment. “I think you’ve got something.” He began nodding. “There are no absolutes. I’ve locked myself into a defeatist mentality. Of course I can make it up to Martha! And because this is one of her most stressful days of the year with her mother-in-law, it’s the perfect opportunity to help her out.”

  “But, Serge—”

  He held up a hand. “Not now. When I was spying on them with the binoculars, they were just about to sit down to dinner, so I’ll need to hurry.” He headed toward the refrigerator. “I hear you’re supposed to bring something . . .”

  Back across the street, Jim carried the turkey into the dining room and set it on the table.

  “Everything looks so delicious,” said Rita.

  They pulled out chairs and began sitting.

  Ding-dong.

  “Who can that be?”

  Jim stood back up. “You two go ahead and sit. I’ll answer it.” He walked around the corner and opened the door.

  “Jim!”

  A gasp.

  “I knew you’d look surprised. I’ve come to join you for dinner. I know it’s last minute and all, but I hear it’s okay if you bring something.” Serge grinned and held up a crumpled brown paper bag. “I’m going to make it up to Martha, and then you’ll be so proud of me. I’m going to be just like you someday!”

  “Jim, who’s at the door?” called Martha.

  Serge slapped Jim on the shoulder—“Just leave everything to me”—and walked past him into the dining room.

  “Surprise!”

  Martha gasped.

  “Who is this man?” asked Rita.

  “I’m Serge Storms, super-close friend of Jim. And you must be his mom, who I’ve been hearing so much about.” He walked up with an effervescent smile and kissed her hand. “You’re even more radiant than I could have imagined.”

  “Serge,” said Jim. “I don’t think this is a good—”

  Serge looked at the table. “I see I’m just in time.”

  “You’re having dinner with us?” asked Rita.

  Serge nodded and held up the crumpled bag. “I brought sides.” He set the bag on the table and rummaged. “These are only a few days old—five tops.” He began pulling out Kentucky Fried Chicken containers. “Here’s coleslaw to die for, and the mac and cheese that Coleman barely touched, and a few biscuits. Heads-up, they’re a little
hard . . .”

  Nicole covered her mouth and giggled.

  Martha shot Jim a tense glance.

  “Serge,” said Jim. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding. This is my mother’s special day with us. It’s always just family.”

  “Nonsense,” said Rita. “He’s a good friend of yours, and I must say very well mannered.”

  “But, Mom,” said Martha.

  “We’ve got more than enough food,” said Rita. Then turning to Serge: “Why don’t you pull up a chair and have a seat by me?”

  Martha’s temples throbbed.

  Rita folded her hands on the table. “Jim, why don’t you say the grace?”

  “Mom, you know I’d really rather not—”

  Serge’s hand shot up in the air. “Oooo! Me! Me! Me! I’ll say grace!”

  Jim’s and Martha’s eyes bugged out.

  “Why, Serge,” said Rita. “That’s extremely gracious of you. I’d love to hear you say grace.”

  “Okay, everyone, bow your heads.” Serge closed his eyes and devoutly folded his hands. “Dear God, please ask your followers not to start any more wars.”

  Martha’s head fell back over her chair.

  Jim nearly fainted.

  Nicole cracked up.

  Rita Davenport slowly turned toward Serge. “That was a very interesting prayer. And a very good prayer. I know exactly what you mean: You’re talking about the people in those other countries.”

  “Well, what I actually meant was—”

  Jim’s hand shot out and grabbed Serge’s arm. “Leave it.”

  Serge shrugged.

  Dinner and conversation proceeded with the tension of a midnight execution.

  At the end, Rita set down her fork. “I’ll be dead soon.”

  “That’s an excellent philosophy,” said Serge. “Don’t take a single day for granted. Live life to the fullest!”

  “No,” said Rita. “I’m talking about getting old. I’m worried what will happen to me.”

  “What’s to worry about?” said Serge. “You can always move in here. I’m sure they’d love to have you.”

  Martha spit out her food.

  “Serge,” said Jim. “We don’t have enough room.”

  “What are you talking about?” Serge spread his arms. “You’ve got plenty of room. I know the layout of the whole place, especially upstairs, except that’s a touchy subject. The point is, it’s a golden chance for all of you to spend a lot more time together.”