The Fat Man_ A Tale of North Pole Noir - Ken Harmon [5]
That’s just how it is some days. It’s not all lollipops and root beer. We’ve got baggage. You need to understand that, stomach it. If you don’t think you can take knowing that some of your holiday buddies occasionally pull on the cranky pants, you need to stop reading pronto. If you’re too sentimental about the characters you’ve heard about since you were in footie jammies, then this tale ain’t gonna be your cup of cocoa. It gets ugly. It will shake your snow globe.
On the other hand, it’s a great yarn, even if I do say so myself.
Last warning.
Okey-doke, let’s go to school.
Iowe Black Pete. The old Zwarte-Master took me under his wing at the beginning and practically raised me as his own. When I shuffled into Comet Hall that morning at the North Pole, I was a down-on-my-luck kid who just fell off the turnip wagon, and was more than a little lost. Santa, who has a soft spot for just about everyone, put his arm around me and said, “Gumdrop, I believe your slight frame carries a great prize inside, but we need to build you up a smidgen to help you lift. My friend Black Pete can help you, I think. He may growl like a polar bear, but I have a feeling Zwarte Piet is just what you need.” With that, Santa escorted me over to his gnome commando.
My first look at Black Pete made me swallow my gum. He was a couple of bumps above four feet tall, a giant in the elf world, and as solid as a Yule log. Pete had lost an eye as a young doughboy in the great Pixie Coup of 17 A.D., so his patch and the rest of the scars let you know that crossing this elf was the wrong way to dance. Black Pete would focus his good eye on your sorry self, twist you like a pretzel with a glare and find your every flaw. He’d snort and huff like he hated the sight of you. “What’s this, Kris?” he asked Santa while he glowered at me. “You taking out the trash?” Black Pete’s voice sounded like a hurricane waking up on the wrong side of the devil.
“Now, Pete,” Santa said. “Holly Jolly, please. Black Pete, I’d like you to meet Gumdrop Coal. He arrived today and I think he just may have a place with us here.”
The old musketeer cocked another cold stare my way and spit. “It ain’t the time to be taking on charity cases, Kris. We need elves that are ready to work now. I ain’t got time to babysit some fool pumpkin roller.”
At that moment, Black Pete sounded like an echo from home and my spine went straight. “I don’t know what you think you see with that lonesome peeper of yours, mister, but I can take anything you care to dish out and then some,” I said before I thought better of it.
Black Pete rolled the plug of gingerbread chaw around his cheek and studied me, trying to ignore the twinkle in Santa’s eye. Black Pete shot a stream of reddish ooze at my shirt, but I didn’t move a muscle. I knew what he was doing. Then Black Pete smiled. A big smile, like a sunrise. He put a huge arm around me and said, “Kris, let me see what I can make of this boy. Follow me, son.”
That’s exactly what I did. I followed Black Pete like a son, letting him be the father I always wanted. I sponged every lesson he spilt, listened to every word he said. He never went soft on me. He worked me harder than any other Zwarte Pieten cadet, but when I pulled the blanket up