The Fat Man_ A Tale of North Pole Noir - Ken Harmon [56]
There was a family coming Santa’s way, a mom, a pop, and a little boy and little girl who both looked to be around nine years old. The mom and pop had red eyes and tight jaws and each were yanking a kid down the sidewalk. The parents gave a sideways look at Santa like he was the last thing they needed.
The little girl pulled the pop up short. “Who’s that, Daddy?” she asked, pointing at Santa.
“Shut up,” the dad said and tried to yank the little girl along. “Move before I kick you down the street!” he yelled.
“But who is it?” the little boy insisted.
“Shhhhhh!” Mom said.
“I’ve seen him before,” the little girl said.
“Me too!” the little boy said.
“Come ON!” the dad barked. Santa kept ringing the bell.
“Ow!” the little girl screamed. “You’re hurting me!”
“Mommy!” the little boy said. “Who is that?”
“It’s Santa!” the mom said in a huff. “Now let’s go!”
“The junk man?” the little boy asked. Junk man?
“Yes,” the mom said. “Now shut up and MOVE!”
Santa stopped ringing the bell and started to cry. “No,” he said. “Not junk. Toys. I bring toys.”
“It is junk!” the little girl screamed. She ripped away from her father’s grip in a huff and marched toward Santa. “That doll you brought last year gave me bad dreams!”
Santa tried to comfort her, but she slapped his hand away. Then the father moved in and gave the old man a shove. “Back off, Nick,” he said. “You touch my kid again, and you’ll wish you had never been born.”
“Please,” Santa sobbed, “I only want to make the children happy!”
“By giving them guns?” the mother screeched. She had dragged the little boy into the fray. “Guns that shoot things and teach them how to be thugs and criminals?”
“No!” Santa said.
“Bang!” the little boy hollered, pointing a lethal finger at Santa. “Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang! You’re dead, Santa! Dead! I wish everyone was dead.” To prove it, the little boy gave his mom a fist to the stomach. Most moms would have wept if their kid had tried something like that, but not this mom. She kicked the little boy in the head until a goose egg got laid. Santa tried to stop her, but the dad and the little girl tackled Santa and started beating him right there in the gutter.
I was too late. Zsa Zsa and Not So Tiny Tim had pulled it off. I screamed for the family to stop, but they kept pounding away at Santa. I wobbled over, but knew I didn’t have the strength to pull them away. The street was empty. I crawled up the stairs to the church door and pounded with all my might. “Help!” I cried. “We need help out here! Anybody in there? Where are you? Where are you? Do something!” But it was no dice. No one came out, no one heard. No one but me saw that family drag Santa’s carcass down the street like a bunch of jackals. And there was nothing I could do about it.
I sat there on the cold steps of the church for an hour or more, hoping I would die. I was tallying up my mistakes against my good points and had a pretty good idea of what list I was going to land on. I thought I could make a difference with the Coal Patrol, but it seemed the kids grew up and were still rotten. I thought I could change the parents, but that bought me a stocking full of trouble. It just seemed that the whole Christmas cake was made with bad eggs from the start. It kept getting worse and now Santa was something to be hated because he brought them what they didn’t want. The Misfits won.
I surrender. Better not pout about it, just try and forget it. Spilt milk.
Moo!
Now what?
CHAPTER 22
I Really Can’t Stay
Moo!
Surely, I was confused.
Moo!
I was afraid to open my eyes.
Moo!
But something told me to be brave, so I finally took a peek. The dirty street and church steps were gone, which was good. But now I was face-to-face with a cow’s nose.
Moo!
When I tried to jerk away, I realized I was flat on