The Fat Man_ A Tale of North Pole Noir - Ken Harmon [59]
The drummers and pipers were now sporting war paint on their ugly mugs, waving their instruments in an unfriendly kind of way with one hand. Some were holding a leash on a Leaping Lord to keep the royal jumping beans from bouncing all over the stadium. Of course, Not So Tiny Tim was there. He was seated on a platform, high above the crowd, surrounded by torches and the Dancing Ladies. He didn’t belong here. The sight of a ruined Tiny Tim would curdle mother’s milk.
Just like Butter said, I was chained to Five Golden Rings. I had one on each ankle and each wrist and one around my neck. The rings were connected by a set of iron links Marley would have envied. I could only shuffle my feet, and I could barely move my arms and head. If my plan didn’t work, I was going to be henpecked to death and Santa would walk into Zsa Zsa’s trap. I hoped Butter didn’t run into any problems. I hoped for a lot of things.
I made a wish on that big old moon. It blocked out half the sky so there were no stars available. The moon would have to do.
Uncle Billy led me out into the arena and the crowd got about as loud as a semi having twins. The swans started spitting and stretching their necks out, trying to appear taller and tougher. The geese circled above me like buzzards, honking and dropping big eggs from the sky, so everywhere I stepped there was a glob of yolk and shell. The calling birds worked the crowd, leading chants to increase the frenzy:
Short Time for the Elf!
Short Time for the Elf!
Heigh-Ho for the Dwarf!
Heigh-Ho for the Dwarf!
The Three French Hens were nothing like the birds I met headed into the Forest of Mistletoe. The three of them stood by a little guillotine and knitted, glaring at me like I had used the wrong spoon. Very French. I got a break with the Two Turtle Doves. They couldn’t be bothered to get excited about killing me because they were having a little Punch and Judy show between themselves.
“I did not say you look fat!” said Turtle Dove Punch.
“No, you said I was fat!” said Turtle Dove Judy.
“If you would stop talking, you would be able to hear what I say!”
“I can’t be talking too much because I’m too busy stuffing my face, birdbrain!”
“Just stop! Stop! You’re not fat!” Turtle Dove Punch screamed. “Now, your mother, she’s as big as a condor!”
“DO NOT TALK ABOUT MY MOTHER!” Turtle Dove Judy shouted back, and then she launched into Punch like a blue jay with a toothache. The feathers were really flying, and beaks were getting bloody. The crowd loved it, but before they got too far, the partridge took his branch from the pear tree and whacked the turtle doves on the head.
“That’s enough, you two!” Partridge growled in a voice that sounded like he was scratching something you didn’t want to think about. “Break it up! We got a job to do.” And then the partridge looked at me.
He was a tough little bird. The scars and torn feathers told me that he had been in plenty of fights, and the look in his eyes meant he won every one of them. He had this funny little waddle and skip move going; partridges don’t really go high above the ground. The move made him look almost cute, like a kind of toy, but then he spoke in that voice. “I hear elves taste like chicken,” he said.
“Not me,” I said. “I’m past my expiration date.”
The partridge didn’t laugh. “A comedian, huh? You think you’re funny?”
“Yeah, and I taste funny too.” Might as well go out with a bang, I thought.
The partridge picked up his pear tree stick and waddled/skipped over my way. He fixed his eye on my kneecap and then whack! I won’t lie; it hurt. Bad. I guess his boss wanted everyone to limp.
Not So Tiny Tim stood up and raised his hand to silence the crowd. “That will be enough for now, Partridge,” he said. Now the little forgotten boy from a ghost