The Fat Man_ A Tale of North Pole Noir - Ken Harmon [7]
I promised and Dingleberry shyly pulled out a copy of Kringle Comics from his vest pocket. “Him,” he said. “I want to be like my hero.” He held the comic book so I could see the cover, where a strapping beanpole of a man swung out of the shadows of a dark street lassoing a cloaked figure with one hand and ringing a small bell with the other. In big letters, the title screamed:
BY GEORGE ADVENTURES
BELLS AT MIDNIGHT!
Despite the danger, the hero had a sunny disposition and the word balloon coming from his smiling face read, “Dog-gone it, Potter, ring the bell why doncha?! Why we give out wings all the time back in Bedford Falls!” Without thinking about what I was saying, I asked Dingleberry, “You read this junk?”
Not only did Dingleberry read By George Adventures , the derring-do exploits of the old Building and Loan pal turned swashbuckler were what Dingleberry lived for. He kept each comic book issue sealed in plastic. He had action figures. He organized comic conventions and costume contests. Dingleberry was a one-man By George fan club. Dingleberry even believed the George tales were real. No one had seen old moth-back George in years. Back before my time, George was a regular in Kringle Town, but now he was long gone and probably dead. There were a lot of stories, but that was all. To a lot of us, George was no more real than his statue in Kringle Town Square. It’s hard to believe in a legend covered with partridge poo, but that didn’t stop Ding and the legion of “By George-a-teers” from chasing down every rumor of their hero’s existence. There were hundreds of books on the subject, some claiming that George was a super spy or was fighting monsters over in Halloween City. Elves called into late-night radio shows and whispered that they had seen George flit by in the shadows, dashing off somewhere to protect Christmas spirit and the wonderful lives it inspires. Because of these yarns, Ding believed and tried every day to be as brave and happy and selfless as his hero. It was crazy, but I couldn’t help but love Dingleberry more for it.
Dingleberry and I remained best pals, even though our jobs took us in different directions. The first few hundred Christmas Eves were no big deal. The world was smaller then and no one, especially kids, had much to speak of. It was pretty simple for Santa to swoop in and out and leave a loaf of bread or a bag of potatoes at the door. Then Nick would leave a piece of candy for the kid and everybody was happy. A few centuries later, Santa got the idea to give the kids toys, and that’s when the elf corps started to grow. Santa needed elves to find the really deserving kids, the ones with good hearts, and who better than Dingleberry Fizz? Pretending he was costarring in an issue of By George, Dingleberry could go into the worst slum in the world and find a kid so good, so perfect, elves fought over who would actually get to make the toy for the kid. Dingleberry had a nose for good.
Me? I was different. It bugged me when kids tugged on Santa’s beard like Quasimodo ringing for chow. I got steamed when they whined about what they didn’t get. Every sass, fit and eye roll made me grind my teeth. I thought the kids were greedy and playing Santa for a sap. I had to do something.
I started the Coal Patrol.
CHAPTER 4
The Jingle Bell Rock
I guess the idea of naughty kids stuck in my craw from way back. Santa and the elves were busting it to make and deliver gifts to kids, even if they didn’t deserve them, but the Fat Man would still keep them in the system. The Kringle Town network makes Big Brother look like small potatoes. We really can see everything. All year, we’d watch little Johnny give the devil to parents, teachers and siblings, but come Christmas morn, the squirt got a king’s ransom in toys and candy, rewarded for the headaches he passed out during the year. It burned me, especially when kids started asking for more, expecting it. I thought