Naughty Nine Tales of Christmas Crime Read Online Free
Author: Steve Hockensmith
supposed to be an Elf Wrangler, which doesn't make any sense, when it dawned on me.
You're the elf .
My blood ran cold.
"You start tomorrow," my mother said.
I slit my wrists and threw myself off the roof.
O.K., I didn't. But maybe I should have. Instead, I showed up at Olde Towne Mall the next day and reported for elf duty.
Here's what you need to know about Olde Towne Mall: When they say "Olde," they're not kidding. In fact, "Ye Olde Crappie Mall" would be a better name for the place. It's what used to pass for a shopping mall back in the seventies, before River City got a real mall. It's all gray tile and florescent lighting and fake plants and rednecks. The nicest store they've got is Sears .
At the exact center of this dump was the horrifying torture chamber otherwise known as Santa's Workshop. You know the drill: plywood house, plastic candy canes, mechanical reindeer, fake snow, fake everything . And the biggest fake of all sat on a throne lording over it all. Santa Claus. Or, as I came to know him, Big Buck.
Big Buck was not one of those professional Santa types you read about who grow their own beards and love children and act like playing St. Nick is a role worthy of De Niro. Big Buck wore a phony white beard that was always a little bit crooked from being yanked by the screaming kids he obviously loathed. And he didn't smell like peppermint and warm cookies, the way you think Santa should. He smelled like sweat and cigarettes and Pabst Blue Ribbon. And his deep-fried drawl was all wrong, too: Last time I checked, the North Pole is not south of the Mason-Dixon.
But at least his belly was real. And he laughed really loud. And he liked to sneak into people's homes at night. I didn't learn that last bit till later, though.
Big Buck had a love-hate thing going with me at first. Or I should say a lust-hate thing. I was the only female elf, which would've been bad enough without the costume I had to wear: red tights, a green felt smock and a red stocking cap, all about two sizes too small. I could barely squeeze into any of it. I was like a felt-wrapped sausage.
This led to a lot of ogling from both Big Buck and a disgustingly high percentage of the dads I had to deal with. I was the greeter elf, the one in charge of maintaining order in the line of supplicants to King Claus. When Junior's time came, I'd walk him up the path to the stairs in front of Santa's throne. Then I'd go back to the head of the line to make sure mom and dad didn't spoil this special moment by getting too close. Another elf—Arlo Hettle, a slumming college kid like me—would step up and take a picture of Junior and Big Buck with an instant camera. Then the third and final elf, a rat-faced little troll named Kev Kane, would hustle Junior away while I brought up the next kid. I found it deeply depressing that Kev was as old as me and Arlo put together. If I was still elfing when I hit 40, I'd hang myself with a string of garland.
Still, I've got to say it: I was a natural . . . at the kid-herding part, if not being holly-jolly. Within an hour, I had the moves down so pat—collect child, step step step, leave child, step step step, repeat—I could've done them with my eyes closed. Which left me free to notice things like the come-hither looks Big Buck kept giving me. The really creepy thing, though, was the way he'd spaz out if I came too hither at the wrong moment.
"Y'see that gingerbread man there?" he snapped at me after I brought up Kid #48 of the day while Kid #47 was still on his lap. "I don't ever wanna see you or anybody else on my side of that while I'm talkin' to a youngster."
"O.K.," I said, thinking, " Youngster"? You look at them like they're cockroaches .
"It throws off my concentration."
"O.K."
"If anyone so much as sets a toe beyond that gingerbread man, there's gonna be trouble."
"O.K."
"I need to give the little ones my full attention. I don't want any distractions."
" O.K. I understand."
He smiled at that.
You're the elf .
My blood ran cold.
"You start tomorrow," my mother said.
I slit my wrists and threw myself off the roof.
O.K., I didn't. But maybe I should have. Instead, I showed up at Olde Towne Mall the next day and reported for elf duty.
Here's what you need to know about Olde Towne Mall: When they say "Olde," they're not kidding. In fact, "Ye Olde Crappie Mall" would be a better name for the place. It's what used to pass for a shopping mall back in the seventies, before River City got a real mall. It's all gray tile and florescent lighting and fake plants and rednecks. The nicest store they've got is Sears .
At the exact center of this dump was the horrifying torture chamber otherwise known as Santa's Workshop. You know the drill: plywood house, plastic candy canes, mechanical reindeer, fake snow, fake everything . And the biggest fake of all sat on a throne lording over it all. Santa Claus. Or, as I came to know him, Big Buck.
Big Buck was not one of those professional Santa types you read about who grow their own beards and love children and act like playing St. Nick is a role worthy of De Niro. Big Buck wore a phony white beard that was always a little bit crooked from being yanked by the screaming kids he obviously loathed. And he didn't smell like peppermint and warm cookies, the way you think Santa should. He smelled like sweat and cigarettes and Pabst Blue Ribbon. And his deep-fried drawl was all wrong, too: Last time I checked, the North Pole is not south of the Mason-Dixon.
But at least his belly was real. And he laughed really loud. And he liked to sneak into people's homes at night. I didn't learn that last bit till later, though.
Big Buck had a love-hate thing going with me at first. Or I should say a lust-hate thing. I was the only female elf, which would've been bad enough without the costume I had to wear: red tights, a green felt smock and a red stocking cap, all about two sizes too small. I could barely squeeze into any of it. I was like a felt-wrapped sausage.
This led to a lot of ogling from both Big Buck and a disgustingly high percentage of the dads I had to deal with. I was the greeter elf, the one in charge of maintaining order in the line of supplicants to King Claus. When Junior's time came, I'd walk him up the path to the stairs in front of Santa's throne. Then I'd go back to the head of the line to make sure mom and dad didn't spoil this special moment by getting too close. Another elf—Arlo Hettle, a slumming college kid like me—would step up and take a picture of Junior and Big Buck with an instant camera. Then the third and final elf, a rat-faced little troll named Kev Kane, would hustle Junior away while I brought up the next kid. I found it deeply depressing that Kev was as old as me and Arlo put together. If I was still elfing when I hit 40, I'd hang myself with a string of garland.
Still, I've got to say it: I was a natural . . . at the kid-herding part, if not being holly-jolly. Within an hour, I had the moves down so pat—collect child, step step step, leave child, step step step, repeat—I could've done them with my eyes closed. Which left me free to notice things like the come-hither looks Big Buck kept giving me. The really creepy thing, though, was the way he'd spaz out if I came too hither at the wrong moment.
"Y'see that gingerbread man there?" he snapped at me after I brought up Kid #48 of the day while Kid #47 was still on his lap. "I don't ever wanna see you or anybody else on my side of that while I'm talkin' to a youngster."
"O.K.," I said, thinking, " Youngster"? You look at them like they're cockroaches .
"It throws off my concentration."
"O.K."
"If anyone so much as sets a toe beyond that gingerbread man, there's gonna be trouble."
"O.K."
"I need to give the little ones my full attention. I don't want any distractions."
" O.K. I understand."
He smiled at that.
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