The Fat Man (20 page)

“But you could,” I said. Butter was listening. “You help me get back to Kringle Town and come with me. Ginger and the girls can supply milk for the elves directly and cut the bad guys out of the dairy business. And we won’t work you too hard, either. You’ll be loved, appreciated. I promise.”

“What happens when a cow can’t give milk anymore?” Butter asked. “We know what ‘roast beast’ really is.”

“Nativity scenes,” I said. “There are always churches and towns looking to borrow cows to act in live Nativity scenes, and Santa’s always looking for extra livestock. Sure, Ginger and the girls may have to act for a few weeks with a bunch of hammy Methodists who don’t know their myrrh from a hole in the ground, and some of the llamas can get an attitude because they are in such short supply, but it’s an easy gig and no one gets put out to pasture.”

Moo! Ginger liked the idea.

Moo! So did the other jersey girls.

Butter looked at Ginger and scratched the bovine’s big ears. Then she turned to the other milkmaids and cows. No one said anything, but my plan had given them plenty of cud to chew on. “If you’re lying to us just to help you escape, you’ll be sorry,” Butter said.

“Butter, I promise you will be happy in Kringle Town,” I said. “No bull.”

Moo!

She laughed. “What’s your plan?” Butter asked.

“I need to ask you a few questions, first. And you’ve got to tell me the truth. My plan will take a little luck,” I said. “And a whole lot of faith.”

CHAPTER 23

I
f there was anything to make me feel chicken, it was the sight of swans, geese, calling birds, turtle doves and a partridge that looked like he could hunt crocodiles with a stick from his pear tree licking their beaks when I was led into the arena. We were outside in a stadium built just for bird bloodbaths. The crowd was roaring and their breath in the icy air made dark shadows across the big, bright, blue full moon high in the cold sky. The moon seemed close enough to touch, and you could see clearly it was not made of cheese. If it had been, it would not have been comfortable being close to so many rats.

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:

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 story was ready to make a speech. “Long ago, on a cold night not unlike this one, our world was deprived of its natural order by the birth of a child in a manger. This babe, friend of shepherds and the feeble, wrapped in dirty rags and surrounded by the stench of farm animals, treated the lowest like kings and replaced the impossible with miracles. By His touch, cripples walked again. Or
some
cripples. He left the rest of His work to a world that does not consistently, fairly reflect His philosophy. The result is that, in many instances, the weak, the ugly, the crippled are left behind without dignity or power. Until now.”

The crowd gave Not So Tiny Tim a bloodthirsty roar, but the giant with a big stick wasn’t done. “We, the ugly, the maligned, the Misfits are about to change things. The Child grew and taught that one should put others before oneself, to lose—on purpose. One such believer, Kris Kringle, was so hell-bent on reflecting the spirit of the Child’s standard that he began making and giving toys to children all over the world. His only condition was that the children try and display the same commitment to the Golden Rule, so called, of being good, completely ignoring that they rarely appreciated the toys he gave. Santa also seemed oblivious that these children grew and filled the world with people who easily forgot the Misfits. And yet, Santa insisted that the toys he gave be perfect. It isn’t fair, so tonight we are taking matters into our own hands. After tonight, Santa Claus will usher in the truth of the world at Christmas. The ugly truth.”

Someone turned on a spotlight and pointed it in my direction. The light bounced off the golden rings like a sunrise and the only ones in the crowd that didn’t cheer at the sight were too busy covering their eyes from the reflection. The feathers on all the birds raised up like hackles. The geese honked like tugboats and the swans hissed like cobras. The French hens knitted so furiously, you could see sparks fly off the needles.

“I want his head,” said Turtle Dove Punch.

“No,
I
want his head,” Turtle Dove Judy shouted back.

“We all get his head,” growled the partridge, muscling the pear stick. “Because I’m gonna knock it into about fifty little pieces!”

I was scared right down to the ends of my curly elf shoes, but I wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction. “Got any aspirin?” I asked with a smirk.

Not So Tiny Tim let the storm peak and then raised his hand. “What you see before you is Gumdrop Coal, a traitor to our way of thinking. He is loath to admit it, but deep down, Gumdrop agrees with us but will not embrace our mission. In his silly heart, he would still save Santa, save a Christmas that has ‘perfect’ gifts and ‘perfect’ memories.”

More boos, but they were wrong. At the end of the day, Christmas was right. It was good. It was me that had the screw loose, but I didn’t know how to fix it. I looked at the moon again, waiting for my wish to be granted. I was running out of time.

“Therefore, by the power vested in me,” Not So Tiny Tim said, “I hereby sentence Gumdrop Coal to death, to be administered by the Twelve Days of Christmas Birds. Does the condemned have any final words?”

“Yeah. Shouldn’t I get a blindfold and a peppermint stick in a situation like this?”

“You’re stalling,” Not So Tiny Tim said. “I have no doubt that you could nurse a peppermint stick for many Christmases yet to come. So no, face your death alone. Santa will not save you. Then maybe you’ll believe the truth.”

“Come off it, Tim,” I said. “Come back across the bridge with me. Be that little boy that inspired good in everyone again. Tiny Tim has real power over there. Good power. What do you say?”

“You’re a fool, Gumdrop Coal,” Not So Tiny Tim said, but I could see I got to him. “What are you doing?”

“Hoping for a Miracle on 34th Street, I guess.”

Not So Tiny Tim thought about it. I think he almost believed that his former life had made a difference and that he had taken a wrong turn. But the crowd started to boo me and scream for my head. Not So Tiny Tim gave me a sad smile.

“A Miracle on 34th Street, my dear little man?” Not So Tiny Tim said. “Sorry, wrong number.”

CHAPTER 24

I
t’s true, right before you turn into a worm buffet, your whole life does flash in your mind like an old movie on the late show. I hope yours was better than mine. Prisoners would walk out of mine and gladly go back to their cell. Informants would rat out their mothers not to have to see it again. The big star was a miserable little elf, a real stinkeroo, and even I found myself hoping he’d get his. When Dingleberry and Santa showed up, the picture had some life to it, and you expected singing, but then the mopey star came back on the scene and it was time to go get some more popcorn. Rosebud only had a cameo appearance and I was sorry for that. I would have liked more scenes with her. Most of all, I wished the picture had a better ending. The fade-out was about to begin and then the credits would roll. I needed a twist ending.

Cut to a shot of the full moon.

Cut to a close-up of the star looking at the moon with a cocksure smirk on his face.

Now give the star a good speech.

I nodded at the partridge. “Have at it, birdbrain.” That kind of language won’t win any awards, but it kept the picture going.

The partridge didn’t seem to like my attitude. With a flick of his head, he signaled the swans to attack and they glided over, hissing like vampires. “Well aren’t y’all a bunch of ugly ducklings!” I said, but that only made them mad. The next second, a swan head butted me so hard, I saw little birds flying around my noggin. Before I could shake away the pain, one of the geese reached in and took a bite of my ear.
HONK!
The Five Golden Rings made it hard for me to move, so I tried to turn and dodge, knowing I had to stay on my feet. Once they got me on the ground, my goose was cooked.

The calling birds pecking my chest almost tickled, and for half a second I almost forgot about the lump growing on my head from another swan punch. But when the partridge slugged my other knee with that stick of his, I remembered to hurt. I felt like I had swallowed a running chainsaw and it was trying to get out. There was a punch here, a stab there, plus a lot of scratching and biting for variety. Above the dull thud of punches and goose honks, I could hear the crowd cheer. I strained to hear the orchestra warming up for the final credits music.