When Elves Attack (13 page)

Coleman sat up on the side of the bed and smacked his cottonmouth lips together. “Why are you flipping out?”

“Since a white Christmas is out of the question, the best you can hope for in Florida is a non-sweaty Christmas. Let's open presents! Santa came! Santa came!”

Serge ran across the room and Coleman followed at a less enthusiastic pace. They took seats across from each other at a small table next to the window overlooking Gulf Boulevard. Clusters of predawn traffic raced by at intervals dictated by the traffic light up the street. In the middle of the table stood a pitiful little Christmas tree that Serge had bought overnight at a twenty-four-hour drugstore. Some of the lights blinked.

“What did I get! What did I get!” said Serge. He reached in a shopping bag, finding two cheerfully wrapped packages. “This one's for you, and this one's for me. Who goes first? Can I go first? Please?”

Coleman rubbed crust from his eyes. “Sure . . .”

Serge savagely ripped through the paper. “Oh my God, a vintage View-Master with a reel inside.” He held it to his eyes and clicked through the 3-D photos. “It's the Overseas Highway from the forties! Here's how Sloppy Joe's looked almost seventy years ago!” He lowered the viewer. “Where'd you find it?”

“Antique store. You're always going on about those things.”

Serge clapped his hands like a trained seal. “Open yours! Open yours!”

Coleman's present was round. He tore off the paper, then rotated the gift in his hand. “A coconut carved like a monkey's head. Cool.” He began setting it down.

“But that's not all,” said Serge.

Coleman looked at it some more. “I see now; it's a tropical drink cup. There's a hole on top for a straw.”

“Getting warmer . . .” Serge said coyly.

Coleman scrunched his eyebrows and turned the coconut over again. “Wait, there's another hole in the back of the monkey's head, and a third in its mouth with a little bowl. It's not a cocktail cup at all; it's a bong! . . . But where'd you learn how to make one?”

“You helped me assemble it last night and then we wrapped it.”

“I don't remember.”

“Surprise!”

“I'll try it out right now.” He packed the bowl.

“And I'll play with my View-Master. And then we'll watch the Charlie Brown special in the portable DVD player that I wired to the TV. Charlie Brown has a crappy Christmas tree just like ours. But if we stand around it and wave our arms, it becomes a great tree! . . . Coleman, stand up, join me! Let's wave our arms! . . . Why isn't it working?”

Several hours later.

A knock at the door.

Actually a foot kicking. Coleman answered. Serge rushed in with arms loaded down, followed by gusts of frigid air. Coleman closed the door quickly.

Serge set the bags on the table. “Christmas dinner's ready!” He shivered and rubbed his shoulders. “Man, the temperature's still dropping. The old dial thermometer they got nailed up outside the office says it's thirty-nine.”

Serge and Coleman had rented room number three, which connected on either side to two other rooms, respectively occupied by the G-Unit and City and Country. They had all gathered in Serge's room, sitting on beds and awaiting his return with a promise of an ultra-traditional holiday meal.

“Here are the sides,” Serge said as he emptied the bags. “And I got two buckets each of regular and extra crispy.”

They dug in.

Coleman munched on a drumstick. “So what presents did you girls get?”

Edith bit into a crispy wing. “We all bought each other Yule logs.”

Country licked her fingers and held up an envelope. “Serge got us gift cards for Hooters.”

“That's a historic present,” said Serge. “The very first one is just off the Courtney Campbell in Clearwater.”

The afternoon wore on. Listless, overstuffed dinner casualties lay about the room digesting way too much food. Rum began to flow. Laughter filled the musty air as the eclectic group shared jokes and bonded. Serge continually darted in and out.

“Serge!” yelled City. “You're letting all the cold air in. Why do you keep running in and out?”

“Because the temperature's still dropping! The dial on the thermometer is down to thirty-three and still going south.”

“What's that thing?”

Serge plugged an electric cord into the wall. A warm glow near the floor. “I bought a tiny space heater at the drugstore.”

They all gathered round, holding out their palms.

Serge stood back in utter contentment. “This is the best Christmas ever! There's no possible way it can get any better!”

Country grinned mischievously. “Yes, it can get better.”

“What are you talking about?”

She walked over. “You haven't seen your best gift yet.” Then she planted a big wet one on him.

Serge glanced around with mild embarrassment. “You want to . . . now?”

“No, not
that
.”

“Then what's this gift?” asked Serge.

The same devious smile again. Then she canted her head toward the window. “Look outside.”

Serge did. His mouth fell wide as he walked stiffly across the room and placed his palms against the glass. Then he suddenly dashed out the door.

“Snow!”

The rest followed.

They were the tiniest of flakes that immediately melted in your hand, and there would be no accumulation, but it was indeed snow.

“What the hell is Serge doing now?” asked Edith.

“Running in circles in the parking lot,” said Edna. “Catching snowflakes on his tongue.”

The G-Unit silently looked at one another. Smiles broke out. They began running around the parking lot.

City glanced at Country. Two more smiles. They began running.

“Wait for me,” said Coleman.

Serge stopped on the sidewalk to observe the parking lot full of people racing around and laughing themselves silly as they reverted to children, which was what it's all about. And Serge got a tear in his eye. “This is the best ever.”

Then he turned to the street, spread his arms wide, and announced to mankind in general:

“I bring everyone great news of joy! The War on Christmas is over! So Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Kwanzaa, and yes, for the co-existence crowd, Season's Greetings! . . . Catch you all next year!”

A Note on the Type

T
he text of this book was set in a face called Leubenhoek Gothic, the versatile eighteenth-century type developed by Baruch Leubenhoek (1671–1749), the Dutch master whose serif innovations last to this day. However, unsubstantiated accounts have recently surfaced that attribute Leubenhoek Gothic not to Baruch Leubenhoek, the stalwart traditionalist, but to the Hungarian Smilnik Verbleat (1684–1753?), the iconoclastic rebel of typography whose deconstruction of the alphabet into upper- and lowercase set the typesetting world aflame. It is indeed a compelling inquiry, since Leubenhoek Gothic is widely accepted as the most stunning example of the sturdy hot-face designs typified during the last golden age of typesetting, when the accomplished typemasters were nothing less than international celebrities. Stories abound of Leubenhoek unveiling a new typeface, setting fire to the neoclassical world, only to have Verbleat trump it later that week, triggering celebrations of Romanesque proportions. Such revelry often saw Leubenhoek and Verbleat become quite drunk and take nasty falls that would have sidelined men of lesser constitutions. And of course women were always available; Baruch was no slouch, but Smilnik's reputation for three-ways was unsurpassed. Soon new fonts appeared, each more daring. The reading world was ecstatic. Then, tragedy. In 1749, both were rumored to have been suffering from dementia associated with late-stage gonorrhea when they met up in Antwerp and pitched a heated argument about whether Smilnik's
s
's really looked like
f
's, and Verbleat crushed Leubenhoek's skull in with a clavichord.

About the Author

Tim Dorsey
was a reporter and editor for the
Tampa Tribune
from 1987 to 1999, and is the author of thirteen novels:
Electric Barracuda, Gator A-Go-Go, Nuclear Jellyfish, Atomic Lobster, Hurricane Punch, The Big Bamboo, Florida Roadkill, Hammerhead Ranch Motel, Orange Crush, Triggerfish Twist, The Stingray Shuffle, Cadillac Beach
, and
Torpedo Juice
. He lives in Tampa, Florida.

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Also by Tim Dorsey

Florida Roadkill

Hammerhead Ranch Motel

Orange Crush

Triggerfish Twist

The Stingray Shuffle

Cadillac Beach

Torpedo Juice

The Big Bamboo

Hurricane Punch

Atomic Lobster

Nuclear Jellyfish

Gator A-Go-Go

Electric Barracuda

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