2018
All your toys are belong to us…
I tried to move my arms, but the handcuffs were pretty tight. The chair was old and wood and creaked just enough for me to think I had a chance, but the look in the eyes of my captors said otherwise. Elves were supposed to be merry and jolly and content to spend their days as feudal serfs to a big guy in an overripe cherry red suit. But not these guys. The leader held that mace like he knew how to use it. The other four carried an assortment of saps, bats, and gats. They were a tiny green gang, bent on keeping me from going anywhere.
I just wished I knew why.
A deep voice behind me tried to punch a hole in my soul. “Ho, ho, ho, and how is the prisoner?”
The head elf swung the mace in a tight circle. Practice makes perfect, they say. “He’s about ready for ya, Santa.”
“Good, good.” He stepped around the back of my chair and filled my vision. He wasn’t all that close, he was just that massive. Eight, nine hundred pounds and the height of a small building or a big moose. His cheeks had the same color as the salmon at Costco, but less lifelike. His pale beard twinkled in the fluorescent lights overhead. But his cold, dead eyes made my heart stop. Like looking into the depths of an abyss from which no man had ever returned.
I didn’t know what to say. Nothing I could say, I supposed.
“You’ve been a very naughty boy, Mr. Thurman.” The eyes said I’d been worse than naughty. I’d been awful. Terrible. A stain on the fabric of society.
“I tried, Santa, I really did. But those kids…”
He nodded. “Yes, your children.” His belly shook with unbridled rage. “I try so hard to make allowances. To be tolerant of even the most wicked of children. But yours are so, so, evil.”
It was all my fault. Michelle deserved some of the blame, but I couldn’t bring myself to share my fate with her. I’d been the one to suggest the trip. I’d been the one to pack the car and arrange the itinerary. This was on me.
Santa produced a piece of paper with a magical flourish. “Let’s see. Your oldest, Zoe. It says here that she somehow managed to finish First Grade. And with head lice, no less.”
I nodded.
“And now that she’s in Second Grade, it appears she’s become some kind of good student.” He leaned forward, into my personal space. “Who did she pay?”
“Pay?”
He waved the paper. “For these grades. Children on my naughty list don’t get grades like this. Either she’s some kind of freaky little genius, or she has some dirt on her teacher. Judging by her record, I’d say the latter.”
He had a fair point.
“And Alexa.” He shook his head. The beard generated its own wind currents. “This says she’s been mostly good. Mostly. Why do I doubt that, Mr. Thurman?”
“Good common sense?”
He harrumphed. “And Willa. Dear merciful Jesus Christ, Willa. I can scarcely believe the rumors I’m hearing. My informants come back from the field in tears. Terrified by a four-year-old. They say her smile is disarming, allowing her to get away with absolute murder.”
“I’m not sure I’d call it murder.”
“I’ve seen the crime scene photos, Mr. Thurman. MUDRDER!”
“In her defense, those drug dealers ripped her off.”
His eye roll was the stuff of legend. “Explain to me how your wife hasn’t torn the hairs from her head.”
“A weak grip?”
He stood to his full height. “And then there was that disastrous trip you all took. Summer vacation with the family. How did that turn out?”
“To be fair, plenty of small children randomly take off their clothes in restaurants and dance.”
“She was twerking!”
I’d tried so hard to get those mental images out of my head, and now they were back.
Santa waved the paper around like a flyswatter. “Washington, Oregon, California, followed by felony escape and evade in some place called Redlands. I’m tempted to turn you in myself.”
“It was a misunderstanding.”
“Then you and Zoe went to the Grand Canyon. Search and rescue is still looking for you.”
“Another misunderstanding.”
His eyes flared, spitting bits of flaming magnesium into my lap. “She desecrated Four Corners.”
“Again, in her defense, the porta potties they have there are old and she said the smell was more than she could handle.”
He leaned forward again. His bulbous, veined nose pressed into mine. I could smell the whisky. The good stuff. Pappy van Winkle. I’m sure he had the connections, unlike everyone else. “Yellowstone.”
“That bison was asking for it.”
“And the park ranger? She hasn’t been able to return to work since. PTSD, they say. Violation of the Mann Act, they say. Damage to a national treasure.”
“Plenty of people have thrown things into Old Faithful.”
“She drove a bus into it!”
I tilted my head to the side and nodded. “But you gotta be impressed she could reach the pedals, am I right?”
He turned to the head elf. “Has the jury reached a verdict?”
The elf slapped the mace into his palm, over and over again. “Oh yes we have, Santa.”
“Excellent. I’ll leave you to it.” And with that, the big guy walked off, singing to himself something about liking big butts, and not being able to lie about it.
“Santa, please! Your gotta believe me! They’re monsters! Santa? SANTA!”
I woke up, the CPAP machine tangled around my neck. I ripped the mask off and jettisoned it. Heard it bounce off my nightstand and thump on the carpet.
“Holy crap,” I muttered.
Michelle stirred next to me. “Bad dream?”
I took a few calming breaths. “Yeah, you could say that.”
“The kids again?”
“Yeah.” I blew some air out between my teeth. Sat up. My heart hammered in my chest like my internal organs had joined a thrash metal band. I tossed aside the covers and sat up. Rubbed my wrists.
My wrists. I ran to the bathroom. Flipped the switch and stared at my wrists.
And the marks from the handcuffs.