The Christmas MEGAPACK ®. Nina Kiriki Hoffman

mean, watching five fully-dressed Santas beating the living crap out of each other seemed pretty funny to me just then. It kinda ignited my Christmas spirit, in a weird way. I don’t know how. Maybe it was just the season. None of the Santas held a gun or any weapon, which was good. I figured Fats had somehow gummed up Thompson’s works, caused himself and the other abducted Santas to try an escape, and I’d walked in when Thompson was trying to prevent that escape.

      “Hey, Griff!” Fats bellowed, finally noticing me as he pushed McConnell off of him again, only to receive a hammer-punch to the bread basket from Thompson that set him down a bit.

      “Having fun?” I asked, moving in closer. My weapon was drawn and ready, just in case anyone did something stupid—like pull a gun, or really try to hurt Fats—but the damn scene was so funny to me, so downright ridiculous, I couldn’t help but watch and enjoy it. It surely was some show.

      “Damn moron Santa Clauses! I’m never gonna play Santa again!” Fats promised loudly, deftly knocking Thompson out of his way, then pulling the man’s fake white beard off his face. Which got Thomspon even more angry.

      “Ain’t exactly the Christmas spirit,” I said to Fats, laughing. “By the way, you okay?”

      “Sure, Griff, doing fine, having a ball, actually, but ain’t this the damnedest thing you ever seen?”

      I said yes, let Fats bang a few more heads together in his inimitable style, then asked him, “Ah, would you like a hand? I kinda hate to break up the entertainment and all since it looks like you and the boys here went to such pains and are obviously having so much fun.”

      “Nah,” Fats growled, getting Thompson in a headlock.

      “Figured I’d ask. Just to let you know I’m still on the job and paying attention.”

      “Yeah, Griff, that’s right nice of you. This crap is kinda dampening my usual cheerful Santa Christmas spirit, you know? You think you could do me a favor and get this drunken bastard McConnell off me long enough so that I can cuff this moron Santa-snatching fool Thompson?”

      “Sure, I can do that, Fats. All you had to do was ask.”

      Fats growled, laughed, said, “Thanks, Griff.”

      I didn’t play it cute, I just came up behind McConnell and slugged him hard with my gun butt, which sent him immediately into dreamland. Then I pulled the other Santas off Thompson, and pushed them to the side. Fats grabbed Thompson, got him down, cuffed him and finally stood up, took a deep breath and said, “Getting too old for this crap, Griff. Santa, Christmas, man it’s been a long, rough year!”

      I laughed, nodded. I got Thompson to his feet, dragged him over to a chair and plopped him down into it hard.

      “Don’t you move, if you know what’s good for you!” I told him sharply. Then to Fats, I said, “So what the hell is all this about?”

      “I don’t know, exactly,” Fats replied. Fats was wearing his street clothes under his Santa outfit, but he still kept on the Santa outfit.

      I couldn’t figure that out and told him, “So, ah, you gonna keep the Santa suit on?”

      Fats just gave me a wry smile, “Yeah, Griff, just for a while. I got an idea. I’ll let you know about it in a bit.”

      “Well, don’t get too many ideas, Fats, that can be dangerous,” I laughed.

      He nodded, said, “It’s okay, Griff, you’ll like this idea.”

      I frowned. I knew Fats. That did not sound reassuring. I decided to change the subject to the immediate situation. “So what’s the story with Thompson?”

      “Guy’s got a real bad thing for Santa and Christmas,” Fats told me, frowning as he looked over to our prisoner. “He was gonna go out tonight dressed as Santa, take all our places, and then start shooting shoppers. He planned to do this the damn night before Christmas! It would have been a blood bath.”

      I looked at Gerald Thompson. He was a wealthy guy, the son of priviledge and well-known as a wacko, but not really known to be dangerous. Inherited wealth can do that to some people. It can give them a screw loose. Or, in Thompson’s case, if you were already inclined in that direction, big money will give them the opportunity to indulge themselves in all kinds of stupid or weird crap they’ll think they can get away with. And usually do.

      “He did it!” Jake Stanton shouted, standing there in his Santa outfit in red rage. “Kidnapped me right out of the locker room! Imagine, the bastard kidnapping Santa Claus!”

      “Ah, you’re not really Santa Claus,” Fats spoke up, but Stanton did not seem to hear him.

      The guy from the swanky Hermitage joined in almost immediately, “That madman, he also abducted me! Me! Of all people. Reginald Davis! I want you two to do something about it. You’re police officers, aren’t you?”

      He looked at me, then towards Fats and shook his head. Fats and I weren’t impressed with his haughty airs. Fats just barked, “Take it easy, Reggie!”

      “So what’s the story, Fats?” I asked.

      “Gerald here, caught me by the elevator when I was going back to do my Santa thing after our little encounter with Jonesey in the men’s room. He said he wanted to talk to me about the kidnappings, said he thought he had some information on who the guy might be.” Fats laughed, “At least he was telling me the truth about that, Griff. He just didn’t tell me he was the guy. Until it was too late. He jumped me, gave me a nasty crack on the head when I wasn’t looking, then put me on ice up here in a back room with his other Santas.”

      I nodded. What I’d figured.

      “Gerald’s a severely disturbed guy. When I escaped and tried to free the other Santas, Gerald saw me and jumped me again. This time though, he was dressed as Santa himself, and he had a shotgun, Griff. I think he was gonna go play Santa and use that gun. I grabbed it from him and tossed it out the window before he could use it, then that drunken fool McConnell jumped me. He thought I was Thompson! That’s where you walked in, Some fun, eh?”

      I smiled at Fats, “You always seem to get into these interesting situations.”

      “Don’t I though. Well, all this fighting was damn uncivil of Thompson, Griff. When he came at me dressed in a Santa outfit carrying that shotgun, I damn near wet my pants. I mean, I seen weird stuff, but this boy could have a monopoly on crazy.”

      “Damn dangerous too,” I added.

      “He could have really ruined Christmas for a lot of people,” Fats growled.

      “You did good, Fats,” I said. I was proud of my partner.

      “I still don’t know the motive, Griff. The guy’s got a serious problem with Christmas, and he down-right hates Santa Claus. I don’t understand this warped mind stuff. Did you ever heard of such a thing?”

      I shrugged. Things were a lot more simple in the old days but we still had our moments. I said, “What does it matter, Fats? One thing you can always count on with a crazy person—you can never really figure out what they’ll do next. And you’ll be damn lucky if you can figure out why they do what they do. Otherwise, Fats, they wouldn’t be crazy. Now would they? They’d be normal and not doing crazy violent stuff.”

      Fats nodded. He looked over at Thompson. The guy had some kinda weird smirk on his puss. The kind of twisted grin I knew Fats would just love to knock off the guy’s face.

      I sent the other Santas on their way. Then Fats and I brought out Gerald Thompson, still dressed as Santa, but now in cuffs, slightly battered and bruised.

      “You’ll be changing that Santa suit for one with prison stripes soon enough,” Fats told him.

      Gerald Thompson just gave us that insipid grin again, the kind of crazy-man, I-ain’t-really-home look that can get cops nervous. I figured that he’d lost it all now and that his mind was