Trigger Warning

CW: References to substance abuse, violence, child endangerment, promiscuity, racial slurs, fat shaming, candy canes and gum drops.

Bob lit his cigarette while loading his pistol. He kept dropping bullets in the process.

‘Better than dropping the smoke,’ he mused. ‘No fires.’

The shells bounced and rolled. Some went over the edge. Their staccato rattling attracted Bob’s granddaughter, baby Brooklyn. She crawled under the table in search of the curious objects.

“What happened to my shells?” Bob asked the universe.

Despite starting with a full box, he came up short. He couldn’t fill a single magazine. He took a drag off his Pall Mall and set it in the ashtray.

Feeling movement by his feet he looked to see Brooklyn smiling at him with bulging cheeks.

“Come here, little mongrel.”

He brought her to his lap and pried bullets from her mouth with his finger. She protested, drawing the attention of Sparrow, her mother.

“Don’t feed her those! You crazy?”

She took Brooklyn and comforted her.

“I didn’t. She stole ‘em. Takes after you.”

Sparrow scoffed. “Like father, like daughter…”

“Yeah, who’s her father again?”

Sparrow’s dark expression said it all. 

Bob pressed on. “Where you goin’ dressed like that? Trollin’ for another baby-daddy? Brook’s almost one. You’re behind schedule.”

She put Brooklyn down and pirouetted. Flashing sequins emphasized ample curves.

“I’d rather go to a X-mas party, than spend the night here, you fat old honky.”

He laughed. “I’m no honky, chitterling. I’m pure Pollack. The name’s Puff, and don’t forget it.”

Sparrow headed to the door.

Bob called after her. “Save some sequins for the other hos. Don’t forget church tomorrow.”

“Don’t wait up. I’ll get there.”

“And don’t drink from open containers…”

She slammed the door.

Bob took aim and fired. The star atop the Christmas tree shattered. Shards of plastic sparkled as they rained to the floor.

He nodded with satisfaction. “Still got it.” Remembering his cigarette, he took one last drag before crushing it into the ashtray.

Bob’s wife, Aurelia, entered. “Shootin’ firecrackers in the house again?” She sniffed the air and scooped Brooklyn up. “Second-hand smoke! How many times I need warn you? You’re not just crazy. You’re insane!”

She cooed over the baby who spit out another bullet. Aurelia glared at Bob and threw the shell at him.

“Get outta here, you fat bastard!”

“And Merry Christmas, too. By the bye, those pants make your ass look fat.”

She held the baby close and pouted.

Bob continued. “Sorry, Babe. That’s not exactly accurate. Everything makes your ass look fat. Your hat makes your ass look fat.” 

“Go! I can’t stand to look at you.”

“On my way. Gotta give Jasper a kick.”

Aurelia heard the shattered ornament crunching underfoot. She yelled, “Look at this mess. Tryin’ to kill us?”

Bob stood in the doorway and watched his son play a video game. He’d never seen such mayhem, all controlled by Jasper. Jasper’s controller movements were too subtle for Bob. On the screen, heads exploded, and bimbos went flying as four-wheelers careened about.

Jasper paused the game and lit a joint.

Bob said, “Gimmee some uh dat.”

Without a glance, Jasper held the reefer overhead. Bob took it, puffed and held the smoke in.

Handing the joint back to Jasper, he said, “When you goin’ to make something of yourself, kid?”

“Give me a break, old man. I’m on holiday from school.”

“Fair enough, but all this mayhem doesn’t earn you squat. Your skills should be making serious coin.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Well, duh! Online gambling, hood.”

“That’d be dope. But I’m only seventeen."

“Don’t be a tool. When did age keep you from doing whatever?”

“Good point. Goin’ out?”

“Got a kite. Going to Broadway. Need to bump some Santa who’s in the hat. Maybe bag a reindeer too.”

“You’re the GOAT, Dad. Can I ride along?”

“Do what you do. Make us rich. Be back.”

Bob grabbed the pistol, a spare magazine, threw on his jacket and left.

He drove. Before the car warmed up, his breath fogged the windshield.

“Global warming is a crock,” he murmured to himself.

Across the river bridge, he spotted his target. A man dressed as Santa stood waving at cars as they passed. Otherwise, the street was deserted.

He muttered, “Snuffy…”

Bob passed, turned off the main drag and parked out of sight. He waited a minute and walked, hunched into his coat. Cold, but dry, he could see his breath.

‘What a life. Doin’ this on Christmas, no less. Gotta pay the bills.’

With Snuffy distracted by traffic, Bob approached him from behind. He felt the cold pistol, hidden in his coat pocket.

Snuffy sensed him and turned.

“Hi, Snuff. Got something for me?” He gestured through his coat.

Snuffy stepped back and glanced around. No escape. Too big, his costume hung loose and looked ridiculous.

“Don’t raise your hands. Just be smart.” Bob displayed his pistol. “No bluff.”

Snuffy stalled. “Only police should have those things.”

“Police? You mean the bunch you want to defund, right?”

“Who, me? I never…”

“Don’t lie, Snuff. You’re nothing but a ‘kumbaya commie,’ aren’t you?”

“What?”

“You know, singing songs of brotherhood while picking everyone’s pockets.” Bob gestured with the pistol. “Move behind the billboard. Slow.”

Snuffy complied.

“Come on, Puff. Put it down. You don’t want to shoot me. It’s Christmas.” He spread his arms to display his costume. “Ho, ho, ho… Do I look flush?” He looked like a bearded scarecrow.

“Right. Silent night and all that…”

“Have a drink. On me.”

Snuff pulled a flask out.

Bob stepped back. The clack of his pistol cocking cut the silence. “No sudden moves, Snuff.”

Snuffy held out the flask. “Drink up. Settle your nerves.”

“So, you don’t like guns. But poison’s cool?”

“You know… ‘One man’s fish…’ Don’t trust me? I’ll taste it.” Snuff opened the flask and tipped it back. He held it upside down. “Sorry. All gone.”

“Very funny.”

He patted his coat. “May have another.” He waited for Bob’s nod.  Snuffy revealed another flask and held it out. “All yours…”

“Take a sip. Don’t drain it. Or you trying to piss me off?”

Snuffy chuckled. “Never piss off someone with a gun.”

A patrol car approached and stopped. Its spotlight trained on them. Bob deftly stowed his pistol. Snuffy secured the flask. They waved and approached the squad car. The window rolled down.

Bob said, “Can I help you?”

Snuffy said, “Merry Christmas, officer…”

The radio squawked.

He looked them over. “Got a report. Any problems?”

Both answered in tandem. “No, no. Not at all.”

Snuffy said, “This elf told me his Christmas wish…”

The radio squawked.

The cop said, “Someone called in suspicious activity. You haven’t seen anything?”

Snuffy laughed, “No, ho, ho…! My reindeer are late, so I called an Uber.”

“Watch your backs.” The window rolled up and the car idled away.

Snuffy turned and said, “Don’t shoot me, Puff. I owe you a drink. I got nothing. But I know a party. You’ve got wheels. Let’s go there.”

Bob considered this and nodded. They walked to his car. Snuffy gave him directions.

“Hear about that mall shooting last year?”

Bob asked, “Didn’t you take him out?”

“Dressed like this? Santa drop a pea shooter…? Never live it down.”

They saw the party from way off. The street being parked up, they walked a few blocks. The house was lit like a carnival. People spilled out onto the lawn. They’d cranked the sound system. Laughter echoed a block away. Classic site for those drive-byes you hear about on the news.

Bob didn’t like it. He kept glancing over his shoulder.

Everyone greeted Santa Snuffy with cheers and back slaps.

Snuffy whispered, “Don’t drink from any open containers. Just sayin’.” Snuffy continued. “Stay here. I’ll get you a Bloody Mary… you know, for Christmas.”

They heard a scream. “Daddy!” Emerging from the crowd, and looking like escaped tinsel, Sparrow ran up and hugged her father. “Let’s get outta here. I’ve never been so happy to see you. Bunch of thugs.”

Bob nodded. He looked at Snuffy, who shrugged.

“Now I owe you for the ride too.”

“Forget it. Catch you in the New Year…” Bob took Sparrow’s arm and they walked.

Sparrow pulled him close. “How did you find me? I prayed…”

“Think all the credit goes to Santa’s boss.”

She said, “Sorry Dad. I’m always such a stone-cold bitch. Need to lighten up.”

He smiled. “At least at Christmas.”

She laughed. “Deal!”

They got into his car and drove home.