The Christmas Megapack Read online

  Fats let out another, “Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas, Bobby! Come on, Bobby, say hello to Santa Claus. I got some goodies for you and your mom, special delivery from my workshop all the way up at the North Pole.”

  I was astounded. Fats never failed to do stuff I would have never figured a guy like him would do.

  I watched from the end of the hall as Fats stood by the door, Ho-Ho-Ho-ing his fat red Santa ass off, digging into the big sack he had in front of him and taking out all kinds of stuff he’d filched from Thompson’s—clothing and small appliances for Mrs. Smith, and all kinds of really neat expensive toys and clothes for Bobby.

  The kid was absolutely going nuts, happier than any kid I’d ever seen at any Christmas, while his mother stood by quiet, thankful, tears of joy making their way down her glowing cheeks.

  Fats finally emptied the sack and said, “Have a Merry Christmas Mrs. Smith. And Merry Christmas to you, Bobby!”

  “Thank you, Santa!” Bobby shouted with glee, as Fats got ready to leave.

  “Yes, thank you so much, you’ve made this our best Christmas ever. God bless you...,” Mrs. Smith said with a smile, “...God bless you, Santa.”

  She winked.

  Fats just smiled back at her. Ho-ho-ho-ing like a pro as he got ready to leave.

  “Anything we can give you, Santa?” Bobby asked, as Fats walked off down the hall.

  “Nothing, Bobby, I get my Christmas present by giving presents to good people like you and your mom that deserve them,” Fats said. He laughed then, turned and said, “Ah, well, on second thought, if you must do something, you could leave a glass of milk and a few chocolate chip cookies out for when Santa comes next year. I got a lotta stops to make and I can get powerful hungry.”

  Bobby smiled, and he and his mom waved, shouting, “Goodbye Santa! Thank you!”

  Fats smiled, rubbed his ample belly, gave out with a few more ho-ho-ho’s. Mrs. Smith closed her door and Fats walked back down the hall to where I stood waiting.

  He stopped by me for a moment, smiled said, “Hey, it’s Christmas, Griff.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s been a tough year, but this makes it worth it.”

  I nodded, “You did real good, Fats.”

  “Yeah, I guess it kinda makes it like Christmas means something.”

  “It does,” I told and I thought I noticed a tear on the Fatman’s cheek. He rubbed his eye, making like he’d had something in it, but I knew better. It was nothing. No big deal.

  We walked back to the car and got in. I drove. I shot a look at Fats as he sighed and pulled a bagel stuffed with baloney and cheese out of the glove compartment. It must have been half frozen from the cold. I laughed and shook my head.

  “You missed a meal,” I told him. Fats never missed a meal.

  “Yeah,” Fats admitted between bites. He offered me a bite. I tried to take a chunk out of the other end. It was impossible.

  I handed him back the bagel uneaten. “Damn thing’s froze solid.”

  Fats just laughed between bites. He said, “yeah, cold as hell but it’s still pretty good.”

  I stopped the car and looked at him, sitting there stuffing his face, still dressed as Santa Claus, his .38 laying in his lap. I just shook my head. He was a sight.

  I said, “Merry Christmas, Fats.”

  He just looked up at me and smiled between bites and said, “Griff, same to you and yours, my man.”

  I started up the car and kept on driving. Through the white blanket of snow that was covering everything in Bay City with a clean blanket of pure white. Covering all the dirt. Covering all the hate and greed. For a while at least, things were quiet. Peaceful, at last. I looked at my Timex. It was just past midnight, turning into Christmas morning. A new day. A very special day. I smiled. Those were the old days. Fats and me in old time Bay City. We’ll never see their like again.

  SCROOGE 3000, by Michael McCarty

  Mr. Scrooge looked down at the megalopolis from his three-hundredth-floor office window. From that high up, the city below looked like a Dali painting, skyscrapers melting into an endless sky.

  “There are too many zeppelins these days,” the CEO of Scrooge Computers mused to his subordinate, Mr. Cratchett. “Of course, it’s the only decent way to get around in the sky-cities. I vaguely remember my great-great-grandfather once talking about an automobile.... It was a funny story.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I can’t believe Wall Street will be closed tomorrow. I’ll lose so much money!”

  “It’s Christmas, sir. They shut down to honor the holiday.”

  “Bah, humbug!”

  “Do you want me to send some flowers to Mr. Marley’s funeral, the day after Christmas?”

  “Certainly not! Mr. Marley bailed out of this company a long time ago. When the chips were down, he said, ‘I’m not shredding any evidence for a Senate subcommittee subpoena hearing.’ Bah! I don’t care if Mr. Marley was one of my biggest financial supporters at the beginning of this corporation. We revolutionized computers by having them built into the human skull. No more screens or monitors—just close your eyes and you can see everything! No more keyboards, just the glorious thought process. But Mr. Marley didn’t want to lie under oath—that was the last straw. The man was a traitor, pure and simple—a gutless, spineless traitor!”

  “Do you mind if I leave a little early? I still have some Christmas shopping to do for my family,” Mr. Cratchett said.

  “How’s the missus and your kid? What’s his name again?”

  “Tiny.”

  “Yeah, Tiny. That one-foot-tall clone of yours. Sorry you couldn’t afford a bigger one.”

  “We love Tiny, all twelve wonderful inches of him.”

  A zeppelin floated in front of the office window with the words Merry Christmas From Scrooge Computers flashing from the side of the airship.

  “Bah, humbug!”

  * * * *

  The airship stopped at the eight-hundredth floor and Scrooge stepped off the vehicle and into his penthouse suite. He turned on his hologram cat, Toogles.

  At one time, Toogles had been a real cat. Scrooge used to order his servants to feed him and change the kitty litter. When the cat started to want affection from the old man, he had the animal put to sleep and replaced with a three-dimensional feline replica.

  “Hello, Toogles,” he mumbled.

  The hologram tomcat meowed.

  Scrooge looked through his telescope, adjusting the lenses he could make out his office 500 floors below. He poured himself some gin and turned on the Free-Vee.

  Free-Vees had started out as a curio—a distant, promotional cousin to televisions. But with time, TV viewers ended up enjoying the commercials more than the programming, so the shows were abandoned and new one-hundred-inch curved 3-D screens were given away for free—all you had to do is watch the commercials.

  Scrooge sat with his drink, watching ad after ad. He chuckled at a sexy one about a robot cocktail waitress trying to get frisky with an automatic vacuum cleaner.

  The old man drifted off to sleep.

  Suddenly he found himself staring at a black man wearing a red cap, a multi-colored satin shirt, Bermuda shorts and floppy sandals.

  “Hello Scrooge. I’m Marley,” the man said in a thick Jamaican accent.

  “You’re not Jacob Marley!” the old man cried.

  “No, mon. I’m Bob Marley, the Ghost of Reggae Christmas.”

  “I don’t know anyone named Bob Marley....”

  “Jacob Marley was too busy, so he asked me to step in. If I can unite my country of Jamaica, then I can certainly help a fellow ghost. Besides this time of year is when we’re the busiest.”

  “We?”

  “Christmas Spirits Union 312.”

  “There must be a glitch in my computer programming,” Scrooge said, hitting the side of his head with his hand. “Maybe I need to have my hard drive adjusted.”

  The ghost rolled his eyes.

  “I just
need a Phillips screwdriver—”

  Bob Marley pulled a screwdriver out of thin air.

  “How’d you do that?”

  “We don’t have much time, you old fool. This is overtime and a holiday on top of that!” The ghost grabbed Scrooge by his vest and dragged him into the past.

  * * * *

  Bob Marley and Scrooge rematerialized in a college dorm room. The walls were decked with 3-D posters of famous rich people of the past—Nelson Rockefeller, Bill Gates, and T. J. Hoy, the man who brought the airships to the megalopolis.

  “My old dorm room in college,” Scrooge said.

  Sitting at a desk was a teenage Scrooge counting a pile of money. “999,999,997...999,999,998...999,999,999...one billion!”

  “Ah, yes,” said the older Scrooge. “My first billion, and I was just a freshman in college.”

  The ghost frowned. “My entire country of Jamaica didn’t have that kind of money, mon.”

  “They must invest badly.”

  “We didn’t come here to talk about finances. Look around, what do you see?”

  “Money?” Scrooge said, confused.

  “Besides that.”

  Scrooge simply saw a younger version of himself, piles of money in high stacks, some books, posters, and a Free-Vee set. Finally he shrugged.

  “You are alone, all alone!” the ghost cried. “And what lesson did we learn here today?”

  “That it takes a long time to count to a billion?”

  “No, mon! As The Beatles once observed, money can’t buy you love. You dig?”

  “Dig? I’m not a laborer!” Scrooge said. “And what’s all this nonsense about talking insects?”

  * * * *

  Scrooge and the ghost of Bob Marley materialized on an enormous airship. The only passenger to be seen was a middle-aged version of Scrooge, lying on a hammock and scanning speculative stock options.

  “I remember the day well!” Scrooge said to the reggae ghost. “It was my twenty-fifth anniversary celebration of creating Scrooge Computers. I rented an airship and took a voyage from New York City II to New Seattle. I think the ship was called the Air-Titanic—but it didn’t run into any icebergs.”

  “A celebration? Then how come you’re the only one on the ship, mon?”

  “What, and give those lollygaggers a paid day off? Never!” Scrooge said angrily. “Besides, it was my party—and as you can see, the guest list was perfect!”

  Marley shook his head. “Alone as always.”

  * * * *

  Next, Bob Marley’s ghost and Scrooge materialized in front of a monstrous skyscraper.

  “Where are we now?” Scrooge said, confused. “All this zipping around is giving me a sick headache.”

  “The future headquarters of Scrooge Computers. You end up buying the state of Rhode Island and using it as the foundation of the world’s greatest skyscraper.”

  “Sounds like something I’d do!” Scrooge said. “Except maybe the Rhode Island part. I never really cared that much for that state. It must have been on sale.”

  “Look at the side of the building, mon.” The ghost pointed to a bas-relief, bronze mural depicting a scrawny old man seated on a throne, surrounded by piles of money and rows of computers. “Your body is entombed in the side of this building, just under your metal image.”

  “How delightful! Such a nice big tombstone!” Scrooge looked up. “Why, I bet you can see this building from Mars....”

  “Don’t you see, mon? Even in death, Scrooge, you are alone. All alone!” A single tear rolled down the ghost’s cheek. “Now I suppose I should take you back, so you can change your life, you sad, lonely, pathetic, skinny-assed bastard. Have you learned your lesson yet, mon?”

  “Yes, I have: the one with the most toys wins! And I’ve won!” Scrooge performed a victory dance that resembled a praying mantis having an epileptic seizure. “Yes, I want to go back and work harder, so I can make more money and buy a bigger state than Rhode Island!”

  “No, mon! That isn’t what you’re suppose to learn—”

  “However, I didn’t like that part about dying!”

  “Ah! Now, mon, you’re starting to see the light.”

  “Yes, I will have to do something about that.”

  * * * *

  One week later, Scrooge was busy in his penthouse suite. He had been working, constantly working, ever since Bob Marley had dropped him off after their Christmas travels.

  “Happy New Year, mon!” the ghost of Bob Marley said as he reappeared in Scrooge’s living room.

  “Ah! You’ve returned,” Scrooge said. “I’m so glad you showed me my future. I’m going to change it for the better!”

  “That is good, mon!”

  “I’m not going to die now.” Scrooge hit a silver button on a remote control clutched in his bony hand. A sturdy stainless-steel cyborg marched into the room. “As soon as this old carcass of mine passes away, I’m going to have my brain implanted in this indestructible metal body—and I will live forever!”

  Scrooge paused, gazing out the window at the falling snow, and then said softly, “God bless the rich! And Bah, humbug to the poor!”

  A HELL OF A CHRISTMAS, by Michael McCarty

  ’Twas the night before Christmas, which is Christmas Eve—not sure why they just don’t call it Christmas Eve, it’s a lot shorter, rolls off the tongue better than “’Twas the night before Christmas” does.

  Anyway—on this Christmas Eve, not a creature was stirring—well not exactly true—there were a couple of creatures stirring around. In the living room, Marty the old beagle was letting out stinky farts as usual—everyone outside the Webster family called Marty “Farty” because the goddamn dog would fart all day and all night long. Besides the farting dog, Mouser the cat was under the Christmas tree knocking off ornaments and watching them smash—getting the evil pleasure from it that only cats can get.

  Everyone in the Webster household was snuggled up in their beds, dreaming of sugarplums dancing in their heads. Well except the father Danny, who had stopped by the strip club Sugars’ that night, all his visions were of strippers twirling around a big silver pole and all the exotic dancers had names to match the Christmas holiday: there was Holly, Merry, Noel and Starr whose giant silicon hooters had tiny shiny gold stars glued to them.

  And Danny Jr. was tossing and turning...the kid was naturally a worrywart, he worried all the time—perfect if he grew up to be an accountant for the mob or a nitroglycerin truck driver in the rain forest (a tropical suicide jockey). Junior was distressed because over Thanksgiving, the family changed the chimney from a wood burning to a gas and he was troubled that Santa wouldn’t be able to climb down it. He laid in bed listening for the sleigh and eight reindeers to land on the rooftop and if Saint Nick would have any problems he’d be there to help old man Christmas out.

  All this fretting about caused the young one to get thirsty. He was going to turn on his light and put on his glasses, but figured the light might scare off Santa, so he walked in the dark downstairs without any glasses on.

  He opened the refrigerator, grabbed a bottled water and started to walk out of the kitchen, when he heard a motorcycle driving in the backyard. The chopper had driven across the yard, to the side of the house.

  Young Danny walked into the living room for a better listen. The motorcycle was shut off and the driver was climbing up the chimney, it sounded more like the person was scaling the side of the chimney.

  He wished he had his glasses because he wanted to see what Santa looked like when he came down the chimney. All he could see was some red tall guy.

  The man was all in red, he wasn’t very fat, he didn’t have a beard, and he had two pointy things on the top of his head, a tail, and was carrying a big black bag.

  “Santa?” Danny asked.

  “No, close—Satan,” The Devil smiled. “Santa and Satan are almost spelled the same—which really isn’t the Christmas spirit, if you think about it. I came here to get the soul of Danny We
bster Jr.”

  “That’s me,” Danny said scared.

  “I know it is a bad time, Christmas Day coming tomorrow,” the Devil said. “But tough break, kid. I am trying to keep my quota—it is nothing personal.”

  “Don’t I get to challenge you to a contest to keep my soul?”

  “Like ‘The Devil Went Down to Georgia?’”

  “Yeah.”

  “I hate that song,” Satan said. “Do you know how to play the violin?”

  “No,” Danny said timidly.

  “Do you know how to play any instrument?”

  “I know how to play the oboe.”

  “I don’t thinking dueling oboes is that challenging,” Satan took out his soul-sucking vacuum cleaner and stuck it near Danny’s face, “it will only take a minute—”

  Danny’s face was being smashed; he scrunched his mouth together and said, “How about a spelling bee contest?”

  “Interesting—a very interesting idea. What the hell,” Satan said putting the soul-sucking vacuum cleaner down. “Are you a good speller?”

  “I came in second place in a spelling bee contest in school once,” Danny said proudly.

  “Second place?” Satan said with a smile. “Being it is Christmas tomorrow, and I am all-giving.... Here are the rules: I will give you three words—if you spell each of them correctly, you keep your soul. If you spell one wrong, I get your soul. Sound fair?”

  Danny nodded.

  “The first word is spectrophotofluorometrically.”

  “What’s that?” Danny asked.

  Satan sighed. “Hell if I know. I just know how to spell—I don’t know what it means. Kinda of ironic, wouldn’t you agree kid?”

  “I guess so.”

  The boy scratched his head.

  “I’m waiting.”

  “S-p-e-c-t-r-o-p-h-o-t-o-f-l-u-o-r-o-m-e-t-r-i-c-a-l-l-y.”

  “Damn it to hell—scratch that, that is where I live. Damn it to Cleveland.” The Devil grumbled. “Unfortunately that is correct.” He paused for a moment. “This next one is a little harder—floccinaucinihilipilification.”

  “Is that a made-up word?”