Steve Hockensmith - Naughty-Nine Tales of Christmas

Hank shook his head too. "Fights with his brother."

Jingle joined in. "Pouts. Cries."

"My goodness. Coal?"

"Coal," the elves sang in chorus.

"Ahhhh." Mrs. Claus moved on to the next letter. "Missy Widgitz?"

"Nice," said Frank.

"But," said Hank.

"Read the letter," said Jingle.

Mrs. Claus cleared her throat and took the letter out of its envelope. "'Dear Santa,'" she read aloud. "'I have been extra good all year long, but I do not want any dolls, games or books this Christmas. You can give my toys to a poor child who needs them more than me.'" Mrs. Claus smiled. "How precious."

"Keep reading," Jingle said.

Mrs. Claus looked back down at the letter. "'But there is something I would like-my very own…' Oh."

She peeked back up at the elves, who stared back at her, frowning indignantly.

"'Elf,'' Mrs. Claus read. "'I promise to feed it and take it for walks and…' Oh my."

"She's getting a Barbie," Jingle said.

"I see. Well, I think what we're looking for wouldn't be quite so… colorful." Mrs. Claus pulled out the next letter. "Like this one. This little boy wants books, games and a Farrah Fawcett-Majors poster. All very normal. What do we know about this-" She squinted at the name scrawled across the bottom of the page. "Bud Schmidt?"

Frank rolled his eyes. "Oh."

Hank rolled his eyes. "That one."

Jingle shrugged.

"Naughty?" Mrs. Claus asked.

"Eh," said Frank.

"Could be worse," said Hank.

"That's not the problem," said Frank.

"He's forty-three years old," said Hank.

"Ahhh," said Mrs. Claus. She placed the letter on Frank's desk. "Well, that is suspicious-if a bit transparent. I suppose it's the best candidate we have so far."

She flipped to the last letter, obviously hoping for something better.

Dear Mr. Claus,

I am seven years of age. I have been a well-behaved child this year. Thus I consider myself deserving of reward. I think you should bring me candy and a toy truck.

I will look for the candy in my socks. You may place the truck beneath the Christmas bush. I will leave baked goods out for you to consume, as is the usual custom.

Cordially yours,

Bjorn Bjelvenstam

4000 Sundquist Road

(on the northernmost edge of town near the abandoned lutefisk factory-it will look dark, but do not let that be of concern)

Kalmar, Sweden

P.S.: There is a chimney on my house. Please feel free to make use of it in the fashion for which you have become so famous.

"Ah ha," said Frank.

"Oh ho," said Hank.

"Umm hmm," said Mrs. Claus.

"I'll get the sleigh," said Jingle.

Minutes later, he and Mrs. Claus were in the air, headed for Sweden behind a team of young back-up reindeer.

"Now, Pac-Man! Now, Disco! Now, Yoda and Vader!" Mrs. Claus called out, giving the reins a gentle snap. "On, Ford! On Carter! On, Alda and Nader!"

The reindeer strained in their harnesses, rocketing over Greenland and the Norwegian Sea toward Sweden. But they weren't fast enough.

"Oh no!" Jingle cried when they reached the outskirts of Kalmar. "We're too late!"

He stood up and pointed at the rooftops below. They were covered with sleigh tracks, hoofprints and discolored snow-telltale signs that Santa had already come and gone.

The reindeer veered to the east then, changing course so suddenly Jingle lost his balance and nearly toppled over the side. The only thing that kept him in the sleigh was Mrs. Claus's hand reaching out to snag a handful of his green tights.

"Thanks," Jingle squeaked. "But where are we-?"

"Look! Up ahead!"

In the distance, a pinprick of light gleamed through the gentle swirl of snow. As they got closer, they could see shapes in its soft red glow.

Antlers, a rooftop, a chimney.

And an empty sleigh.

"Take it easy, everyone," Mrs. Claus told the reindeer. "Let's try to make this a very quiet landing."

The reindeer slowed to a flying trot, then a gliding amble, and Mrs. Claus's sleigh slid into place next to her husband's without a sound.

"Well done, my dears," Mrs. Claus said as she stepped carefully onto the roof. There wasn't much room to move around. It was a small house, dreary and forlorn, with no neighbors in sight other than a decaying factory half a mile up the road.

"Keep it steady there, buddy," Jingle told Rudolph, whose nose was beginning to strobe with excitement. "Where's Santa?"

Rudolph grunted and sneezed simultaneously, making a wet, snorting noise that, translated roughly, meant "I dunno." Comet and Cupid and the rest grunted and sneezed in agreement.

"Deary deary dear ," said Mrs. Claus.

She was peering down into the chimney. Jingle crept over and pulled himself up to see what she was looking at.

A few feet below, metal bars gleamed in the moonlight. Mrs. Claus cleaned her glasses with her apron and leaned in to give them a closer look.

"They're mounted on some kind of spring mechanism," she said. "So when Santa got to the bottom of the chimney-"

"He couldn't get back out!" Jingle blurted. "You were right. It is a trap!"

Mrs. Claus shushed him. "Listen."

She turned an ear downward and bent over the chimney. Jingle imitated her.

Voices echoed up from inside the house.

"Me? Work for the KGB? Ho ho ho! Ridiculous!"

There could be no mistaking who it was. Santa was alright-for the moment.

"What could I possibly do for you?"

"Vell, you know vhat they zay," a heavily accented man replied. "'He zeez you vhen you're zleeping. He knowz vhen you're avake. He knowz if you've been bad or good, zo be good for goodnez zake.'"

"Yes?"

"Don't be denze, fat man! You are the greatezt zpy the vorld haz ever known!"

"'Zpy'?"

"Yez, zpy!"

"I don't-"

"There iz no zecret our enemiez could keep from uz vith you on our zide!"

"On your what now?"

"Our zide! Thiz cowboy the Americanz have elected-Reagan. He planz to zpend hiz vay to victory over uz. Vell, let him try! Ve vill have zomething money cannot buy. You!"

"Wait now. What's all this about a cowboy?"

"Zoon you vill be zmuggled to the Zoviet Union in one of our zubmarines. And then imagine the propaganda value vhen Zanta Clauz-the living embodiment of Veztern materializm-renounzez hiz vayz and zayz, 'At lazt, thiz red zuit of mine really ztandz for zomething!'"

"'Fez turn materialism'? My red 'zoot'? Ho ho! Goodness, lad! I can't understand a word you're saying!"

"Here iz all you need to underztand. Our operative at the Pole haz hidden a bomb-a very powerful bomb-in your vorkshop. If you do not cooperate, ve vill reduze your toymaking elvez to zo much zmoke and duzt."

Mrs. Claus and Jingle locked eyes on each other, each of them stifling a horrified gasp.

"Zmoke and duzt?" a baffled Santa mused.

"Da! Zmoke and duzt! You know. Boom !"

"Hmmmm. I'm sorry. You're just not getting through. Maybe one of you other fellows can tell me what your friend's so excited about."

A string of Russian curses bounced up out of the chimney.

"I vill blow up your caztle! It iz that zimple! Thiz iz the deztruct button here in my hand!"

"Oh! Ho ho! A bomb! I thought you said a very powerful bum . Now I see! Clever! Naughty, but clever! Ho ho ho! But let me tell you something, my friend. You'll never get anywhere in life with bombs and threats. Generosity and good cheer! Those are the things that really matter. Now why don't you let me out of this cage so I can be on my way? I've got toys to deliver. Ho ho!"

Santa's ho-hoing was cut off by more curses. The Russians were learning what Mrs. Claus and everyone else at the North Pole already knew.