A Very Rod B Christmas

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic

Private dick Rod B gets a case on Christmas Eve!

A Very Rod B Christmas

It’s Christmas Eve 2014, and I’m the host of Flour City news, Casey Flynn Toyota. Our top story this evening, Santa Claus himself finished his business earlier today at the Eastside Shopping Plaza, and our patented Quad-Doppler radar is tracking him as he makes his way across the city!


Oh yay, it’s freaking Christmas Eve, and I’m missing the micro-bikini egg nog wrestling contest down at the local nudie bar. I suppose I could leave my office and close up shop any time now, it’s not like I’m going to get any new cases tonight; I never do on Christmas Eve. So, screw it, I’m calling it a day. I’ve already beaten several hundred levels in Angry Birds, so I figure I’ve been dramatically more productive than usual.

I put on my shoes and suit coat and was about to head over to my garage/apartment, when I opened my door and saw a boy, about 8 years old, standing outside and right about to knock. I looked him over, he seemed like your normal kid- a skinny mixed-race boy dressed in a red and black snow suit. I had places to go and nutmeg coated boobies to see, but he clearly walked a long way and was pretty cold, so being the nice guy that I am, I’d hear him out. I asked the boy, “Are you here to see me young man?” to which he nodded yes in response. So I let him into my office, sitting him down and asking the boy, “So why are you here at my office on Christmas Eve, shouldn’t you be at home waiting for Santa?”

Of course, much like every woman I’ve ever slept, the boy immediately started crying. He explained to me that, “Santa was kidnapped from the Eastside mall- some bad men took him and his presents to their house!”

The kid wasn’t making any sense, so I spent a few minutes clarifying what the hell he was talking about. Apparently a mall Santa was stolen, along with his bag of toys, outside the back of said mall. The kid recognized the kidnappers as “friends” of his mom (a known streetwalker herself), and even knew the address where they were holed up at- a crack house on the really bad side of town. The boy also told me that he tried talking to the police, but they just saw his frantic story about Santa being kidnapped as just his imagination at work. Apparently he came to me because he heard through the grapevine that I was the only one that might be able to help him out tonight on Christmas Eve.

Of course, I had important events to attend to, so I wasn’t even about to take this case. I would have had to do it pro bono even, since this kid had no way to pay me. I told him thanks but no thanks, and got ready to send him on his way. Yet this little boy wouldn’t take no for an answer. He just looked at me with puppy dog eyes and said, “Please Mr. Rod B? My mommy says she will hang out with you for an hour is you can get Santa and his presents back?”

One handshake and an exchange of phone numbers later, and Rod B was on the case. I already had a good lead as to where this mall Santa and his sack were located, and even who was holding them. So I didn’t need to do any investigative work again this time, but I did need to figure out a way to get this Santa back from a horde of tweaked out and armed drug fiends, on their home turf at that. I formulated a plan in my mind, and used my phone to send a text message to my crony Doug Taro, a technically inclined and well-equipped shut-in who had the supplies I needed tonight. I sent him a message saying, “I’m coming over in thirty minutes. I’ll need some peyote, your FLIR camera, and an elf costume.” I’ll bet no one’s ever sent that text message before.


Fast forward to an hour later, and the sun had gone down on Flour City, and Doug Taro delivered. I was a couple houses down from the crack house with all the gear I requested and sitting in my old black Cadillac. My first order of business was to try and figure out if there really was a fat old guy in a red suit held captive in that condemnation-worthy colonial style house. This is where the FLIR camera came in handy; it lets me see heat signatures both outside and inside the house. Spotting a fat guy in a crack house should be easy- none of the occupants in the house were really much concerned with maintaining a proper caloric intake, and they all looked and weighed about as much as mannequins. Extremely paranoid, glassy-eyed, and quick to shiv a private dick type mannequins… but basically if there was an obese guy in there, he’d be really out of place.

Firing up the FLIR and looking at the small LCD screen, I saw the typical crap you’d expect in a crack house. Cigarette lighters flicking on to help freebase drugs, a few grow lamps, and a furnace in disrepair belching out as much carbon monoxide as it did actual heat. However, when checking the furnace in the basement, I found the heat signature I was looking for. In the shape of a rather rotund man was a bright red heat signature. The boy at my office was right after all.

So after I confirmed old Saint Nick was on the premises, I engaged the next part of my plan. I grabbed the vial of peyote, my trusty .44 magnum revolver (which I tucked away in my suit coat), and I lit up a Lucky Strike cigarette. I rolled my Caddy up to the front sidewalk of the house and got out, walking slowly up to the front door. No doubt they saw me coming, and I didn’t want them to have the impression that I was a cop or anything.

I knocked on the dilapidated wooden door of the crack house, presumably being eyed up and down through the peep hole in the door. I heard shuffling inside, and finally the door cracked open a few inches, stopping when it hit the end of several security chains attached to the door. I could see a pair of glazed male eyes looking at me through the crack, and a raspy voice that asked simply, “what?”

Keeping the vial of peyote in my left hand, I held it up so that the man at the door could see it and said, “I hear you guys are good at moving shit. I got this for you guys to try, it’s just like LSD, and you’ll trip balls for hours. Try some and I’ll come back tomorrow with more if you want to get this shit out there and make us both some money.” Holding the vial up to the crack in the door, the man snatched it up and said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about” as he slammed the door on me. Mission accomplished.

I got back into my Cadillac and drove down to a nearby gas station; I killed some time reading the most current issue of Barely Legal, then went to their bathroom to change into the elf costume. I looked about as good in tights as hippopotamus with edema (my hemorrhoids especially were killing me), but I had to suck it up if my plan was going to work. By the time I got back to the house the crack heads would have all dosed up and wouldn’t know reality from fantasy, and that it would be totally believable that Santa’s favorite elf came to get him back just in time for Christmas.

This time I parked about two houses down from the crack house, and lit up another smoke while I got up the nerve for what I was about to do. I couldn’t bring anything with me- the tight elf costume didn’t have a built in holster for a full sized revolver. Hmm… Christmas outfits with built in concealed weapon compartments. I’m sure Texas has several stores with costumes like that, but up north here I was stuck with trying to jam my .44 into spandex tights. The net result made me look like a male porn star, but there was no way I could walk with that in there, and even if I could I doubt I’d be let inside. Assuming they didn’t think I was armed, I didn’t want a house of crack heads thinking I had a humungous perma-boner. That could lead to something even more terrifying than an against-all-odds gunfight.

I put my smoke out, and started walking to the crack house totally unarmed, and also the victim of wicked winter shrinkage. Channelling the spirit of Will Farrell, I thought to myself how exactly an elf should act. I decided on going for the whole man-child approach, and would appeal to their childhood sense of decency. Granted, I’m sure most of the crack heads in the house had an upbringing that involved a lot more punching than the surgeon general recommends, but I was confident that underneath their crippling addictions, they were good people. Just kidding; I was hoping that they ingested enough peyote that they saw me only as an amorphous greenish blob.

I knocked on the door again (this time to the tune of Jingle Bells), and with a forced smile on my face. I was met with the same rustling sounds behind the door, only this time I also heard laughing, and the sound of large objects falling over. The door swung all the way open this time, and the same glassy-eyed man I met before yanked me inside the house!

There I was now in the middle of the crack house living room, and it looked exactly like a public service announcement on drug addiction would have you believe. The interior of the living room could be described as “70’s Dilapidation” style. Wood paneling lined the walls and the carpet was some kind of lime green shag coated with a solid layer of burns and stains. A lone light bulb hung from the ceiling (no actual fixture needed apparently) and it revealed the room to be mostly empty of furniture except for some aluminum lawn chairs and a coffee table made of two hobby horses and an old car door. Their house was, amazingly, worse than my garage home.

Did I mention there were also five other people in that little room? There was the scarecrow that yanked me in, plus two other men and two women, all poorly dressed, skinny, and obviously enjoying my free peyote this Christmas Eve. They were  all on edge and likely hallucinating pretty hard core, the bottle I gave them was easily enough for ten Old Country Buffett customers, so if five bare bones junkies took it all, they likely didn’t even know that they weren’t God.

Not knowing how anyone was going to proceed, I decided to let the occupants take the lead, and I would tailor my act to whatever they did next. I didn’t have to wait long, as the man who dragged me into the house started off in a rambling fashion, “Mr. Elf! Mr. Elf! We’re so glad you’re here, we’ve already got Santa, and reindeer, and egg nog and a tree and it’s going to be a good old fucking Christmas just like we used to have as kids!!”

I did my best to appear jolly and gay (the happy kind of gay, not the other kind, although I certainly did look the part what with the bells on my hat and feet). I replied to my strung out friend, “Wow, that’s just great! I’d love to see my boss Santa Clause so that we can spread the Christmas cheer to all the boys and girls in the world who are counting on him tonight! I’ve heard he’s here in your basement and I’m sure he would love to see his favorite elf!”

To my shock and surprise, all the junkies yelled, “Hooray!” as their track marked arms flailed in the air. The lead junkie started walking through the house and waved me to go and follow him. As I made my way through the first floor of their third-world quality abode, I was wondering what the guy meant when he said he also had a reindeer, egg nog, and a tree. It turns out the “reindeer” was a dead dog in the corner of the kitchen, the “egg nog” some bong water that somehow turned a milky white, but the “tree” actually was a real evergreen tree. There was a hole in one of the floorboards that led directly to the ground, and somehow a tree was growing up into the house. Life finds a way I tell ya.

He opens a door to the basement, and signals for me to head down. It’s another dimly lit affair, with only one light bulb at the bottom of the stairs. Keeping up my elf façade, I called down the stairs with, “Santa, it’s your favorite elf, Rod B! I’ve come to take you back to the North Pole so you can deliver your toys to all the good boys and girls this year!”

I did get a muffled “hhhmmmmmrrrfff” in response. Following that voice, I made it to the bottom of the stairs and I saw the old mall Saint Nick. He was slumped against a wall, the only bare wall in the garbage filled basement. I couldn’t tell if he was sleeping peacefully or unconscious- I saw a small trickle of blood running down his rosy cheek, indicating a head wound of some kind. Ugh, he better not have been knocked out. There was no way I was hauling this rent-a-Santa out of this dingy basement. Even if I physically wanted to, I couldn’t. This guy really lived the Santa gimmick year round. He really was a sixty year old portly man with a real full white beard and matching long hair.

Looking him over, he was on the edge of consciousness, hence he made noise a moment ago. Whether or not that was because of my calling out to him, I couldn’t tell, but I knew I had to get him up and mobile pronto.  I kneeled down and got into his face, “Hey, Santa, wake up!” I said as I shook him like… um… damn I’m short on metaphors at the moment. I shook him like some…  kind… of… maraca… shaking… guy?

He started to grumble and slowly came around. Once he seemed like he was awake, I said to him in a hushed voice “Listen guy, I’m here to help. There’s not much time to explain, you’ve been kidnapped but I’m a private eye who’s hired to bring you back. I’m in this costume for a reason, just play along, pretend to be Santa and we can just walk right out the front door.”

Finally our Santa perked up and bellowed, “MERRY CHRISTMAS ROD B! THANK YOU FOR GETTING SANTA OUT OF HERE!” Why he yelled it I don’t know, we weren’t out of the woods yet by any means. Plus, how the hell did he know my name?! I know that I do have a bit of a reputation in certain places, and maybe he did look like one of the guys at the off track betting parlor, but still it was creepy. I didn’t have time to think about it play twenty questions, so I just tried to quiet him down and in a raised whisper replied, “Quiet man! You’re going to get us killed! They are pretty hopped up right now but they’re still no joke. Just get your sack and let’s go- save the Santa business for when they see you!”

Our mall Santa wasn’t in a rush for whatever reason. He calmly stood himself up, dusted himself off, and reached over to his bulbous red toy sack. He fished around for it, and gingerly pulled out a corn cob pipe. As I sat there anxiously waiting on him, he filled it with tobacco, then asked me in the same booming voice, “DO YOU HAVE A LIGHT FOR SANTA YOUNG MAN?”

My lighter was about the only thing I could keep with me in the costume, so I pulled it out and lit his pipe. Santa took a few long puffs off his pipe, filling the moldy, asbestos dust filled basement air with the pleasant scent of harmless tobacco smoke, and spoke to me once more. “YOU KNOW, THE PEOPLE IN THIS HOUSE ARE ON SANTAS NAUGHTY LIST. SO SANTA HAS A VERY SPECIAL PRESENT FOR THEM!”

I was stunned the dope fiends upstairs never came running down to check on things, but I wasn’t going to complain. Watching our Santa reach again into his sack, he pulled out something I least expected. He slowly whipped out a pump action tactical shotgun! At this point I wasn’t even going to object. I just slowly went stood behind him and plugged me ears. It looked like Santa was about to bring new meaning to “Santa’s sleigh” (what with the word “sleigh” being more like “slay”).

Santa pumped the shotgun and racked the first shell into the chamber, all while yelling, “HO, HO, HO!” Finally, the junkies upstairs knew something was up, and I heard all sorts of swearing and stomping around. Then without warning a gangly male figure started rushing down the stairs, kitchen knife held in over-hand stabby grip. He charged Santa full speed down the stairs, but old Saint Nick was too damn quick. BOOM went the shotgun, and a 3.5” magnum load of 00 buckshot sprayed right into his chest. At point blank range, the raw concussive force threw him backwards, as dozens of lead pellets ripped into his core. Blood exploded out of his chest as the lead burrowed inward, and his instantly lifeless corpse plopped down onto the stairs. Santa pumped the shotgun again, smoking empty shell ejecting to the side. We stepped over the body and made it to the top of the stairs.

The junkies weren’t stupid enough to try to rush Santa again, two outright ran out of the house into the night, and the other two, a man and a woman, took cover. The woman turned over the car door that had been used as a table, and ducked behind that, while the man got behind an interior wall that separated the kitchen from the living room. Both brandished small Saturday night specials- cheap, small caliber handguns that were only good for holding up liquor stores or hunting blind squirrels.

Santa piped up with, “SUCK ON SANTA’S YULE LOG, HO, HO, HO!” as he took aim at the male who was behind wall. Santa couldn’t see all of him, only the junkies gun hand that wasn’t behind the cover of the wall, but Santa knew that the rotted dry wall and wood paneling wasn’t really any substantial cover for our intrepid substance enthusiast.

The shotgun roared again as a flurry of pellets hit the wall, penetrating straight through to the other side and right into the chest of the man standing there. The flimsy cover merely dampened the shot enough that it did not blow a hole straight through the man on the other side, but just enough to shred his heart worse than my boyhood hopes and dreams, and take him out of the fight.

The female behind the car door returned fire with what looked to be a rusty .32 revolver. She fired five times without looking and each shot fired wide to the left. I ducked down at the first shot, but Santa never wavered, standing tall and carefully pumping the shotgun again and aiming it at the woman. Once again, Santa aimed at the cover she was using. Letting loose another volley, the pellets impacted against the solid door in a deafening clang of metal on metal.

The door was from some kind of old SUV, and was thick enough to stop the pellets from outright penetrating the door itself. But the concussive force of the blast was like getting pounded by an NFL linebacker, and her sub one hundred pound frame couldn’t handle the raw force. She sailed backwards into the wall, the car door falling down. A second later, Santa racked the next shell, and went for the kill. The junkie tried to train her revolver on either of us for one last desperate shot, but she was too slow. One final burst of buckshot blasted her face and neck, shearing her skin off and sending her back to hell.

As quickly as it began, it was over. I wasn’t about to go poking around for valuables, I grabbed Santa’s sack and we bolted to my Cadillac. Starting her up, I could hear the sounds of sirens in the distance. I casually drove us away, lighting up a victory smoke along the way.

Interestingly, Santa didn’t need to be dropped off anywhere special. I only drove him about two blocks before he insisted on getting out. He kept saying something about he could get his own ride anywhere he needed…


The rest of the night was uneventful- the nudie bar was closed early, so I just went home and drank myself to sleep. However, when I woke up on Christmas morning, I rolled over to grab my lighter, when I felt an enormous lump in my bed. Rubbing my eyes, I saw the most amazing thing! My first thought was that I’ve been the victim of some kind of Godfather-style horse head in the bed prank. But that wouldn’t have worked as I would have been glad to have had some protein to eat and don’t mind a little blood cleanup. But what I witnessed was beyond my wildest dreams.

Pulling down the cover over the lump… oh what should my wandering eyes did appear, but a nearly naked Asian woman, with bows on her ears! Seriously, she looked to be about 18, Chinese, wearing a cheerleader outfit, and completely bound and gagged, but otherwise unspoiled! I was in utter shock and amazement… how was this even possible? But at that moment, I didn’t care. I looked to the sky and said out loud, “This is going to be the best Christmas ever!” as tears ran down the poor girls face.

Submitted: December 24, 2014

© Copyright 2022 Rod B. All rights reserved.

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