“It’s been a long time,” Jim told the G-Unit. “Where are you living now?”
“We’re on the run,” said Edith.
“They had us living in this rest home with condescending caregivers and afternoon pudding,” added Edna. “But we said bullshit on that.”
Serge elbowed Coleman. “What’s wrong with you?”
Coleman looked wide-eyed, up and down the Davenports’ Christmas tree. “What do you mean?”
“You’re acting weird,” Serge snapped in a loud whisper.
“The little lights,” Coleman said, entranced. “They’re like fireflies swirling around the tree, playing tiny harps.”
“Did you take something again?”
“Oh no, absolutely not,” said Coleman. “No, no, no. Yes, actually a lot.”
“What did you take?”
“Mistletoe.”
Serge blinked hard. “Mistletoe?”
Coleman nodded, snatching at the air with his hand for a nonexistent glow bug. “Mistletoe gets you high.”
“But mistletoe’s poisonous,” said Serge. “ Extremely poisonous. Severe gastrointestinal toxin, and a potentially life-threatening drop in pulse. The hallucinations are just a side effect.”
“Fair trade-off.” Coleman snatched the air again. “Cool.”
Serge grabbed his wrist. “We have to get that crap out of your stomach.”
“Uh-oh.” Coleman put a hand on his tummy. “Think I’m going to be sick.”
“Don’t you dare throw up on the sofa.” Serge pointed sideways with a thumb. “Martha just started liking us. Even if it’s just a small amount of puke, women get funny about it.”
Coleman’s head began to loll. “Ooooo, definitely going to be sick.”
“That’s the two-minute warning,” said Serge. “To the bathroom, now!”
Serge propped Coleman up and began leading him with an arm around his waist.
“Is everything okay?” Martha asked with concern.
“Just something he ate,” said Serge.
“Fireflies,” said Coleman, snatching air and opening an empty hand in disappointment.
Serge grinned nervously at Martha. “Where’s your bathroom? Preferably one of the less nice.”
Martha turned and pointed. “Just down the hall on the left.”
“Thanks.” Serge gave Coleman a tug around the waist. “Come on, you!”
Jim walked over to his wife. “Is everything all right?”
“Something Coleman ate…”
Outside, a vehicle with its lights off turned the corner of Triggerfish Lane and rolled slowly down the street. At the other end of the block, another car came around the corner and also killed its lights. The first vehicle, a Ford Focus, slowed and parked at the curb three houses east of the Davenport residence. The other, a black Delta 88, parked three houses west.
Drivers’ doors opened simultaneously. Two silhouettes ambled toward each other on the sidewalk. But their attention was elsewhere, eyes trained on the Davenports’ brightly lit porch.
Inside, Martha smiled warmly at City and Country. “So where do you know Serge from?”
“Saint Pete. We all had warrants at the time.”
Martha maintained composure and decided to change the topic. “Edith? How’s life been treating you?”
“Like a bitch on roller skates.” She handed Martha a small, gift-wrapped package with a big red bow.
“What’s this?”
“It’s your present. Serge was helping Jim pick something out for you.”
Martha unwrapped it and stared.
“It’s called a Yule log,” said Edna. “Here’s the power switch.”
A humming sound.
“Trust me,” said Country. “It’ll rock your world like an earthquake. Especially if you put it in your-”
“Okay!” Jim sprang to his feet. “Anyone need more eggnog?…”
Meanwhile, in one of the back bathrooms, Serge held Coleman’s elf hat and kept his head aimed for minimal mess and explanation. “There you go, big boy, get it all out.”
“Oooo God, that feels better… Wait, some more…”
Back outside: Two silhouettes approached on the sidewalk, converging toward the Davenports’ home. Fifty yards apart, the two men noticed each other, but in the dim light each considered the pedestrian coming toward him to be just a harmless night stroller out for fresh air. The first one slowed, so the second would pass before they got to the house.
The second one slowed, waiting for the other to pass.
Slower and slower until they both came to a complete halt on the sidewalk, twenty yards apart.
They squinted hard. Then their eyes flew open at the same time.
“You!” yelled the fired mall cop.
“You!” yelled the fired assistant mall manager.
They charged and tackled each other on the Davenports’ lawn, rolling and clawing and pulling hair. Both reaching in vain for guns in ankle and belt holsters. A finger got bent back- “Ahhhh!” — an eye gouged- “Ahhhh!..”
Inside the house: “What’s all that noise?” said Edith. “Sounds like someone’s fighting.”
“Seems to be coming from the yard,” said Edna.
Jim walked toward the front. “I’ll go check it out.”
He opened the door. Shouting became louder. “I’ll kill you, motherfucker!”
Martha headed for the door because she was concerned, and the G-Unit followed because they were nosy.
Two men scratched and punched, covered with grass and dirt. “You’re a dead man…”
“I’ll report you to the police!” yelled Martha.
They were too busy to listen. Then they rolled under better lighting.
“Jim,” said Martha. “That looks like the mall cop I got fired. And the other one’s the assistant mall manager I reported him to. I thought he had hair.”
“He was bald when I fired him,” said Jim.
“You fired the mall manager?”
Just then, the two men stopped rolling to catch their breath. They happened to look up at the couple standing on the front of the porch.
“You!” the ex-mall cop yelled at Martha and Jim.
“You!” the ex-manager yelled at Jim and Martha.
A spontaneous truce to unite against common foes. The men jumped up and charged the house, drawing their guns. Everyone scrambled inside and tried to close the door, but the security guard crashed through.
Soon everyone was crammed together on the largest sofa, silent, eyes following the two men pacing back and forth through the living room, cursing under their breaths and waving guns.
They crisscrossed again in front of the couch, each chugging from bottles of eggnog.
“I’m sure we can work this out,” said Jim.
“Shut up!” The ex-manager spun with his pistol. “You fired me for nothing. And your stupid wife and her stupid anonymous report got me beat up!”
The guard stepped forward with his own gun. “You got me fired, and you hired professional elves to beat me up!”
“Maybe you should slow down on the drinking,” said Jim. “In a situation like this-”
The guard and manager together: “Shut up!..”
Down the hall, Serge and Coleman crawled across ceramic tiles with big wads of toilet paper. “Make sure you wipe everything down and get every last speck. When it comes to bathrooms, wives are like those French boars that sniff out truffles.”
Coleman pulled his head out from behind the toilet. “I think that’s the last of it.”
