âEvery time you donât fire your weapon in the Battle Room, youâre doing it. So if you oppose our little Santa Claus revolution, eemo, then we want to see you firing that gun and taking people out. Otherwise youâre a flaming hypocrite. A fraud. A pious fake. A liar.â Dink was in his face now. Close enough to make some of the other kids uncomfortable.
âBack off, Dink,â one of them muttered. Who? Wiggin, of course. Great, a peacemaker. Again, Dink felt defiance swell up inside him.
âWhat are you going to do?â said Zeck softly. âHit me? Iâm three years younger than you.â
âNo,â said Dink. âIâm going to bless you.â
He set his hand in the air just over Zeckâs head. As Dink expected, Zeck stood there without flinching. That was what Zeck was best at: taking whatever anybody dished out without even trying to get away.
âI bless you with the spirit of Santa Claus,â said Dink. âI bless you with compassion and generosity. With the irresistible impulse to make other people happy. And you know what else? I bless you with the humility to realize that you arenât any better than the rest of us in the eyes of God.â
âYou know nothing about God,â said Zeck.
âI know more than you do,â said Dink. âBecause Iâm not filled with hate.â
âNeither am I,â said Zeck.
âNo,â murmured another boy. âYouâre filled with kuso.â
âToguro,â said another, laughing.
âI bless you,â said Dink, âwith love. Believe me, Zeck, itâll be such a shock to you, when you finally feel it, that it might just kill you. Then you can go talk to God yourself and find out where you screwed up.â
Dink turned around and faced the bulk of Rat Army. âI donât know about you, but Iâm playing Santa Claus this year. We donât own anything up here, so gift-giving isnât exactly easy. Canât get on the nets and order stuff to be shipped up here, all gift-wrapped. But gifts donât have to be toys and stuff. What I gave Flip here, the gift that got us in so much trouble, was a poem.â
âOh how sweet,â said the Brit. âA love poem?â
In answer, Flip recited it. Blushing, of course, because the joke was on him. But also loving itâbecause the joke was on him.
Dink could see that a lot of them thought it was cool to have a toon leader write a satirical poem about one of his soldiers. It really was a gift.
âAnd just to prove that we arenât celebrating actual Christmas,â said Dink, âletâs just give each other whatever gifts we think of on any day at all in December. It can be Hanukkah. It can beâ¦hell, it can be Sinterklaas Day, canât it? The day is still young.â
âIf Dink would give us all a gift,â intoned the Jamaican kid, âthat would give our hearts a lift.â
âOh how sweet,â said the Brit.
âCrazy Tom thinks everythingâs sweet,â said the Canadian, âexcept for Tomâs own mold-covered feet.â
Most of them laughed.
âWas that supposed to be a present ?â said Crazy Tom. âFather Christmas is doing a substandard job this year.â
âIt would be pleasant to get a present,â said Wiggin. Everybody laughed a little. Wiggin went on, âIt would be better to get a letter.â
Only a few people chuckled at that. Then they were all quiet.
âThatâs the only gift I want,â said Wiggin softly. âA letter from home. If you can give me that, Iâm with you.â
âI canât,â said Dink, now just as serious as Wiggin. âTheyâve cut us off from everything. The best I can do is this: At home you know your familyâs doing Santa stuff. Hanging up stockings, right? Youâre American, right?â
Wiggin nodded.
âHang up your stocking this year, Wiggin, and
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