When Elves Attack by Tim Dorsey Page B

permission to get one.”
    â€œShe’s got one.”
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œDoes it matter?” Martha stomped down the hall to a closed bedroom door. She tried the knob. Locked. Pounded with fists. “Open the door this instant! You’re in so much trouble!”
    The door didn’t open. Thumping rock music inside. Joan Jett.
    â€œ . . . Hello Daddy, hello Mom, I’m your ch-ch-ch-cherry bomb . . .”
    Martha turned. “Jim?”
    â€œWhat? Kick the door in?”
    â€œNo, get a key.” Martha kept pounding.
    â€œWhere’s the key?”
    â€œI don’t know.” More pounding. “Try the junk drawer.”
    â€œI’ll go look.”
    Before he could leave, the door opened. “What’s all the racket out here?”
    â€œ . . . Don’t give a damn ’bout my bad reputation . . .”
    â€œYou got a tattoo!”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œWe forbid you! And we didn’t give any permission!”
    Nicole shrugged. “Serge got it for me. He’s really cool.”
    â€œSerge!” snapped Martha. She began strangling something invisible in midair. “I’ll kill him. He disfigured our daughter!”
    â€œYou’re such a drama queen,” said Nicole.
    â€œTurn around immediately!” said Martha. “I want to see what that monster did to you!”
    â€œNo!”
    Martha looked sideways. “Jim!”
    â€œNicole,” said her father. “Turn around.”
    The teen opened her mouth. But then remembered her promise to Serge. “Okay, Dad.”
    She turned around, lifting her shirt and pulling the waistband down an inch.
    The parents leaned in for a close inspection.
    There it was, just below the tan line. A word in feminine cursive script:
    Family .
    Nicole dropped her shirt and turned around to face them again. “Satisfied?”
    Her parents stood mute.
    â€œSerge also told me to be more grateful for you guys. Whatever.”
    Nicole went back in her room and closed the door.

Chapter Five
    THE NEXT DAY
    Coleman burped. “Look at this line.” He stuck his head around the side in an attempt to see the front. “It’s like Disney.”
    â€œMaybe longer,” said Serge, licking a stamp.
    â€œWe drove like forever to get here, and now . . . where are we? This is the middle of nowhere.”
    â€œTwenty miles east of Orlando to be exact.”
    Coleman strained his neck for a view of the counter. “But what’s the point?”
    â€œBecause Florida doesn’t get snow, we have a chronic inferiority complex when it comes to Christmas.” Serge handed Coleman a stamp. “So we overcompensate: Santa Claus on water skis, on Jet Skis, on surfboards, Christmas cards with barefoot Santas in beach chairs drinking beer, inflatable snowmen, reindeer in tropical shirts, town celebrations where they bring in special machines that shred ice and blow out fake snow that melts immediately and makes the children cry . . . But this place just might be the weirdest.”
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œThe post office in the city of Christmas, Florida, where thousands descend each year to get their holiday cards postmarked. It’s the best tradition we got, so fuck it, I’m rodeo-riding this cultural mutation.”
    â€œWhy’s it called Christmas?” Coleman licked his own stamp. “They have a big celebration way back or something?”
    â€œNo,” said Serge. “On the twenty-fifth of December, 1837, they began construction of Fort Christmas to fight the Second Seminole War. Nothing says the ‘Prince of Peace’ like a military installation.”
    â€œWho are we mailing your card to?”
    â€œMe,” said Serge. “It’s got a bitchin’ cool Florida postmark. I tried to think who might appreciate it more but drew a blank.”
    Coleman looked at his own envelope. “Mine’s