It was early November, and Frank Dieselwang was looking over stuffing and cranberry related recipes in an adorable hand me down apron when the Dieselphone started to blink, a landline that indicated he was an important business sort of person in this day and age because who really has landlines these days except people who are important business sorts of people.
“Frank Dieselwang, and Thanksgiving Prep Central, what can I do for you?” Frank Dieselwang said, affecting a somewhat fatherly tone in the spirit of the holidays, subconsciously mimicking in a fond way the fatherly figures in his life from when he was a lad, even though mostly they were still alive so it wasn’t really so much wistful as it was a homage to them as good people.
“Frank, it’s even worse this year,” said the voice of Yodlinda P. Sweetpeas with the urgency of someone who had something really urgent to say.
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| Originally taken by Geek2Nurse |
“What is it?” he asked, because he wanted to know what it was that was worse this year.
“It’s Christmas, and it’s coming even earlier this year.” Yodlinda’s grimace was evident even through this auditory method of communication.
“Christmas is coming prematurely?”
“It keeps coming and coming, but sometimes it isn’t welcome, we have Thanksgiving still!”
Frank grunted, a masculine strong sound that was equated with strength and knowing what to do, betraying the authors heteronormative tendencies in spite of his best intentions. “I’m on it.”
An indeterminate time later of no less than four hours but no greater than two days, Frank stood outside the door of Father Christmas LLC, a conveniently solitary boss figure for the movement of Christmas Themed Marketing because the reality is far more depressing.
He banged on the door and waited and then after waiting a few more minutes, enough to display patience but not so much as to be seen as a doormat, Frank opened the door and walked in and looked at Snorris Smarmington, CEO of Father Christmas LLC.
Frank stared him down, pointing at the artificially snowed over store that was becoming ubiquitous to the warm weathered location that had been liberally covered in Christmas cheer.
“I see we have you to thank for this mess, Snorris Smarmington.”
Snorris sneered smarmily back at Frank, “Yes, soon Christmas will come to all and come over everything!” He cackled maniacally, a surefire indicator that he was evil.
Frank said, “Christmas is coming too soon, you need to slow down and let everyone work their way up to it first.”
“Christmas will come wherever and whenever I want it to!” Suddenly Snorris pulled an enormous backpack like contraption with a big tube and a huge rod shaped nozzle head and aimed it at Frank, pulling the trigger and unleashing a blast of thick white goopy artificial Christmas Snow.
Frank reacted instinctively and ducked with the grace of an infamously hard to photograph cheetah diving beneath a rock once some photographers came within earshot. The wall behind him started to drip with white goop, which hardened grotesquely into artificial snow.’
Snorris cackled again, “Christmas will come to you, whether you like it or not Frank! It’s Christmanifest Destiny!”
Frank stood up and pointed a finger at Snorris, “That sounds like you’re ignoring consent, and you have crossed a line!” indicating pretty clearly that since Snorris made this violent Frank was able to reply in kind, which is pretty convenient, since that was Frank’s stronger conflict resolution methodologies, even though he prefers peaceful options which never seem to come up now that the author thinks about it.
Snorris took aim and spewed several spurts of Christmas gunk all over the room. Frank, with nimble weasel like agility, (because weasels are pretty agile too but don’t ever get mentioned in a positive light for the most part and the author thinks that’s kind of unfair) dove and flipped and shimmied away in the nick of time, dodging Snorris’ aimed shots of Christmas.
After maybe two minutes of this Snorris sighed in frustration and exhaustion as he pulled the trigger repeatedly, with nothing coming out out his nozzle. “What?! NO!”
Frank strode up confidently to Snorris, and stared him down, “Looks like you…. Just blew your load.” A thunderous punch came towards Snorris, from the arm of Frank, into Snorris’ face blasting him into the other room of wrapping paper, which conveniently wrapped him up in a roughly cylindrical package, and there was a bow on his head too.
Frank quipped, “Well, it doesn’t have to be Christmas, to get a gift wrapped package.”
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