When Elves Attack by Tim Dorsey Page A

all that junk?”
    Serge grabbed scissors and cut his own length of thread. “Any Christmas of mine must have a Florida theme. So I rounded up some ornamental fodder: matchbooks, bar coasters, ashtrays, pins, buttons, parking tickets, plastic cups from sporting events, swizzle sticks, cocktail umbrellas . . .” Serge squinted with one eye closed and threaded a needle through a piece of popcorn. “. . . rubber alligators and sharks from roadside attractions, souvenir butane lighters, keepsake bottle openers, Welcome-to-Florida matching penis and boobs salt-and-pepper shakers . . .”
    Coleman squinted with his own thread. “What’s going to be the angel for the top of the tree?”
    â€œThat’s the best part!” Serge pulled something from another bag next to his chair. “Isn’t it great?”
    Coleman scratched his head. “It’s just a little toy gorilla.”
    â€œBought it at Toy Town.”
    â€œBut what’s that got to do with Florida?”
    â€œThey didn’t have what I really wanted, so I had to settle for this and perform custom alterations.” Serge tapped the gorilla’s chest.
    Coleman edged closer. “You just wrapped masking tape a bunch of times around its chest and used a Magic Marker to write ‘Everglades Skunk Ape.’ ”
    Serge set the gorilla down and grabbed a piece of popcorn. “Bet I’ve got the only one.”
    Twenty minutes later, they finished at the table. Serge jumped to his feet. “To the tree!”
    More activity fastening things that weren’t meant to be fastened to the tree’s branches.
    Coleman worked with a stapler. Click-click, click-click. “Serge? When are we going to put the tree where it’s finally going to go?”
    Serge used a crimping tool for heavy-gauge industrial wire. Ker-chunk, ker-chunk. “It’s already in the final place.”
    Coleman stapled theme-park tickets. “But it’s still stuck in the door.”
    â€œIt’s way too damn big to get inside. I don’t know what I was thinking.” Serge hung a snow globe of dolphins on a teeter-totter. “So I figured we’d just leave it here and share the joy with our new neighbors.”
    â€œIt’s sticking out horizontal. I’ve never seen a sideways Christmas tree before.”
    â€œAnd neither has the neighborhood decorating committee. We might win a ribbon.” Serge grabbed a roll of duct tape. “Damn, my skunk ape keeps drooping over . . .”
    â€œNice popcorn garland,” said Coleman.
    â€œThen stop eating it.”
    â€œBut I’m hungry.”
    â€œI’m impressed by your garland, too,” said Serge. “Cool strands of beer-can pop-tops.”
    â€œThanks.”
    Serge held one of the lengths. “What are these little clear plastic squares in between?”
    â€œCrack-cocaine baggies I found in alleys.”
    â€œGood Florida touch. And this ornament?”
    â€œI made it with a nail file.”
    â€œCandy-cane shiv? . . .”
    A squeal of tires. Serge and Coleman looked up. A GTX with gold rims parked at the Davenports’ curb. Necking.
    Serge stood. “Hold down the Christmas fort. I need to take care of something.” He trotted toward the street.
    The door of the Davenport residence opened. Martha came down the steps.
    Serge reached the driver’s side and knocked on the glass. The window rolled down halfway. “What the fuck do you want?”
    â€œExcuse me, Mr. Snake, but if you’d like to hit it off with a girl’s parents, it’s usually better to go up and introduce yourself than to sit in the street molesting their fifteen-year-old in full view of the neighborhood. I’m just taking a wild stab at this.”
    â€œEat shit and die, old man.”
    The GTX patched out. Serge was left standing in the middle of the road . . . staring at Martha,