“So what the hell do you want, you big fucking baby?”
“I told you, I don’t want nothin’”
Jurgen Kierkedoek stomped off, his size thirteen Doc Martens leaving thunderstorms in their wake.
Menlowe gave a loud sigh and shook his head at the darkening sky before turning to follow the giant.
“Sweetie, all I was saying…”
Kierkedoek stopped and swung his wide, fur-lined shoulders back to face the smaller man.
“All you were saying is that there ain’t no Santa. Which you’ve been hassling me about for years. Fuck you, man. You know how mad that makes me.”
Menlowe stepped gracefully over a small puddle and gently placed his hands on Kierkedoek’s furry chest.
“You’re right, Yergie. I’m sorry. I’ll stop teasing you. Now will you calm down so we can get to this job?”
Kierkedoek snuffed an unpleasant-sounding amount of snot back into his sinuses and spat it out into the street, where it slapped loudly into the gutter slush.
“Fine. Fuck it, man. Let’s get it done. This fucking sucks.”
Menlowe shuddered at the expellation of loogie, but moved to feed his arm through Kierkedoek’s.
“I know you’re upset about working on Christmas Eve, but I promise I will make it up to you in the morning.”
“Did you get me the new Halo? And the anti-grav controller?” Kierkedoek bounced as he walked.
“I am not telling you.”
“You fuckin’ did too.”
“Behave. Just realize that my gifts better be pretty damned amazing, Big Boy.”
The street was filled on both sides with an ocean of last-minute shoppers, rushing and shoving, jockeying for position in the crowd. Nobody seemed to notice the mismatched pair as they strolled arm in arm. Arthur Menlowe, wrapped up in his pristine, and very new, Helly Hanson parka, and Kierkedoek, towering beside him in what could only be described as a 70’s style bear carcass of a fur overcoat, made a distinct impression.
Kierkedoek brought them to an abrupt stop in front of a questionable-looking old rummy in a frayed and stained red suit, lazily flopping a handbell from side-to-side as he mumbled incoherently.
“Good afternoon,” Menlowe sang, “Liquid lunch today, Santa?”
As Menlowe waved his hands in front of his face in the generally-accepted symbol of stank drunk, Kierkedoek shoved one giant fist inside of his coat pocket and crammed a fistfull of crumpled bills into the swinging ball of donations.
“Don’t you dare!”
“Merry Christmas, man.” Kierkedoek grinned at the red-suited bum, ignoring Menlowe’s protests.
The rummy gazed up and sputtered out a thank you and a “Happy Holidays, Bub.”
Menlowe refused to speak again until they were on the number seven bus, headed away from the six other street corner Santas who had received large dispensations from the meaty hands of the West-Hollywood ball-slap artist known as Kickerdick.”
That title will be sure to confuse some tweeps.
Got How? 