Do we enter the contest here? I see people talking about the contest but not the entries. Anyway, here is a bit of silliness I came up with.
The Maltese Donkey
by Robin Reed
My name is Santa Claus. I’m a private eye.
November was trying to wash the city away with torrential, cold rain. It beat against the window of my office and made me glad for once that I was wearing all that fur.
November used to mean that I was gearing up for the big night, the trip around the world, , the reindeer, the presents given to good boys and girls. These days it means sitting in my office waiting for no cases to come knocking on my door. Instead of Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donder and Blitzen I have a bottle of scotch, a .38 revolver, and too many memories.
“Mr. Claus?”
I must have nodded off for a second, because when I opened my eyes she was there. She was folding a frilly pink umbrella, which dripped water on the bare wooden floor. She was a high class dame, dressed in a frilly pink dress that matched her shoes, the umbrella, and my bloodshot eyes.
I took my feet off my desk and tried to look presentable. The bits of rotting sushi and soy sauce stains in my beard (I have all my food delivered from Gino’s Chinese n’ Chili Roundup on the first floor) probably didn’t help, but there was no time for a shower when a lady needed my help.
“What can I do for you?” I asked.
She smiled a smile so pure and angelic that I wanted to bone her right on the spot. Little Santa was as stiff as a cement candy cane.
“I want you to find my donkey.”
Donkeys. Why was it always donkeys?
“Is that your game?” I asked. “You came in here to make fun of me?”
“Not at all, Mr. Claus,” her pouty lips said.
` “Get out of here, sister,” I said. “Everyone knows about the donkey disaster of ‘04.”
What was I thinking? I thought for the billionth time. Donkeys filling in for sick reindeer? It was the end of my career as a Christmas icon. Children still yell “Hee-Haw!” at me on the street.
“That’s why you’re the only one who can help me,” she said. “My name is Valerie, but you probably know me as Mrs. Gordon Fontescue.”
“Mrs. Gordon Fontescue who is always in the society pages?” I asked. “Married to the richest member of the richest family in town? Mother of Suzie and Rodney Fontescue, ages 8 and 13? Subject of scandalous rumors that you have a lover named Dumont Norgood the third?”
“That’s right,” she said.
“Never heard of you.”
“I can tell when you’re lying, Mr. Claus. Your cheeks are like roses and your nose is like a cherry.”
“That’s the scotch,” I said. I lifted the bottle and took a swig. “Now I think I told you to get the hell out of here.”
“But you must help me,” Mrs. Gordon Fontescue said, her eyes quivering with barely withheld tears. “You see, my husband is trying to kill me.”
What does that have to do with a donkey?” I asked questioningly.
“I trained my pet donkey, Mortimer, to do tricks,” she said.
“What, like sit, beg, and play dead?”
“Yes, and recite the complete text of my pre-nuptial agreement with my husband.”
“That’s some donkey,” I said.
“He’s part parrot on his mother’s side. And he’s missing.”
“I’m missing too.”
“You are?”
“I’m missing the point. Would you get to it?”
“My husband is denying that we ever had a pre-nup. He has destroyed all the copies. If Mortimer can be found he can go to my lawyer’s office and recite it.”
I took off my red hat with the little white ball on it and wiped my chin with it. I was beginning to re-think the red and white fur motif. The ensemble was designed by a guy named Rod Mookmook. Maybe I should stop taking fashion advice from a gay eskimo.
“Pre-nups usually limit what a divorced wife gets. Why do you want to prove it exists?”
Valerie sat on my desk and leaned so close that I thought mommy was going to kiss Santa Claus.
No such luck. She said, “The pre-nup just says that I get the same amount as I would if there was no pre-nup.”
I stood up. “My fee is a thousand a day plus expenses. I need a five day retainer to start.”
Without hesitation, Valerie took five thousand dollar bills out of a little pink clutch purse and tossed it on my desk.
“Please let me know the moment you find Mortimer,” she said. Then she opened her umbrella and walked out the door, her perfume lingering behind and giving me thoughts that a character beloved to children all over the world should not have.
As soon as she was gone I picked up my phone and called a cab. Maybe Mortimer the donkey was in Bermuda. I planned to do a thorough, professional job finding out.
I stepped out in the November rain and let the silent night wash over me. After I blew the five grand I would need a new start. Maybe I would call my friend in British Intelligence and ask for a job.
Don’t call me Santa Claus any more. Call me Nick. Saint Nick.
