Xmas Spirit by Tonya Hurley Read Free Book Online Page B

street.
    “It’s a sign!” Wendy shouted, pointing it out. “Thank you, God!”
    In bold black-and-white, candy-striped letters, it read: MONEY FOR CHRISTMAS !
    Just like the time she found an ad at the ninth hour in the local community college newspaper for the exact amount of money they needed for last year’s gift—the brain study where they had their heads slowly frozen by wearing helmets with ice trapped inside and then were instructed to play video games while the researcher measured their increasingly delayed reaction times.
    The Wendys ran across the street in their heels, nearly oblivious to the fact that Damen had been parked directly underneath the sign.
    “Hey, what are you two doing here?” he asked.
    “We might ask you the same,” Wendy Anderson responded.
    “I was just driving by, and I saw this sign. A little extra money for Christmas wouldn’t hurt.”
    “So you haven’t gotten anything for Petula yet?”
    “No, but you say nothing.”
    The thrill The Wendys experienced from gleaning this little piece of holiday intelligence lit them up like the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center.
    “We won’t tell if you won’t,” Wendy T. said, eyeing him suspiciously.
    “In our defense, we did get her list late.”
    “So, what’s the gimmick? Nobody just hands out money for nothing,” Wendy Thomas asked.
    “Ever feel invisible?” a smarmy voice whispered from behind them before Damen could answer.
    The Wendys felt a sudden chill rise up their spines, worse than anything a winter wind could supply.
    “Um, no,” Wendy Anderson replied, offended by the question. “But why do you ask?”
    They turned to find a tall, thin, dapper dude with amegawatt grin, decked out in a black, tightly fitted two-piece suit, with a candy-cane-striped tie and white velour lapels and pant cuffs. His hair was long and obviously dyed artificially white, slicked and pulled pack in a tiny ponytail, which was tucked under a red wool Santa hat, tilted slightly to the side. His beard was trimmed meticulously. This was no dime-store Saint Nick. He looked as if he been groomed and dressed in the finest Fifth Avenue designer showroom. More corporate than Kringle. The Wendys, however, found themselves unable to take their eyes off the bulge in his crotch. He gave a whole new meaning to Christmas package.
    “Don’t move,” Wendy Anderson instructed, training her smartphone camera on him. “I’ve never seen a metrosexual Santa before.”
    The plier of the dismal trade complied, smiling menacingly for them.
    “Status update!” Wendy T. cheered, checking out the photo.
    “You were saying?” Wendy T. resumed.
    “You wanted to know what our little giveaway was all about,” he said, stepping uncomfortably close to them, package first.
    “Back off, Santa Claws,” Wendy Anderson snapped, pulling Wendy T. behind Damen and showing him her long pointed nails.
    “We’re listening,” Wendy T. said. “As long as we don’t have to sit on your lap to find out.”
    He smiled wider.
    “My name is Mr. Wormsmoth,” he said. “I’m the funeral director here.”
    “So then shouldn’t Halloween really be your thing?” Damen observed. “Christmas doesn’t exactly seem like the best time to promote your line of work.”
    “On the contrary, young man, my business is always in season,” the man answered dryly. “Which is why we host the funeral expo at the convention center every Christmas Eve.”
    “Sounds creepy,” Damen added. “There’s not much joy in your world, if you know what I mean.”
    “We like to think of it as counterprogramming.”
    “Original. I like it,” Wendy A. said. “What do we have to do?”
    “Model.”
    “That’s it?”
    “You mean like at a car show? Just stand there and rub ourhands along somebody’s bumper?”
    “Not exactly,” Mr. Wormsmoth informed. “But for the most part, you will just have to lie there.”
    “Oh, well, you are in luck then. They’re experts at that.” Damen