money back for a defective Buzzy Burp Bear.”
“I am not a nun,” Jessica said weakly.
“Piggly Jiggly has a two-week refund policy,” Frank explained to the wino and Thor, “and the damn nun . . . I mean, the nun . . . had it for a month before she brought it back. Said it wouldn’t burp. Hah! She’d probably been playing it nonstop all that time and wore out its burp battery.”
“A nun?” the wino whimpered, backing away from her as if she had something contagious.
“I am not a nun.”
“Hot damn!” the Santa-with-an-attitude whistled. “A holy bandit!”
“I am not a nun.”
“Clara . . . that’s your name, Sister Clara,” Frank chortled. “Boy, you are in big trouble, lady. I’m gonna report you to the police . . . and the Pope.”
“I’m not Clara, I tell you. I’m . . . I’m Clara’s hit guy.” She realized her mistake at once, and before Santa could pipe in, she corrected herself. “Hit man.” Then she added, “And I’m not in big trouble, because you owe me . . . I mean, Clara . . . the money for the stupid bear, and that’s not stealing. And I’m going to pay for the damage to the Pepsi machine. So there!”
“And here I thought I was gonna have a dull Saturday night. This is more fun than playing the lottery or doing laundry.”
Jessica gave the crud-that-would-be-a-Viking a withering appraisal. As if he had any difficulty filling his nights! He probably had women lined up with numbers. He probably drove a Porsche. He probably had a penthouse. He probably posed for centerfolds.
Unfortunately, she knew a few guys just like him; in fact, one of them had been her Christmas Curse six years ago. Except he’d looked like George Clooney with a paunch.
The guy’s arms were folded casually across his chest, and he grinned from ear to ear. Even with the padded Santa suit, she just knew he didn’t have a paunch.
“Give me my money,” she demanded, turning back to Frank as she felt the situation deteriorating around her. “I’m not leaving without my thirty-nine ninety-five, dammit.”
“Tsk-tsk, nuns aren’t supposed to swear,” Santa chided.
“Tell it to your reindeer, bozo.”
She had no choice then, she had to show she was in control. She aimed for the Little Debbie cupcake stand over to the left. Although she fired two shots, the second one came up blank. That must mean the gun was empty.
But, more important, instead of hitting Little Debbie, she winged the pyramid display of Buzzy Burp Bears. Immediately, brown fur flew everywhere as stuffed animals careened to the floor, and a chorus of bears began burping to the tune of “Jingle Bells.” It was a scene out of an I Love Lucy episode, or her worst nightmare.
Jessica groaned.
Everyone’s mouth dropped open in surprise, including the jerk Santa’s.
“Now . . . give . . . me . . . my . . . thirty-nine ninety-five,” she spat out evenly in her best Clint Eastwood voice, and tacked on in a gravelly rumble, just for effect, “or make my day.”
Frank didn’t hesitate. With quivering fingers he counted out the bills and coins and shoved them across the counter.
She put the money in her pocket and was about to leave when she saw a flash of dark blue race through the exit door. A security guard. Immediately, a loud alarm began to ring throughout the store. Oh, great! What should I do? What should I do?
Jessica tried to think what a genuine robber might do. A hostage. I need a hostage. Quickly, Jessica scanned her possibilities: Frank, the wino, the cross-dresser, the sales clerk, the two customers, or Thor.
“You’re coming with me,” she yelled at good ol’ Thor.
“No, I’m not,” he said, backing up.
“Yes, you are. You’re my hostage.” She leveled her now-empty gun at him—first, at his chest, then lower. Yep, a guy like him would care more about protecting those assets than his heart. Her upper lip curled with disdain. “Listen, Mr. Viking
“I am not a nun,” Jessica said weakly.
“Piggly Jiggly has a two-week refund policy,” Frank explained to the wino and Thor, “and the damn nun . . . I mean, the nun . . . had it for a month before she brought it back. Said it wouldn’t burp. Hah! She’d probably been playing it nonstop all that time and wore out its burp battery.”
“A nun?” the wino whimpered, backing away from her as if she had something contagious.
“I am not a nun.”
“Hot damn!” the Santa-with-an-attitude whistled. “A holy bandit!”
“I am not a nun.”
“Clara . . . that’s your name, Sister Clara,” Frank chortled. “Boy, you are in big trouble, lady. I’m gonna report you to the police . . . and the Pope.”
“I’m not Clara, I tell you. I’m . . . I’m Clara’s hit guy.” She realized her mistake at once, and before Santa could pipe in, she corrected herself. “Hit man.” Then she added, “And I’m not in big trouble, because you owe me . . . I mean, Clara . . . the money for the stupid bear, and that’s not stealing. And I’m going to pay for the damage to the Pepsi machine. So there!”
“And here I thought I was gonna have a dull Saturday night. This is more fun than playing the lottery or doing laundry.”
Jessica gave the crud-that-would-be-a-Viking a withering appraisal. As if he had any difficulty filling his nights! He probably had women lined up with numbers. He probably drove a Porsche. He probably had a penthouse. He probably posed for centerfolds.
Unfortunately, she knew a few guys just like him; in fact, one of them had been her Christmas Curse six years ago. Except he’d looked like George Clooney with a paunch.
The guy’s arms were folded casually across his chest, and he grinned from ear to ear. Even with the padded Santa suit, she just knew he didn’t have a paunch.
“Give me my money,” she demanded, turning back to Frank as she felt the situation deteriorating around her. “I’m not leaving without my thirty-nine ninety-five, dammit.”
“Tsk-tsk, nuns aren’t supposed to swear,” Santa chided.
“Tell it to your reindeer, bozo.”
She had no choice then, she had to show she was in control. She aimed for the Little Debbie cupcake stand over to the left. Although she fired two shots, the second one came up blank. That must mean the gun was empty.
But, more important, instead of hitting Little Debbie, she winged the pyramid display of Buzzy Burp Bears. Immediately, brown fur flew everywhere as stuffed animals careened to the floor, and a chorus of bears began burping to the tune of “Jingle Bells.” It was a scene out of an I Love Lucy episode, or her worst nightmare.
Jessica groaned.
Everyone’s mouth dropped open in surprise, including the jerk Santa’s.
“Now . . . give . . . me . . . my . . . thirty-nine ninety-five,” she spat out evenly in her best Clint Eastwood voice, and tacked on in a gravelly rumble, just for effect, “or make my day.”
Frank didn’t hesitate. With quivering fingers he counted out the bills and coins and shoved them across the counter.
She put the money in her pocket and was about to leave when she saw a flash of dark blue race through the exit door. A security guard. Immediately, a loud alarm began to ring throughout the store. Oh, great! What should I do? What should I do?
Jessica tried to think what a genuine robber might do. A hostage. I need a hostage. Quickly, Jessica scanned her possibilities: Frank, the wino, the cross-dresser, the sales clerk, the two customers, or Thor.
“You’re coming with me,” she yelled at good ol’ Thor.
“No, I’m not,” he said, backing up.
“Yes, you are. You’re my hostage.” She leveled her now-empty gun at him—first, at his chest, then lower. Yep, a guy like him would care more about protecting those assets than his heart. Her upper lip curled with disdain. “Listen, Mr. Viking
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