From the casebook of Beverly Sweet, owner and proprietor, Beverly Sweet: Cakes for all Occasions.
Part i
iii
I smell gasoline and roasting marshmallows,
strong enough almost to make me choke. It’s hot.
“Elfs,” says a voice, “is shit.”
I hear a door opening behind me and there’s
a burst of frigid air. Hands reach under my armpits, dragging me out into the
cold.
“Lollipop house, gumdrop car, driving
on sidewalk. Shit!”
I’m lying on my back in the snow. My
head aches. In front of me, bent and mangled, the taxi is starting to burn.
“Okay now, my friend. You can stand up?”
He steps in front of me, an old man. Even bundled up in multiple layers, he’s
implausibly thin.
“Uhn.”
“Is good.” He reaches down and starts
pulling me up by my left hand. “Right hand wrist is damage. Maybe broke, maybe
sprain, no good.” I’m standing now. He pats me on the cheek. “Will be okay. Now
we go.”
“I remember your face. We hit you.”
“Almost hit. Stupid elf is drive on
sidewalk.”
“The elf! Mackerel, I forgot. Where is
he?”
“He’s run away. Find elf police, maybe
elf hospital. Shit.” The man snorts. “You can walk? Now we go.” He turns and starts
off down the street.
“Wait,
where?”
“Elf
hotel. You stay there, yes?”
“Yes, but—”
“Is shit. Come.”
“But—”
“Stay here, maybe we die from freeze.
Maybe wolfs come, maybe bear.”
“Bear?” I stumble after him.
“White bear, very bad. Wolfs is many,
but bear is clever.”
“Are you joking?”
“No no. No joke. Bears like you, very
fatty.” He turns and pokes me in the stomach. “Like Santa Claus, bowl full of
jelly. Hee hee.” His laugh just sounds like his regular voice, saying “hee hee.”
“Who are you?”
“Yul. Is Yulnr. It says mister Yul man.”
“What?”
"Just
Yul is okay. Now we go.” He walks on ahead a few steps then stops and turns. “Christmas,”
he says, “is shit.”
