She was beautiful and she knew it. A drop-dead gorgeous blonde with gams that could stop holiday traffic and eyes that could melt Frosty the Snowman right down to his icy toes. A wild-eyed winter heart-stopper in a plush little red dress with white fox trim short enough below her lovely ass to hint that she was in the browsing market for just the right sort of holiday stocking stuffer to keep her private parts nicely warmed until spring. Her eyes reminded me of Mrs. Claus but it was certainly not that grand dame, but something in the same spirit ... but younger, cheaper and much more tawdry. A festive package for the eyes held together with a red velvet ribbon bow just waiting for some lucky boy to find under his tree as a gift from Santa. She was playing the act like a professional too, alternating between being tarty and demure.
It was a shame though that nearly every word out of her cute sensuous mouth was pretty much a fib, if not an outright lie. No surprise. It goes with the territory. It was the lovely but crazy, crazy eyes ... divine, but deliciously bughouse. Just looking into them made my toe-hairs curl!
When you’re Christmas Town’s only private investigator, you don’t tend to get the more honest and upright citizens for clients. Like the town’s snowplows and weekly garbage collection, I deal with all of steaming reindeer crap that everyone else tries to pretend doesn’t exist here in our winter wonderland utopia.
Think about it ... it’s Christmas here the other 364 days of the year too, complete with all of the stress and dysfunction of that day of the year times two or two-hundred. There isn’t enough magic Christmas snow in the entire North Pole to keep everyone’s holiday spirits bright every single fucking day of your entire unnaturally long life. At some point even the jolliest toyshop elf is going to snap and climb up to the top of the gingerbread clock tower with a high powered rifle. It’s only just ‘normal’ crazy most of the year around here but during December it can be like living in a pressure cooker dialed up to eleven for the entire town, not to mention all of the high-brow muckity-mucks inside Santa’s Castle.
When folks finally snap the results and the collateral damage can get ugly; getting boiled into a plum pudding and getting a stake of holly through your heart aren’t just idle threats!
Today was the eve of Christmas Eve, December twenty-third, and everyone I’d seen on the streets this morning already appeared to be already nervous and jittery enough to resemble old fashioned coffee percolators. The coke and meth dealers were all doing record trade this week. Next week it would be back to being mostly heroin. The next poor innocent out on some street corner misguided enough to sing out ‘Merry Christmas’ today (and mean it) was entirely likely to suffer an unfortunate accident involving the vigorous application of a dozen or two iron pipes smacking upon their skull!
Since the blonde strumpet was practically begging for my help and brazenly showcasing her goods available for trade, I could tell that somewhere some particularly really nasty sewage pipe was about to blow its seasonal discharge. Naturally, cute and perky was also lying her luscious little ass off, no two ways about it, but her case was gaining my interest.
She was claiming to be Caroline Christmas’s sister, whom everyone better knew as ‘Christmas Carole’, and supposedly she’d gone missing. Disappeared without a trace, her alleged sister said, and she wanted her found. If true, this was a big time case; Christmas Carole was one of the really important players and her famously gorgeous tush had a nice cushioned seat at the adults’ table of the Kringle Gang, right by the quivering belly and fat lecherous hands of the old fat fool himself.
More importantly, since I’d declined any barter arrangement, she was now offering to pay cash, in good cold shiny silver too, for me to do the job! It’s all about silver and gold here. Even the Kringles only really care about the jingle! Nothing else could possibly explain why the Fat Man did all of those cigarette commercials in the 1950’s and 60’s, complete with a tattoo on his arm that said ‘Less Tar’.
It had been a good year for business at Scrooge & Marley, LLC and the money box under the potbellied stove in my office was stuffed nearly as full as the hostess at a reindeer orgy, but there was always room in the till for a bit more of the old ready. I gave my client another quick look-over, especially at the mile of openly displayed pristinely white cleavage where her coat was slowly surrendering to the hopeless pressure of restraining within the irresistible abundance of her magnificent huddled masses yearning to breathe free.
Oddly, I was able to keep my cool and even keep my eyes (mostly) focused upon hers. She might have been impossibly gorgeous, but that just made my thumbs itch even more, reminding me that anything that seemed obviously too good to be true, was ... and that meant trouble that I probably didn’t need. The crazy women are the best in bed, though.
Yeah, this lusciously ripe tart was just the type to be a regular at one of Comet and Vixen’s weekly gangbangs, or she would sink even to the utter depravity of an elf orgy, probably imparting to one and all some gift that keeps on giving that neither penicillin nor ground up mistletoe berries could cure.
This was trouble that I didn’t need and my brain had been telling me to send her flawless tits and ass right straight back out the door ... right up to the moment that her shiny silver started to jingle upon my desk. Bah!
I decided take the case and the cash ... but her robe was going to stay right where it was!
Humbug! Crazy women are the most fun in bed, I reminded myself again ... but I didn’t trust this one even with her clothes on, let alone naked and in the dark. Worse, she had that palpable scent of the castle about her. She just quietly reeked of Au du Arrogance or something like that. The aroma of money, power and entitlement ... everyone from the castle has that stench, and I try to keep it as far away from me as possible. My old partner Marley used to enjoy diddling those sorts of clients but I haven’t the tolerance for bullshit that he’d had, even before he became deader than a doornail.
“It’s nippy enough already in here, what with the coal strike, so lady you can keep your coat on and don’t bother showing off any of your other finer and more pronounced features that just might otherwise freeze and break off in the cold! I’ll take the case and I prefer payment in gold, fifty sovereigns a day plus expenses, plus a bonus for a happy ending, and make it a big gusher! Two day minimum deposit in advance, no promises or refunds.”
She shrugged and tightened up the belt ribbon of her coat, closing up from view something of a majority of her otherwise unrestrained immaculately snow white breasts. In my opinion they could have used just a hint of sun and already I was going to need a good stiff drink in a few minutes, not but what other parts of me weren’t already nicely stiff. With coal being rationed rather severely at the moment, the office was pretty bloody close to freezing and my perverted, but otherwise useless clerk Bob Crotchitch was absolutely shivering at his desk near the snow covered window outside. Perhaps I should buy him a heated butt-plug for Christmas?
Sleeping with clients is always bad business, especially when they’re dishing themselves up to you complete with the proverbial silver platter. The odds were good that there was more than just humbuggery up for offer here ... and the goods that were on offer here were undoubtedly more than a bit odd! She was definitely high class quim from the castle ... and even thinking about tapping it would undoubtedly bring me far more trouble than I could handle.
My old dead partner Marley would have screwed her right then and here on the spot in every orifice she had, but truthfully he never did have the common sense of even a doorknob, bless his dead soul, there is no doubt whatever about that. ‘Mankind was his business’, he was often wont to say, namely that there wasn’t a man, woman or child that the old letch wouldn’t dip his wick into!
My blonde Christmas angel sighed and slowly offered up the goods (no, not her utterly flawless breasts) and with obvious reluctance started to count out the jingle jangle jingle. One hundred bright and shiny gold sovereign coins, newly minted too. That alone was suspicious enough to be worth the careful examination of a dozen or so coins at random to check for enchantments or charms. I then checked another full two dozen more just to be sure. She scrunched up her face and pinched her thin ruby lips tight in annoyance at me but I was just following accepted good business practices. The old ‘fairy gold’ trick had never entirely died in a town chock full of mischievous (and insanely stressed-out) elves and smart folks always kept a lead stylus on hand to check any dodgy coins before accepting payment. Hers were good, pure minted gold, each and every one. Cold hard cash!
Silver and gold, silver and gold
Ev’ryone wishes for silver and gold
How do you measure its worth?
Just by the pleasure it gives here on earth!
.... There is more of this story ...