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section7mfu“But, baby, it’s cold outside,” Napoleon murmured.
The buxom redhead dressed in angel wings and little else dissolved like melting snow. In her place, burly sugarplums wearing steel-toed work boots began to dance on his head.
Suppressing a groan, Napoleon dragged open his heavy lids. He was sprawled against the wall of a sparsely-furnished room, his left wrist handcuffed to a pipe descending from a small sink. The familiar weight of his Special was missing. He shifted his right arm to check for St. Waverly’s gifts but his stomach protested. Disinclined to toss his Christmas cookies, he turned his head slowly and observed the room’s other occupant.
The man sat cross-legged on a cot, his head resting against the wall. His fur cap fell over his eyes to block out the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights. A matching fur vest covered his brightly patterned tunic. Tall suede boots were laced up to his knees, where his hands lay, palms upward.
“Ah, hello,” Napoleon croaked.
“I can’t get a good read on you, man.” The voice that emanated from the full, white beard was as smooth and mellifluous as hot, buttered rum. “You seem nice now. A minute ago your vibrations were definitely naughty.”
“Well, we can’t help our dreams.”
The man nodded as if Napoleon had uttered something profound. He pushed back the fur cap. His piercing blue eyes bored into the agent, then twinkled ruefully. “I sure miss my mojo. The name’s Yul.”
“Napoleon Solo. And you look to me like a man called Noel Perry.”
The beads around Yul’s neck clattered as he shifted. Napoleon could sense a great energy stirring beneath the languid pose. “Only one person still calls me that.”
“Alexander Waverly. He sent me to rescue you.”
Yul slapped a hand against one knee. “Right on. Star made it through to him.”
“Is that one of your elves?”
“No, man, Star’s not an elf. She’s my wife.”
“Mrs. Claus?”
“Ho, ho. Don’t let her hear you say that. She prefers to go by ‘Yul’s Old Lady.’” He made air quotes with his hands. “The irony appeals to her.”
“Why is that ironic?”
“Cuz she’s only twenty-five.”
Napoleon’s surprise showed in his face. Yul said, “Now, you’re not going to be a drag about that like ol’ Alexander, are you? I’ve already got everyone on the planet beat by a thousand years. What’s a few more decades?”
“I agree. Age is just a state of mind, ah, Daddy-o.”
Yul laughed, the sound like pealing church bells. “I dig you, man. We’re muy simpatico. I can see why Alexander trusts you.”
“Thanks. I like you too, though you’re not exactly what I expected.”
He shrugged. “I reinvent myself every few decades. When you’ve lived as long as I have, you gotta keep things interesting.”
A thousand questions flooded Napoleon’s mind. Perhaps someday he could sit before a crackling fire to enjoy a glass of eggnog and listen to this man’s stories. But today was not that day.
Napoleon worked himself upright. “Waverly said this place would be crawling with Thrushies, but I only ran into one.” He gingerly felt the lump on the back of his head. “Or he ran into me.”
Yul smiled. “Those covetous old sinners? When they suddenly felt goodwill toward their fellow men, they freaked. Most of them beat it out of here so fast, you’d think the place was radioactive.”
“Why haven’t you…you know?” Napoleon lay his finger aside of his nose.
Yul shook his head. “Are people still reading that poem? Crazy. I thought it was pretty far out the night Clement wrote it, but anything is after that much wassail.”
“What about your powers?”
“My mojo? I slipped most of it to Alexander in that package. I used the rest to get those Committee squares to mellow out.” He tipped his head back against the wall. “Now I’m just trying to maintain.”
“Speaking of your mojo.” Napoleon patted his pockets. The Special and his communicator were gone, but Waverly’s gifts remained. He pulled out the journal. “Let’s see what Santa’s Number One Elf has to say.”
Napoleon spoke into the end of the book as if it were a transceiver. “How do we get out of here?”
He flipped open the journal. Words appeared on the page. ‘Why don’t you see if there’s a handcuff key in the gift box? Or would you like to ask Santa for a pony first?’
Napoleon screwed up his face. “Thanks, Mr. Grinch.”
The little box rattled as he pulled it from his pocket. Under the lid lay a silver key.
Released from his fetter, Napoleon stood up and massaged his wrist. “And now for my next trick.” He examined the door. “I wonder if that moratorium on violence includes interior appointments.”
“What’s going on in there?” a harsh voice demanded. The doorknob rattled as someone worked the lock from the other side.
The buxom redhead dressed in angel wings and little else dissolved like melting snow. In her place, burly sugarplums wearing steel-toed work boots began to dance on his head.
Suppressing a groan, Napoleon dragged open his heavy lids. He was sprawled against the wall of a sparsely-furnished room, his left wrist handcuffed to a pipe descending from a small sink. The familiar weight of his Special was missing. He shifted his right arm to check for St. Waverly’s gifts but his stomach protested. Disinclined to toss his Christmas cookies, he turned his head slowly and observed the room’s other occupant.
The man sat cross-legged on a cot, his head resting against the wall. His fur cap fell over his eyes to block out the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights. A matching fur vest covered his brightly patterned tunic. Tall suede boots were laced up to his knees, where his hands lay, palms upward.
“Ah, hello,” Napoleon croaked.
“I can’t get a good read on you, man.” The voice that emanated from the full, white beard was as smooth and mellifluous as hot, buttered rum. “You seem nice now. A minute ago your vibrations were definitely naughty.”
“Well, we can’t help our dreams.”
The man nodded as if Napoleon had uttered something profound. He pushed back the fur cap. His piercing blue eyes bored into the agent, then twinkled ruefully. “I sure miss my mojo. The name’s Yul.”
“Napoleon Solo. And you look to me like a man called Noel Perry.”
The beads around Yul’s neck clattered as he shifted. Napoleon could sense a great energy stirring beneath the languid pose. “Only one person still calls me that.”
“Alexander Waverly. He sent me to rescue you.”
Yul slapped a hand against one knee. “Right on. Star made it through to him.”
“Is that one of your elves?”
“No, man, Star’s not an elf. She’s my wife.”
“Mrs. Claus?”
“Ho, ho. Don’t let her hear you say that. She prefers to go by ‘Yul’s Old Lady.’” He made air quotes with his hands. “The irony appeals to her.”
“Why is that ironic?”
“Cuz she’s only twenty-five.”
Napoleon’s surprise showed in his face. Yul said, “Now, you’re not going to be a drag about that like ol’ Alexander, are you? I’ve already got everyone on the planet beat by a thousand years. What’s a few more decades?”
“I agree. Age is just a state of mind, ah, Daddy-o.”
Yul laughed, the sound like pealing church bells. “I dig you, man. We’re muy simpatico. I can see why Alexander trusts you.”
“Thanks. I like you too, though you’re not exactly what I expected.”
He shrugged. “I reinvent myself every few decades. When you’ve lived as long as I have, you gotta keep things interesting.”
A thousand questions flooded Napoleon’s mind. Perhaps someday he could sit before a crackling fire to enjoy a glass of eggnog and listen to this man’s stories. But today was not that day.
Napoleon worked himself upright. “Waverly said this place would be crawling with Thrushies, but I only ran into one.” He gingerly felt the lump on the back of his head. “Or he ran into me.”
Yul smiled. “Those covetous old sinners? When they suddenly felt goodwill toward their fellow men, they freaked. Most of them beat it out of here so fast, you’d think the place was radioactive.”
“Why haven’t you…you know?” Napoleon lay his finger aside of his nose.
Yul shook his head. “Are people still reading that poem? Crazy. I thought it was pretty far out the night Clement wrote it, but anything is after that much wassail.”
“What about your powers?”
“My mojo? I slipped most of it to Alexander in that package. I used the rest to get those Committee squares to mellow out.” He tipped his head back against the wall. “Now I’m just trying to maintain.”
“Speaking of your mojo.” Napoleon patted his pockets. The Special and his communicator were gone, but Waverly’s gifts remained. He pulled out the journal. “Let’s see what Santa’s Number One Elf has to say.”
Napoleon spoke into the end of the book as if it were a transceiver. “How do we get out of here?”
He flipped open the journal. Words appeared on the page. ‘Why don’t you see if there’s a handcuff key in the gift box? Or would you like to ask Santa for a pony first?’
Napoleon screwed up his face. “Thanks, Mr. Grinch.”
The little box rattled as he pulled it from his pocket. Under the lid lay a silver key.
Released from his fetter, Napoleon stood up and massaged his wrist. “And now for my next trick.” He examined the door. “I wonder if that moratorium on violence includes interior appointments.”
“What’s going on in there?” a harsh voice demanded. The doorknob rattled as someone worked the lock from the other side.
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Date: 2018-12-26 08:58 pm (UTC)Loved this. Love the interpretation of Santa as basically a hippie. Loved the use of the special "gift" box. Great chapter!
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Date: 2018-12-26 09:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-12-28 03:36 pm (UTC)Wow, it's fantastic. The 60's groove is perfect, and Napoleon's response is, as he might say, just perfect.
Your imagination was on hyper drive, I'm excited to see what comes next. Oh wait, that would be me... I'll get on it ;)
Thanks for this excellent pinch hit home run.
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Date: 2018-12-28 08:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-12-30 10:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-12-31 01:00 am (UTC)