Holiday Shorts Read online

  “No, Santa. Christmas will go off without a hitch once again... all across the galaxy.”

  Jimmy Krinklepot and the

  White Rebels of Hayberry

  “As of this day, December 24th, eighteen-sixty-eight, you are hereby forbidden to go near the junkyard or your father’s workshop!” Judge Davenport’s booming Missouri drawl filled the courtroom. Virtually the entire town had gathered, word spreading like wildfire that charges had been levied against the accused, whom everyone knew all too well as a troublesome but well-meaning miscreant of high cerebral capacity.

  Davenport’s gavel came down like a clap of doom as he eyed Jimmy Krinklepot with a steely glare. A quiet chatter flitted across the gathered townsfolk of Hayberry in the aftermath of the sentence.

  Davenport was a fair man, to be sure. Indeed, folks around town called him the fairest judge in the Union half of Missouri. But even a judge has a right to be angry when his property has been, as the judge put it, unduly molested. In this case, his property were seventeen prize chickens, and molested referred to Jimmy’s latest invention.

  Jimmy hung his head low, and his shoulders slumped. He blushed beneath a dusty, eight-panel grimwig, his hands jammed into tweed pants held firm by black suspenders. His mother stood silent behind him. He knew he’d miscalculated. What with his papa being away for so long on government business, he’d just let his imagination wander … and Jimmy’s imagination, being what it is, could wander a sight farther than your average teenage boy.

  “I must say that I resent being brought in here the day before Christmas on account of your dreadful judgment and propensity for vandalism, well-intentioned though it may be. You would be well advised,” Davenport growled, “to ponder what brought you here before me today.” The judge reached beneath the bench where he sat and pulled forth a glass of iced lemonade. He sipped slowly, his eyes never leaving Jimmy.

  Jimmy’s eyes drifted to the courtroom window, picking out several dark spots in the sky, and did as the judge directed.

  * * *

  Jimmy had gotten it into his head—thinking only of the family cook Consuela, mind you—to lend his not insignificant gray matter to the matter of cooking. The previous evening, he’d overheard Consuela lamenting how long it took to prepare dinner for the household. Being of an inherently helpful nature, Jimmy woke early and walked through bitterly cold air to his workshop hidden in the junkyard. It was as close an approximation to his father’s as he could make, and he set about tinkering with wires, condensers, emitters, and batteries of his father’s design. The net result was portable, albeit a bit unwieldy, and a dire temptation for Jimmy and his diminutive but trusted cohort William Clarence Simplefig, who, as usual, accompanied Jimmy on his adventures.

  But the device needed testing.

  A proper test requires a proper subject. Again, Jimmy put his gray matter to the problem at hand. Realizing that a suitable target did not exist in the junkyard, he and William set off for, literally, greener pastures, although green was a color hard to come by in what had turned out to be a dry, cold winter in Missouri. Indeed, most of the town decried that there was little possibility of a white Christmas.

  Travelling well past the edge of town, and walking down a wide country lane lined by tall oaks and maples bereft of leaves, the boys soon found themselves within earshot of a fine white house, with a fine white picket fence. Betwixt the house and the fence stood a fine white chicken coop with a run of low chicken wire that contained two dozen fine white chickens.

  Jimmy opened the gate and stepped through, heading straight for the coop. Only a few strides had him standing before what he deemed to be suitable test subjects.

  “But what about whoever lives here?” William queried from behind, a tinge of worry creeping into his voice. William, being of an inherently nervous sort, made up for his considerable squeamishness with a healthy dose of common sense. Unfortunately, on any scale, squeam would outweigh sense as a result of an absence of backbone. The boy had little foot to put down, as his father would often say.

  “It’s perfect,” Jimmy said to his sidekick. “Set the power level to one and flip those three switches on the side,” he added, excitement filling his voice like wind-blossomed sails.

  William gulped once, his eyes shifting from the pack on Jimmy’s back to the house. He carefully turned the knob from zero to one, noting that it went to eleven, which struck him as a bit odd. He had long ago, however, given up trying to understand his companion-in-mischief, finding the exercise futile in the extreme. He then flipped the first switch, eliciting a quiet buzz from the mass of brass plating, coils, and wires strapped to Jimmy’s back. He flipped the second. The buzz became a hum. He flipped the third and felt a tremor vibrating his teeth. Quite prudently, he stepped away from the device, as he had been caught in errant detonations from Jimmy’s inventions more than once in the past.

  “Step back,” Jimmy said without looking.

  William blinked slowly at the wide gap he’d already placed between himself and the device, pondering fruitlessly if any distance would be sufficient.

  Jimmy raised a strange looking apparatus connected to the pack by several feet of cable, gripping it like a soldier holds a rifle. The apparatus was long, but that’s where the similarity ended. The grip at the back was a modified spade handle, with a lever built in. The handle plugged into a brass housing adorned by thick coils of wire on each side. A three-foot, copper cylinder extended out, and silver prongs protruded from a bulbous end. Three grapefruit-sized copper spheres bulged along the length, with wires sticking out hither and yon in an almost haphazard fashion.

  Jimmy took aim at the nearest chicken and held his breath. Its head bobbed up and down almost peacefully as it pecked at barren earth. He pressed the lever.

  CRAAAAACK!

  A zagging bolt of red electricity shot from the apparatus and struck the hapless chicken square on. A pall of steam filled the air as Jimmy’s weapon super-headed the natural humidity of Missouri. Feathers burst into a cloud of white that swirled and settled slowly around a steaming corpse. The pleasing sent of cooked chicken wafted into the boys’ nostrils, setting their mouths to watering. A vision of Consuela’s chicken fricassee passed before Jimmy’s eyes, a dish of tender stewed meat that had often sated Jimmy’s growing appetite.

  Staring intently through the quickly dissipating cloud, Jimmy took in what remained of the chicken, and, in no small part based upon the scent, deduced that the internal moisture of the bird had caused his weapon to steam rather than roast. A triumphant giggle slid past his lips … followed by a guilty chortle from William’s.

  “I dub this …” Jimmy announced, holding the apparatus up into the air as if it were the holy sword Excalibur, “the Fricassee Pistol!”

  “But it’s a rifle,” William said between laughs.

  “Shh …” Jimmy hissed, disinterested in something as trivial as descriptive accuracy when phonetic alliteration was so much more satisfying.

  Now, boys being what they are, Jimmy felt that a single test simply was not sufficient. One could argue that it was in the name of science. One could also argue that it was the simple yet maniacal delight of a boy with a gun.

  CRACK! The fricassee pistol barked. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

  The air swirled white. The ground around the coop quickly filled with a layer of feathers and down fit for any man’s pillow, that pristine white plain interrupted only by a scattering of perfectly fricasseed chickens.

  “WHAT IN THE HELL ARE YOU BOYS DOING?” a thunderous voice shouted from behind them.

  Pleased as punch and innocent as a lamb, Jimmy turned away from the steaming chickens and said, “Testing my new invention.” He recognized the considerable girth of Judge Davenport straight away, and realized a moment later that the situation might have taken a turn for the worst. Judging by the apoplectic hues of crimson spreading across the Judges features, Jimmy correctly deduced that the man was not one of science.

  Ji
mmy stood in Judge Davenport’s courtroom that very afternoon, despite the looming celebration of Christmas Day.

  * * *

  It was, in fact, the drone of Davenport’s voice once again filling the courtroom that brought Jimmy back from his reminiscence of the morning’s escapade. However, it was no longer reminiscence that occupied his youthful thoughts, so he respectfully raised his hand to speak.

  “Your mother,” Davenport continued, nodding in her direction, “has graciously provided remuneration for the loss of my property, and I am inclined to leave the matter in her lovely hands until the return of your father from our nation’s capital, who will, I hope treat with you most severely.” Davenport paused, his eyes narrowing at Jimmy’s raised and clearly offensive hand. “Do not, I say, do not interrupt me when I am speaking, boy!”

  “But—”

  “There are no ‘buts’ in my courtroom, young man!” the judge barked.

  “That may be, sir,” Jimmy plowed on, “but it appears as if there are about to be Rebels in your courtroom.”

  That stopped the judge cold. “I beg your pardon?”

  Jimmy pointed out the window at three approaching zeppelins, each the distinctive gray of the Confederate Air Force.

  “JESUS PALOMINO!” Davenport shouted, lurching to his feet with his eyes fixed upon a Rebel-besmirched sky.

  Three women, including Jimmy’s mother, fainted straight away, although it could not be ascertained whether it was because of the looming Rebel attack or Davenport’s overt, albeit unintentional blasphemy. Each lady, thankfully, was caught by a nearby gentlemen and eased onto the benches where considerably more conscious ladies fanned them.

  The two bailiffs present dashed to the window, drawing their service revolvers as they ran. They stared up at the zeppelins, each gondola lined with heavy gun emplacements, and then stared pointedly at each other’s pistols. A silent exchange passed between them in the fleeting moments that followed a synchronous realization: they were outmanned and outgunned.

  They turned as one towards Davenport as a mass of townspeople crowded behind them at the window. In one voice they shouted over the clamor of frightened townsfolk, “We’re in trouble, Your Honor!”

  There were cries of “What are we gonna do?” mixed with “We’re doomed!” from the terrified townsfolk.

  One man shouted in a rather accusatory manner, “Where’s the sheriff?”

  Sheriff Tate, who had gleefully attended Jimmy’s hearing on account of the number of times the boy had caused the town grief, replied rather heatedly, “Right here, McAffee! But there ain’t much I can do against heavy guns with this pea-shooter strapped to my hip!”

  The three zeppelins split, one coming straight at the courthouse while the other two started circling around the edge of town. As one, all three airships released a burst of gunfire. Thunder filled the sky as flame shot from the heavy caliber emplacements.

  Men and women screamed in horror, but the detonations of artillery rounds clearly came from well beyond the outermost buildings.

  “What the—!” one of the men yelled over the din.

  Another shouted, “They ain’t shooting at us!”

  “Those are warning shots!” one of the bailiffs yelled. “Lettin’ us know they can gun down anyone trying to leave town.”

  “ATTENTION CITIZENS OF HAYBERRY!” The words erupted from above and echoed throughout the entire town, spoken harshly and with a distinctly Tennessee accent. “THIS IS CAPTAIN WOLFORT OF THE CONFEDERATE AIRFORCE!”

  The courtroom went silent.

  “Hey,” the other bailiff observed. “They’s lowerin’ a harness of some sort out the bottom of that there zep.” He pointed to the airship that had taken up station some two hundred feet above and in front of the courthouse, hovering directly over Town Square.

  “THE CONFEDERACY REQUESTS AND REQUIRES THAT YOU HAND OVER ONE JAMES ARCHIMEDES KRINKLEPOT FORTHWITH! FAILURE TO DO SO WILL RESULT IN ONE BUILDING BEING DESTROYED EVERY FIFTEEN MINUTES UNTIL HE IS IN OUR CUSTODY. WE WILL BEGIN WITH THE DESTRUCTION OF THE COURTHOUSE. YOU HAVE FIFTEEN MINUTES TO DECIDE!”

  The courtroom went silent, and every pair of eyes save Jimmy’s turned to the boy—some in fear, some with loathing, but most with a healthy dose of confusion. Every face, save two, held the question, What did you get us into this time?

  Jimmy’s confusion was readily apparent. All he could offer the accusing looks was open palms and an innocent shrug.

  Judge Davenport, on the other hand, knew exactly what sort of game the Confederacy was playing. They were looking for a hostage, leverage against Jimmy’s father, the most renowned scientist working for the Union military. The cads were clearly gentlemen enough not to ask for Krinklepot’s wife, but they were not above taking a young man of near-legal fighting age into their custody.

  “Turn him over!” several men shouted, pointing at the bewildered youth.

  “I ain’t dying for that rapscallion!” shouted Dickey Wilson as he moved towards Jimmy.

  “Bailiffs! Restrain that man!” Judge Davenport shouted.

  Both bailiffs, pouncing like well-trained Dobermans, grabbed Dickey and held him firm.

  “Enough!” Davenport bellowed as his gavel came down like a sledgehammer. The entire courtroom went silent at the crack of wood, that silence broken only by the splintered halves of Davenport’s sounding block as they clattered from his podium onto the hardwood floor. “I have no intention of handing that boy over to the Confederacy, no matter what he’s done.”

  “But!—” Dickey started.

  Davenport’s fiery eyes locked onto Dickey’s as he cut the man off with an icy tone: “I believe I have said before that there will be no ‘buts’ in my courtroom.” He raised a fierce eyebrow, adding, “Do I make myself perfectly clear, Mister Wilson?”

  Dickey, knowing when he was outgunned, closed his mouth and left it that way.

  “So what are we gonna do?” Sheriff Tate asked.

  Another hailstorm of questions fell in a flurry against the red-faced visage of the Judge.

  Now Jimmy, being the sort of boy he was, had quietly set his gray matter to the problem at hand. At first he couldn’t fathom why the Confederacy would want him. It was his father who worked for the Union.… And therein lay his answer. Jimmy was young and perhaps a bit naive about the ways of the world, but he’d read enough penny dreadfulls in his early years to understand how powerful a hostage could be. But what to do about it? He couldn’t be handed over to the Confederacy as a bargaining chip, and the townsfolk lacked the means to withstand the assault of three heavily armed Confederate airships. And, to add insult to injury, the lot of them had just under fourteen minutes to make a decision. Jimmy pondered and finally came upon a solution.

  Amidst the confusion, he quietly walked over to a nearby table where Exhibit A stood waiting … and wanting.

  “Excuse me, Your Honor?” Jimmy said quietly. His voice was drowned out by the cacophony flying between the judge, the sheriff, and the townsfolk. He stood up upon the table so that he might be heard better. “Your HONOR!” he shouted over the din.

  Davenport spun at the intruding and somewhat high-pitched voice as the rest of the crowd continued to argue amongst themselves.

  “What is it, boy?” he asked and then paused, silently contemplating the apparatus Jimmy held up in his hands. Said apparatus was offered with a mischievous grin and a raised eyebrow.

  At first Davenport reveled at the thought of Rebels getting a dose of Jimmy’s fricassee pistol, but then images of his prize chickens, featherless, cooked, and scattered about his yard came to mind. The thought of fricasseed men dotting the streets of Hayberry, Rebel or not, filled him with dread.

  “Boy, I will not see those men fricasseed before the eyes of our fellow townsfolk, before the eyes of your lovely mother, and before God Himself! It is indecent! Inhuman! I do not care if they are Rebels! I will surrender before I allow your mother to see such a sight!”

  Jimmy glanced at his mo
ther who was, thankfully, still unconscious.

  “Well, technically, Your Honor,” he said a bit sheepishly, “my mother is still unaware of these events.”

  Davenport raised a warning finger, preparing for the “but” he could clearly discern in Jimmy’s words.

  “However,” Jimmy continued, realizing his position was untenable, “I do see your point.” Jimmy’s mischievous grin had turned to a frown, and his gray matter poured over this new obstacle to his freedom and the safety of Hayberry.

  Then his eyes fell upon Davenport’s iced lemonade.

  Iced.

  The entire town of Hayberry enjoyed iced beverages as a result of a minor invention provided to the people by Jimmy’s father some years ago. Virtually every household, and even the courthouse, had a small icemaker that made the hot months of Missouri more bearable. And Judge Davenport was well known for his veritable addiction to iced beverages, even in the winter months. He had declared to Jimmy’s father some years hence that the icemaker was perhaps civilized man’s greatest achievement.

  Indeed, the device was remarkable, and Jimmy had used its design as a foundation for his fricassee pistol, simply altering both current and polarity to achieve heating rather than cooling. His device, of course, was capable of exponentially greater output, but that was more a whim of youth than an engineering requirement.

  Jimmy visualized the interior of the fricassee pistol’s powerpack, crossed a few wires in his head, adjusted a couple of condensers, and immediately had a solution with which the judge would not be able to argue.

  Jimmy raised his hand once again.

  * * *

  “YOU HAVE TWO MINUTES!” the southern voice boomed.

  Jimmy stepped through the doors of the courthouse into frigid December air. William followed close behind, his knees shaking more from fear than the cold. He would rather be anywhere else in the world, but he was familiar with the device’s controls, so he’d gotten the job of turning the thing on.

  Judge Davenport and Sheriff Tate stepped out into the cold several steps behind the boys, Tate aiming his pistol at the boy’s backs as if he were forcing them forward. It was a ruse, of course, meant to ease the trigger fingers of the Confederate gunners.