Page 27 of Merry Christmas, You Filthy Animal
Uncle Dwight blinks a few times. “Um, wow, that was a lot to take in all at once.”
“Sorry,” I answer bashfully. “When I’m struck with inspiration, my brain kind of moves fast.”
“I can see that. Well”—he lets out a deep breath—“I actually love it all. Love it. I think it’s unique and different but will bring in a new crowd, and I think... that’s something people will appreciate. I only have one question.”
“Yes?” I ask.
“What the hell is Schneeballen?”
I laugh. “They’re a German deep-fried pastry that’s extremely popular during the Christmas season. It would be the perfect thing to set us apart, because there are so many varieties of the dessert, you can play on some of the more popular flavor combinations with a general base of fried pastry.”
“Well then... I think we have the start of a business plan.”
“I think we do.” I smile. “Now . . . to do a little more recon . . .”
Chapter Seven
Max
Narrator: Word has spread throughout town, and now Max is known as a class A predator.
Not really, but you know how gossip goes. You hear one thing, and then it’s passed on from ear to ear, changing ever so slightly so that the truth becomes a mere memory of what’s being told. Which means, guess who’s on damage control? Our dear friend Max.
And it all starts at Kringletown’s coffee shop, Warm Your Spirits.
Cole:Be there shortly.
I pocket my phone, irritated that Cole is not on time. I know he has two kids, but I can’t go into the coffee shop without executing my plan, so I lean against the side of the building,waiting it out just as a familiar masked Pepsi thrower rounds the corner.
When she spots me, she gasps and takes a step back, as if I’m the villain in this story.
Check the mirror, ma’am, because I’m not the one throwing deadly pantry items at heads.
“Are you stalking me?”
I roll my eyes. “Please, I have better things to do with my life.” I grip my side and say, “My back is fine by the way. Thanks for asking.”
“Then why are you just standing there... lurking? Are you practicing your Peeping Tom routine? Luring in innocent victims with your witty banter, only to try to break into their house and do God knows what to them?”
My nostrils flare as I whisper, “I’m not lurking. I’m waiting for a friend?—”
“I’m sure you are.” She takes another step back as if I’m about to strike any second. “But you know what? I’m not falling for it, so just... just leave me alone.”
“Gladly,” I say, tossing my arms in the air. “Gladly. Just move on.”
“You move on.”
“No, you move on,” I counter.
“Why? So you can attack me as I move by you?”
Grinding my molars, I say, “If anyone attacked anyone, it was you attacking me. So I should be the one calling for help.”
“Don’t you dare.”
“Oh, I will.” I lift my chin. “Help,” I screech. “Help, the serial soda killer is attacking me.”
“Stop that.”
