Page 1 of Merry Christmas, You Filthy Animal
Prologue
Max
Narrator: Nestled in the trees, off to the left of the reindeer barn and yards away from the commotion of holiday lovers in the year-round Christmas town of Kringle, is the quaint yet grandiose log cabin that belongs to Otto and Ida Maxheimer.
With their family of five, Otto and Ida live on the pine-covered land of Evergreen Farm with their three boys, Felix, Ansel,and Atlas.
Let me introduce them to you.
Felix Joseph Maxheimer, the oldest of the three, an avid weather observer known for his vast knowledge of lagers, loves being right about everything and enjoys watching men in black rain boots sans shirts, preferably wielding a snow shovel and dancing to the tune of “Run Rudolph Run.” In town, he’s part owner of Toboggan Tours, a touring company that takes visitors out on electric snowmobiles to Candy John Hill for sledding and through the mountains just past the town of Kringle.
Then there’s Ansel Daniel Maxheimer, the middle child, known for instigating trouble with everything and everyone who gets in his way. He is a fan of jam, wingless angels, and chaotic pizza reviews on the internet, preferably cheese ones. Occasionally classified as immature, he’s the other owner of Toboggan Tours. Being the talent of the operation, he brings the entertainment to every patron on a snowmobile.
And finally the youngest of the brood is Atlas Peter Maxheimer, known around town as simply Max. Hehas an enigmatic charm about him and the presence of a six-foot-four lumberjack with a knack for making people smile. The complete opposite of his grumpy best friend, Cole Black, over on Whistler Lane is full oflife, slightly dramatic in the best way, and a bit overripe... some around town might say.
Which makes him the perfect character to frame an entire story around.
Let me set the scene for you.
*Clears throat*
It’s a crisp Thanksgiving Day. A semidry turkey slathered in gravy has been consumed by the bushel of men in the house, the famous Maxheimer sour cream apple pie has been devoured, no crumbs left behind, and Grandpa M is asleep in front of the fire, resting his geriatric body on the braided rug that was constructed of clothes from Grandma and Grandpa M’s early marriage.
Ida and Otto are engaging in an intense game of rummy at the dining room table, where spiral-tapered green candles in gold angel candleholders light the room.
Felix and Ansel are perched on the couch, beers in hand, watching football while talking about the party of fifteen from Illinois they’re hosting the next day.
The house is calm, quiet, and peaceful, and everything seems to be right in the world until...
“Mom! Dad!” I fling the door open to the house, panic constricting my chest as I try to catch my breath. “Invaders.” I press my hands to my knees, gasping for air. “In... vaders.”
The house falls silent, only the faint sound of a football game playing in the background as my brothers both turn in my direction.
“Jesus, Atlas,” Ansel says from the couch, staring at me with awhat the fuck is wrong with youexpression. “You startled Grandpa M.” Ansel gestures to Grandpa M, who’s still sleeping on the braided rug in front of the fireplace.
Grandpa M grumbles and then latches on to one of those realistic cat pillows that my mom insists is a charming decoration. Though the consensus among the men is that the cat comes alive at night and scratches on the bedroom doors.
Felix has sworn he’s heard it.
Ansel has sworn he’s seen it.
“What is going on in here?” Dad asks, walking into the living room in his white cable-knit sweater, hands on his hips.
I lift up and lean against the front door, still out of breath from the all-out sprint I just made through the backwoods of our family property, barely avoiding a cracked skull from tripping over a broken log. “Invaders on our land. There’re invaders.”
“Invaders?” Mom asks, joining us in her plaid dress, which she wears every Thanksgiving in preparation for the start of Christmas. “What on earth are you talking about?”
Keeping his eyes on the TV in front of him, my oldest brother, Felix, says, “Apparently there are invaders on the property. Alert the town crier.” He lifts his bottle of beer and takes a drink.
Apparently football is more important to him than the possible chance of his family farm being taken over.
“Thereareinvaders,” I say, my breath more even now. “On the property. I heard them when I was on my after-turkey-consumption walk. They were talking, and I heard them?—”
“Talking, ooo, scary,” Ansel says as he picks up my mom’s coffee table book of Christmas markets around the world and flips to the chapter on France. “People talkingcalls for battening down the hatches and calling in the National Guard. Felix, grab the blowtorch. If the talkers come close, we’ll roast their heads off.”
“Roasting heads off? Seems like a pretty harsh punishment for just talking,” Felix adds.
Ansel lifts his fist to the air. “The talkers must pay.”
