The stupidest angel: a heartwarming tale of Christmas terror

where he was putting on his shirt.

    "I'm sorry I hit you."

    He rubbed his bruised shoulder. "You have tendencies. Should I hide your shovel?"

    "That's a horrible thing to say." She almost punched him, but instead, trying to be more evolved, and less threatening, she put her arms around him. "It was an accident."

    "Release me. I have to go spot bad guys with my helicopter," he said, patting her on the bottom.

    "You're taking the bat with you, right?"

    "You don't want to hang out with him?"

    "No offense, but he's a little creepy."

    "You have no idea," said Tuck.
    Chapter 8 – HOLIDAY HEARTBREAK
    Christmas Amnesty. You can fall out of contact with a friend, fail to return calls, ignore e-mails, avoid eye contact at the Thrifty-Mart, forget birthdays, anniversaries, and reunions, and if you show up at their house during the holidays (with a gift) they are socially bound to forgive you – act like nothing happened. Decorum dictates that the friendship move forward from that point, without guilt or recrimination. If you started a chess game ten years ago in October, you need only remember whose move it is – or why you sold the chessboard and bought an Xbox in the interim. (Look, Christmas Amnesty is a wonderful thing, but it's not a dimensional shift. The laws of time and space continue to apply, even if you have been avoiding your friends. But don't try using the expansion of the universe as an excuse – like you kept meaning to stop by, but their house kept getting farther away. That crap won't wash. Just say, "Sorry I haven't called. Merry Christmas." Then show the present. Christmas Amnesty protocol dictates that your friend say, "That's okay," and let you in without further comment. This is the way it has always been done.)
    "Where the fuck have you been?" said Gabe Fenton when he opened the door and saw his old friend Theophilus Crowe standing there, holding a present. Gabe, forty-five, short and wiry, unshaven and slightly balding, was wearing khakis that looked like he'd slept in them for a week.

    "Merry Christmas, Gabe," said Theo, holding out the present, a big red bow on it – sort of waving the box back and forth as if to say, Hey, I have a present here, you're not supposed to sandbag me for not calling for three years.

    "Yeah, nice," said Gabe. "But you might have called."

    "Sorry. I meant to, but you were involved with Val, I didn't want to interrupt."

    "She dumped me, you know?" Gabe had been seeing Valerie Riordan, the town's only psychiatrist, for several years now. Not for the last month, however.

    "Yeah, I heard about that." Theo had heard that Val wanted someone who was a little more involved with human culture than Gabe.

    Gabe was a behavioral field biologist who studied wild rodents or marine mammals, depending on who was providing the funding. He lived at a small federally owned cottage by the lighthouse with his hundred-pound black Labrador retriever, Skinner.

    "You heard? And you didn't call?"

    It was nearly noon, and Theo's buzz had mostly worn off, but he was still thrown. Guys were not supposed to lament the lack of support from a friend, unless it was backup in a bar fight or help in moving heavy stuff. This was not normal behavior. Maybe Gabe really did need to spend more time around human beings.

    "Look, Gabe, I brought you a present," Theo said. "Look at how glad Skinner is to see me."

    Skinner was, in fact, glad to see Theo. He was crowding Gabe in the doorway, his beefy tail beating against the open door like a Snausage war drum. He associated Theo with hamburgers and pizza, and had once thought of him as the emergency backup Food Guy (Gabe being the primary Food Guy).

    "Well, I suppose you should come in," said Gabe. The biologist stepped away from the door and allowed Theo to enter. Skinner said hi by shoving his nose into Theo's crotch.

    "I'm working in here, so things are a little messy."

    A little messy? An understatement on a par with calling the Bataan Death March a nature hike – it looked like someone had loaded all of Gabe's belongings into a cannon and fired them into the room through the wall. Dirty laundry and dishes covered every surface except for Gabe's worktable, which, except for the rats, was immaculate.

    "Nice rats," Theo said. "What are you doing with them?"

    "I'm studying them."

    Gabe sat down in front of a series of five-gallon aquariums arranged around a center tank in a star pattern and linked by Habitrail tubes, with gates for