The stupidest angel: a heartwarming tale of Christmas terror

her Santa suit and was squeezing Theo's shoulder as the red truck roared out of sight. "Thanks for coming to my rescue, Theo."

    "Not much of a rescue. You should press charges."

    "I'm okay. He'd have gotten out of it anyway, he has great lawyers. Trust me, I know. Besides, forty bucks'"

    "That's the Christmas spirit," Theo said, not able to keep from smiling. "You sure you're okay?"

    "I'm fine. It's not the first time he's lost it with me." She patted the pocket of her Santa suit. "At least something came of this." She started back to her kettle and Theo followed.

    "You have a week to file charges if you change your mind," Theo said.

    "You know what, Theo? I really don't want to spend another Christmas obsessing on what a complete waste of humanity Dale Pearson is. I'd rather let it go. Maybe if we're lucky he'll be one of those holiday fatalities we're always hearing about"

    "That would be nice," said Theo.

    "Now who's in the Christmas spirit?"
    * * *
    In another Christmas story, Dale Pearson, evil developer, self-absorbed woman hater, and seemingly unredeemable curmudgeon, might be visited in the night by a series of ghosts who, by showing him bleak visions of Christmas future, past, and present, would bring about in him a change to generosity, kindness, and a general warmth toward his fellow man But this is not that kind of Christmas story, so here, in not too many pages, someone is going to dispatch the miserable son of a bitch with a shovel. That's the spirit of Christmas yet to come in these parts. Ho, ho, ho.
    Chapter 2 – THE LOCAL GIRLS
    HAVE A WAY ABOUT THEM
    The Warrior Babe of the Outland steered her Honda station wagon down Cypress Street, stopping every ten feet or so for tourists who were stepping into the street from between parked cars, completely oblivious of any automobile traffic. My kingdom for a razor-blade cowcatcher and Cuisinart wheel covers to cut my path through this herd of ignorant peasant meat, she thought. Then: Whoa, I guess I really do need the meds. So she said, "They act like Cypress Street is the midway at Disneyland – like no one actually has to use the street to drive on. You guys wouldn't do that, would you?"
    She glanced over her shoulder at the two damp teenage boys who were huddled in the corner of the backseat of the car. They shook their heads furiously. One said, "No, Miss Michon, no we'd never. No."

    Her real name was Molly Michon, but years ago, as a B-movie queen, she'd done eight movies as Kendra, Warrior Babe of the Outland. She had a wild mane of blond hair shot with gray and the body of a fitness model. She could pass for thirty or fifty, depending on the time of day, what she was wearing, and how deeply medicated she was. Fans agreed that she was probably somewhere in her early to midforties.

    Fans. The two teenage boys in the backseat of the car were fans. They'd made the mistake of taking part of their Christmas break to go to Pine Cove in search of the famed cult-film star, Molly Michon, and get her autograph on their copies of Warrior Babe VI: Revenge of the Savage Skank, just released on DVD, with never-before-seen outtakes of Molly's boobs popping out of her gun-metal bra. Molly had seen them skulking around the outside of the cabin she shared with her husband, Theo Crowe. She'd snuck out the back door and ambushed them on the side of the house with a garden hose – sprayed them down good, chased them through the pine forest till the hose reeled out of its cart, then she tackled the taller one and threatened to snap his neck if the other one didn't stop in his tracks.

    Realizing at that point that she might have made a public relations error, Molly invited her fans to come along to help pick out a Christmas tree for the Santa Rosa Chapel Christmas Party for the Lonesome. (She had been making more than a few minor misjudgments lately, as she'd stopped taking her meds a week ago in order to save money for Theo's Christmas present.)

    "So, where are you guys from?" she said cheerfully.

    "Please don't hurt us," said Bert, the taller, thinner of the two kids (She had been thinking of them as Bert and Ernie – not because they really looked like the puppets, but because they had the same relative shapes – except for the big hand up their bottoms, of course.)

    "I'm not going to hurt you. It's great to have you along. The guys at the Christmas-tree lot are a little wary of me since I fed one of their coworkers to a sea monster a few years ago,