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Beanpole and Moustache Christmas Special
Due to the whoopsiedoodle in the previous episode, Beanpole and Moustache are on suspension. Except the system is corrupt, so it’s a paid suspension. Which is basically a vacation. They got punished with a vacation. Oh dang, that’s depressing.
Anyway, the time off they get lines up with a good time to take a trip for Christmas, so the two detectives book a flight to the town of Whoville. Don’t question the logistics of that. They arrive at the Thneedville airport super early in the morning, like you do. Beanpole has a big, rolly suitcase with fun stickers all over it. Moustache has the kind of suitcase that turns into a scooter. It’s got stickers on it, too. Stickers are fun.
Beanpole checks in the suitcases and then the two of them go through security and make it to where all the shops are. They head to a bookstore across from their waiting area and look for stuff to read on the flight. Beanpole finds a collection of Kafka stories and a Sudoku book. He also finds a cute clicky pen with a bunny on top. He knows cool dudes are extra cool when they can like cute things with confidence.
Moustache asks Beanpole to buy him issues of Shonen Jump and Shojo Beat. They are anachronistically still running in this story; just go with it. Beanpole agrees, cause it’s Christmas and he wants his friend to be happy.
After all that, there’s still some time to grab a food before the flight. The detectives are heckin’ starving after being awake since five o’clock. They settle on getting calzones, cause those are hella delicious. They find a good table, and Beanpole sits the bookstore bag in his lap so he doesn’t forget it. Cause that’s at least fifty bucks worth of stuff.
Beanpole checks the inside pocket of his leather jacket to once again confirm he does, indeed, have the tickets. Yup. They have not magically disappeared in the last half hour. So that’s good. He picks up his calzone and goes to bite into it, but then he gets distracted, cause Moustache is already halfway through snarfing his own.
Moustache’s moustache is all covered in sauce, which is kind of disturbing to look at. He looks up at Beanpole.
“What?”
“As soon as you’re done with that, go wash up. You look suspicious, to say the least.”
“Is this part plot-relevant?”
“Probably not. But you do look like you just did a big crime.” Beanpole lowers his voice so he doesn’t freak anyone out unnecessarily. “You look like you just ate a person.”
“That is hilarious. Yeah, okay.”
The flight to Whoville is a reasonable six hours. The plane lands in the early evening, and the detectives decide to drop off their stuff at their motel before doing some sight-seeing. There’s like, a frick-load of lights and baubles everywhere, so they kinda just wander around looking at all the decorations. There’s lots of stands along the streets, selling cocoa and hot cider and dozens of different sweets.
Beanpole looks down and sees Moustache shivering. “Dang, man. It’s snowing and everything, and you’re still not wearing pants?”
“Pants are stupid. Shut up.”
Beanpole rolls his eyes and steps away to a street vendor. He comes back with a knockoff thneed and a knit stocking cap. He bundles up his partner.
“There ya go, ya big baby.”
The next day is Christmas Eve, and there’s lots of events in town. The detectives start the day off at Denny’s. Beanpole happily goes to town on a stack of Christmas-flavored pancakes.
“I tell ya, Moustache. This is one of my favorite family traditions. Christmas Eve breakfast and a full day of goofing off. You got any traditions?”
Moustache sips at his coffee. “I usually squirrel away a box of Count Chocula from Halloween. I like to have it on Christmas morning with some cartoons.”
“Hang on, what? Count Chocula? On Christmas?”
“Yeah. It’s funny, and it’s my favorite. I was able to bring a box with us; it’s back at the motel.”
“It is funny, I’ll give you that.”
After breakfast, Beanpole and Moustache head out to enjoy all the events Whoville has to offer. There’s a snowball fight battle royale, but that’s an all-day thing, so they don’t join in. They do, however, take part in a snowman contest. They wager twenty bucks on who gets a better score. Beanpole sculpts a sexy lady snowman. Moustache makes a punk snowman with a carrot mohawk. Moustache gets a better score because there are too many sexy lady snowmen entered to compete. Moustache wins second place, and his prize is a modest trophy full of candy. Beanpole gives him a high five and steals a chocolate coin from the trophy.
Next, the two go watch a joke beauty pageant with a bunch of Santas. It’s a lot of fun, and Beanpole lets Moustache sit on his shoulders to see better. After the pageant, they even get to take a photo with the winning Santa. Then it’s noon-ish, and the detectives share a box of mince pies as they stroll through the square, watching street performers.
The local custom is to go to bed early on Christmas Eve, so there aren’t many nighttime goings-on. It’s barely three when a concert starts at the park, allowing small-time bands to perform carols, sometimes original ones, for all to hear. Beanpole in particular is very interested. He wishes he’d brought his Stratocaster, cause the flyers said there was a scheduled time in the middle to let people in the audience play. Being a cool dude, he wants a taste of the rockstar fantasy. Not for realsies, just once or twice for fun.
Luckily for him, there’s a handful of instruments available for borrowsies. He gets to go up and play, and he’s super happy. He plays a hard rock version of “All I Want for Christmas is You”. Which he totally did not play at Christmas parties for the last five years. The sound is somewhere between Bon Jovi and Jethro Tull. Moustache tapes it on a camcorder, knowing Beanpole will want to remember the moment.
It’s a full day of fun stuff, and at the end, Beanpole and Moustache return to their motel. Beanpole warms up with a hot shower and puts on his rabbit pajamas. While it’s Moustache’s turn to bathe, he checks his suitcase to make sure there’s still a present in it. Yep. Still there. It’s a present for Moustache, and it was really hard to get. Because it was expensive. He closes the suitcase again and turns to see a box of Count Chocula on the motel room desk.
Moustache takes like, a half hour to blow dry all his fur. When he’s done, he’s all fluffy and soft, which is super cute. He and Beanpole settle into their beds. What? You thought they were sharing? Well, they’re not. You’ll have to find a different story for that kind of thing.
The two sleep fairly soundly. Somewhere around midnight, Moustache wakes up to go pee. When he gets back from the bathroom, he finds a weirdo crawling through the window. He’s probably dreaming, though. He walks up to poke the dream prowler in the belly. Oh dang. That’s a real guy there. It’s a green, furry guy in a Santa coat, with no pants on. That’s pretty weird. Moustache and the prowler stare at each other awkwardly.
Moustache speaks first. “Is this a kinky thing?”
“What?”
“I mean, it’s kinda a bit much to dress up like that to go burgling. So I’m asking ya. Are you a perv?”
“No? I’m… Santa.”
“But you’re green.”
“And you’re orange. What’s your point?”
“Is Santa green? And also half-naked?”
“That’s very rude. And you’re all the way naked.”
“Good point. Carry on, then. I woulda set out milk and cookies, but I didn’t wanna attract any bugs.”
“That’s… fine? Um, you should probably go to sleep. Trust me, staying up is bad for your fur.”
“Okay. Don’t do anything pervy, Santa.”
Moustache crawls back into bed and snuggles up in the blankets. The green guy turns and looks around the room. He drags his sack across the floor (heehee) and starts snooping around. He sees the Count Chocula on the desk and frowns.
What the frick is this? Is this what Christmas is like where that guy’s from? Oh well. Into the bag it goes, I guess.
The guy drops the box into the big bag. He rummages in the suitcases and finds the present hidden in Beanpole’s suitcase. That goes in the bag, too. There’s very little around to jack, and the green guy is done in a quarter hour.
Beanpole turns over in his sleep, mumbling, “Yeah, it’s like a horse.”
The green guy freezes for a second. Then he figures out Beanpole is still asleep. The guy steps closer. Beanpole mumbles some more. “Sure, you can touch, if you want.”
The guy shakes his head. He’s not about to stay for that. He pushes his big bag out the window. As he crawls through to leave, he hears Beanpole again. “His name is Melvin.”
The rest of the night is probably uneventful. In the morning, the radio clock goes off, playing that annoying Sonny and Cher song. Beanpole wakes up first, rubbing his eyes.
“Dammit, writer. That reference is to a different holiday’s movie.”
The writer shrugs. “I mean, it’s still funny, though. Kinda.”
Beanpole sits up. The room looks basically the same, so he doesn’t notice anything amiss at first. Except the box of Count Chocula is gone. He stands up and goes over to the side of Moustache’s bed. He pokes him in the nose. Boop.
“Moustache, did you seriously eat all your cereal in the middle of the night?”
Moustache sneezes himself awake. “Huh? What? What’s going on? Huh? Oh, it’s you, Beanpole. What’s up?”
“I’m asking you if you ate all your cereal last night.”
“Why would I do that? I always have it with cartoons. I told you that.”
“You did, but the box is gone.”
“What? Who jacked my Count Chocula?”
Moustache hops out of bed and walks over to the desk. Yup. The Count Chocula is gone. Moustache furrows his brow. “I am very angry. There is no way to get another box. Those are seasonal, you know.”
“I know. I wonder what happened?”
Moustache turns and flops onto his bed. “I’m gonna be a major grumpy-pants unless I get to see the local fun stuff. Should we go out now? I still need breakfast.”
Beanpole shrugs. “Sure. There’s bound to be something good around. I’m hoping for a big plate of sausages and some peppermint coffee.”
“I’m not sure those flavors go together.”
“Mind your business, Moustache.”
The detectives bundle up. Beanpole gets dressed and pulls on a turtleneck, and then his leather jacket on top of that. Leg warmers peek out from his cowboy boots over his stripy jeans. Moustache shapes his knockoff thneed into a thick sweater and pulls it on. He finds his cap between the bed and nightstand. There’s a spider on it, so he brushes it away and pulls on the cap.
Beanpole opens the door, and the detectives step out into the fricking cold air. Moustache frowns. “Wasn’t there a bunch of decorations yesterday?”
Beanpole glares at the writer. “What the hell? Did you run out of set budget?”
The writer gives Beanpole an incredulous look. “This is not a visual medium. Also, there is no budget.”
“And it shows.”
“Well, that was just rude.”
Beanpole turns back to look again at the lack of decorations. The townsfolk wander around, looking hella confused. Even the big-ass tree in the middle of town is just gone. Which is actually pretty impressive.
There’s a bunch of sirens, cause there’s a bunch of cops pulling up. The detectives jog up to them. Beanpole waves at a couple cops to get their attention.
“Fellas! What’s going on? Where did everything go?”
The tall one with the horn-rimmed glasses looks up from his notepad. “Huh? I dunno, dude. I just woke up, same as you. Don’t question it. From the looks of things, I’d say somebody pulled a heist on the entire fricking town. Ain’t that a trip?”
Moustache whines, “Man, that sounds like such a fun case! I wanna investigate a town heist!”
Beanpole pipes up again. “You know, the two of us just so happen to be cops, too. We’re detectives from the TVPD.”
“TV? Like, as in television?”
“What? No! As in Thneedville. We’re here from Thneedville.”
“Ah, okay. Um, it sounds like you’re trying to set up a Die Hard plot, or something similar. That’s cool and everything, but you gotta go get approval from our chief of police or whatever.”
“Huh. Okay.”
Beanpole and Moustache walk over to the police station and ask the front desk if they can speak to the chief. The front desk guy is grumpy from being called in on Christmas morning. They smack an overlooked chocolate orange on their knee and start peeling away the foil wrapper. “Yeah, sure, whatever. Office is in the back, next to the soda machines.”
The detectives thank them and head to the soda machines. Moustache wants a soda, but even the machine has been cleaned out.
“Son of a bitch!”
Beanpole picks him up and hugs him. “I know, buddy. It sucks eggs. I’ll make sure you get something in your gullet soon.”
Beanpole carries Moustache into the chief’s office. The chief sits at her desk, rubbing her temples in frustration. She looks up to see the detectives standing there. Moustache is pouting, and Beanpole is trying to not stare at her amazing rack. The chief frowns.
“What now? Who are you?”
Beanpole steadies himself. “Uh, morning, ma’am. I’m Detective Once-ler, and this is my partner, Detective Lorax. We wanted to ask if we could help out with the whole town heist case… thing.”
“Ah, I see. Well, more hands on deck is usually good. I’ll just check in with your boss. What precinct are you with?”
“We’re from Thneedville. Here, I got the captain’s number in my wallet.”
Beanpole sets Moustache down and pulls a card from his wallet. He hands it to the chief and waits as she dials the number. While she’s on the phone, Moustache tugs on Beanpole’s hand.
“Hmm? What’s up, Moustache?”
“I’m just about starving, man. I don’t wanna be cranky on this case. You usually have a cucumber on ya, right?”
The chief glances over, an eyebrow raised. Beanpole’s cheeks and ears turn red.
“Haha, what? No. That’s ridiculous; why would I have a cucumber right now?”
“Cause last episode, you said you always keep one--“
Beanpole interrupts, “Haha, you and your jokes, man. Quit fooling around.” He moves his legs closer together.
The chief wraps up her phone call and hangs up. She turns her attention to the idiots in her office. “Well, boys, you got the okay from your captain. Just make sure you do all your reports and you’re good to go. Here, take my card and keep me in the loop for anything important.”
She hands Beanpole her card. It reads, Chief Martha May Whovier, Whoville Police.
“Have fun, you two.”
The detectives walk out of the station and head in the general direction of where the clues probably are. Moustache munches on a cucumber. Beanpole glares down at the sidewalk, embarrassed. The writer snickers at their computer.
Beanpole and Moustache return to the one cop with the horn-rimmed glasses from earlier. They fill him in and let him know they got the okay to help out.
“Awesome. Let me bring you up to speed, yeah? So far, our information is that literally everybody got their stuff jacked. And not just the good stuff. Like, even paper chains and crayon drawings are gone. That tells us there’s a motive outside of the heckload of money most of this is worth.”
Moustache gives a low whistle. “That is a trip and a half.”
“It sure is. What you two can do is go through the few dozen statements we got until you find something to go off of.”
Beanpole sighs. “There’s better be a cool action sequence later. I’m not spending another story stuck in filler scenes.”
With permission, Beanpole and Moustache take the big stack of statements to their motel room to go through them comfortably. Beanpole sets the stack on the desk.
“Well, buddy, it’s still Christmas, so how about I give you your present really quick?”
“A present? Hell yeah! I’d give you yours, but I forgot it back in Thneedville. Whoops.”
“That’s so you, Moustache. Hang on; I’ll go get your thing.”
Beanpole kneels down by his suitcase and opens it. He stills for a moment, then starts flinging everything in it over his shoulders, growing more frantic. Soon, the suitcase is empty. Beanpole yells out in frustration and rage. He stands up and starts searching the room. After checking every nook and cranny, he growls all angry and punches through the drywall next to the closet.
Moustache pulls him away from the wall by his other hand. “Woah there! We have to pay for that now. It got jacked with everything else, didn’t it? Don’t worry so much, it’s just stuff.”
“Just stuff? No, Moustache. You do not get it. That gift was beyond expensive. Like, I sold my station wagon to buy that thing.”
“You what? That’s fucking bananas, Beanpole! Why would you do something like that?”
“Because I saw it online and I knew you’d think it was the coolest thing ever.”
“Seriously? Seriously? That’s still way reckless! We haven’t even been friends for that long!”
Beanpole sighs. “Okay, but in my defense, I was manic at the time.”
“Jesus. This is getting too heavy for a crackfic. Let’s just attack this pile of statements, yeah? We can talk about heavy stuff after the story.”
“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”
The two of them pore over the statements, taking notes as they go. After about an hour or so, Moustache pipes up, “Oh hang on. I just remembered something.”
“Oh yeah? Good for you.”
“No, I mean something important. So your present got jacked, right? And this morning, my Count Chocula went missing, right?”
“I remember.”
“Okay, don’t freak out. I think I saw who did the town heist.”
“What? When? You’d better explain right now.”
Moustache sets down his notepad. “Okay, I was pretty sure I dreamt it, but maybe I was just half-asleep. I got up last night to go pee, and then when I came out the bathroom, Santa was there.”
“Dude, don’t joke around.”
“No, for realsies! Santa was sneaking through the window! Only he was furry and green and he wasn’t wearing pants.”
“You don’t wear pants.”
“Forget about my pants! I’m pretty sure I saw the heist guy!”
Beanpole cocks his head. “You think Santa did the heist?”
Moustache sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. Wait, does he have one? Well, if he doesn’t, then an approximation of that gesture. “No, Beanpole. I think a weirdo in a Santa suit did the heist. Look, how’s about we run down to the station and borrow a sketch artist?”
“Uh, okay. Man, this case has had zero action so far. Whatever. I’m gonna grab another cucumber, then we can get going.”
“Are you for serious?”
“Shut up!”
At the station, Moustache sits down with a sketch artist and describes the weird, green Santa. The artist scans their sketch, then hangs the original on the breakroom fridge. Which works out for the case, cause Chief Whovier walks through the breakroom to grab a cuppa peppermint coffee. Except there isn’t any. Cause it got jacked along with everything else in the middle of the night. Dang, either this town’s police are total crap, or the bad guy is hella good at heisting.
Anyway, as Chief Whovier turns dejectedly from the cupboard, she sees the sketch on the fridge. “Huh.”
She takes the sketch and pokes around the station for the sketch artist. She finds them playing with action figures at their desk. They look up and see the chief.
“Come on boss. If I’m gonna work on Christmas, at least let me have my down time, yeah?”
“You’re not in trouble, dingus. I wanna ask about this sketch you did.”
Chief Whovier holds up the sketch from the fridge. “I need context for this.”
The sketch artist takes a gander. “Oh, right. See, this orange guy says he saw that person in his motel room. Not in a sexy way; like in a crime way. Says it’s probably connected to the heist last night.”
“Thanks, buddy.”
The chief looks for Beanpole and Moustache, and finds them chatting over case notes on the gross, polyester couch government places always seem to have.
“That explains so much.”
“Just what exactly are you implying, Moustache?”
Chief Whovier interrupts, “Detectives, your attention, please. Detective Lorax, did you employ our sketch artist today?”
“Huh? No, I’m pretty sure the station hired them.”
Beanpole rolls his eyes. “Yes, chief. We borrowed your sketch artist. Should we have asked first?”
“Never mind that, Detective Once-ler. I’ll skip to the exposition. I know this person. Truth be told, I wasn’t sure if he was still kicking. Listen carefully. This is a very unhinged man. Very dangerous. This man is called the Grinch. Don’t ask why there’s a ‘the’ there. Nobody knows.”
Beanpole coughs nervously. “So, do you have a recommended approach for this situation?”
She nods. “I do. It will do you no good to use force. You will lose.”
“God damn it.”
“You will need backup to cover you. Do either of you have experience talking down an unstable subject? This is important.”
Beanpole grins. “My time to shine after all.”
After a few minutes forming a strategy, Beanpole and Moustache borrow a cop car and lead a couple more behind them up to the peak of Mount Crumpet. They leave the sirens off, so as not to spook the Grinch. That would be bad. As they near the tippy-top of the mountain, they can see the Grinch, still in his Santa disguise, gazing out over the town below. Behind him is a slap-dash approximation of a sleigh, sunken a bit under the weight of a big-ass bag of stuff.
Beanpole gets out of the car and creeps closer, with Moustache following a few yards behind. Beanpole gently gets the Grinch’s attention. “Hey, man.”
The Grinch’s head snaps in Beanpole’s direction. “Stay back! I’ve come this far; I’m gonna see this through to the end if it kills me!”
Beanpole backs up a couple steps. “Okay. Talk to me about it. I see there’s something gnawing at ya. Tell me what’s up.”
The Grinch’s voice trembles slightly. “I just wanted a little quiet. I’m so tired, man. I’m so god damned tired. This town is so loud. All year ‘round, but especially on this day. I can’t sleep. I’m gonna fall apart, man. The noise hurts so much! I’ll die if I don’t stop it!”
“And is this going to stop it?”
The Grinch looks up at the towering sack in the sleigh. “I mean, it’s worth a shot.”
“Couldn’t you just move away?”
“Dude. I live in a cave. What makes you think I have the means to get out of here?”
Beanpole sighs, thinking for a moment. “What if I helped you? Yeah? Find you a good, quiet place. Get you some public assistance. How ‘bout that?”
“Hmph. Nice try. I know you’ll just lock me up. I’m not stupid.”
“That’s a very good point. What about this? I happen to know a very good lawyer who owes me a favor. I feel for ya, I really do. I’ll get this guy to defend you pro-bono.”
The Grinch scoffs. “That doesn’t make any sense. You can’t just promise something like that on the spot.”
“Oho! Can’t I? I’m a cool dude, you know. And part of being a cool dude is offering a major solid in a time of need. You don’t have to take my word for it; I can call my guy right now and you can have a chat. Sound good?”
The Grinch considers this. He doesn’t have a lot of brain energy left. He looks back at Beanpole. “No funny business, okay? You try anything, and I’ll yeet this sleigh on the spot!”
Beanpole nods and takes his cell phone from his pocket. The mountaintop isn’t too remote to get a pretty good signal. So that’s good. He punches a few buttons and waits for the other end to pick up.
“Hey! It’s you!”
“Hey, Sam. Listen, I need to call in that favor.”
“Oh yeah? You in trouble?”
“No, I’m fine. I got a guy here with me—“
“Ooh! Get it, boy!”
“No, jackass. This guy needs a lawyer. He’s living life in expert mode, and I believe he deserves the best defense possible.”
“I see. You said he’s there with you?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, I can’t make any promises, but I do owe you. Put the guy on. What’s his name?”
“He’s called the Grinch. I’ll hand the phone over now. Thanks, buddy.”
Beanpole holds the phone out for the Grinch to take. The Grinch cautiously takes it.
In the end, the Grinch is arrested and taken back to the station, but now more hopeful. All the stolen stuff is sorted and returned by the other cops. Beanpole gets back his present, and he’s very relieved, cause that shit weren’t cheap. He hands it over to Moustache.
“Merry Christmas, Moustache.”
“Thanks, Beanpole.”
Moustache unwraps his present. It’s a fricking original Atari Pong console; an antique, and a major part of gaming history. It’s rad as hell.
Moustache leaps up and glomps onto Beanpole. “You were right! This is the coolest thing ever!”
Beanpole grins. Then he winces cause that cucumber is frozen now, and it’s super awkward.