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Crow and Tom were lying on the floor drawing. Joel wasn’t entirely sure how they got down there (probably while he wasn’t looking, the little imps) but they were scribbling on what Joel knew were their Christmas lists.
Good gravy. He’d already told them they could only pick one thing each. MAYBE he’d get them two, if they didn’t get overly wild with their requests.
Carefully stepping around their sprawled limbs, he asked “hey guys, whatcha up to?”
“Oh, just scribbling down my deepest desires and feelings in the hope that santy claus will reward me!” said Tom. “I’m going to ask for a new harmonica and a cute smoking jacket!”
“I’m demanding a death laser and a big chunk of Lake Titicaca!” Crow said.
“I don’t think Santa can fit those in his sack,” Joel said.
“And I don’t think you should be left in charge of world-breaking super weapons,” Mike added from the kitchen. “Hey Joel, should the timer on the roast go to 45 or 50?”
“56, and not a minute sooner; it takes a long time for the thermometer to pop on those babies,” Joel said.
“Got it,” Mike said, ducking back into the kitchen.
“You know Joel, I’m not sure Mike should be cooking,” Gypsy whispered into his ear, “one time he burned a bowl of raisin bran.”
“Don’t worry, Gyps, I’m sure if we give him a chance he’ll do just great!” Joel insisted.
“Uh, Joel?” Mike’s head peeked back into the kitchen, “where do you keep the Bactine and or the number to the local burn ward?”
“For pete’s sake!” Joel was on the move, running to save the entire holiday with his bare hands.
As he sprinted toward Mike he heard Tom say, “how many ‘ls’ are in ‘lobster dinner in Louisville?’”