How My Neighbor Stole Christmas

by Meghan Quinn

Prologue

Snow from the night before glistens across the bitter ground, while news of the sisters’ arrival spreads all throughout town. The gossip is crisp, the excitement oh so thick, while Cole stomps around as a very unhappy dick.

“I don’t know, Connor, why does this town play ‘Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer’ year-round?” Classic Storee. Sweet persona. Charismatic. Beautiful smile that masks the person she is on the inside. She questions. She challenges. She drives me fucking mad. “Because they like the song,” I answer. “There’s nothing wrong with that.” “It is when poor grandma is getting massacred every day of the year. Maybe we give her a break.”

Cole tried, he truly did, he attempted to keep his poise, But how could he with her? All that noise, noise, noise. She was very unpleasant; he couldn’t stand her in the least. Especially after she took away his chicken parm feast.

Christmas Kringle? No thank you, she was still very scared, “I don’t think I can do this,” she constantly declared. Her name was in the ring, for it was a Kringletown honor, And guess who totally noticed? The grumpy Cole Connor.

Narrator: Would you have preferred if I found a way to rhyme Cole with A-hole?

Max takes a step back, shielding his eyes. “What the hell are you doing?” “Showing you my jolliness.” “Well, fuck, stop. It’s terrifying.”

They chuckled and high-fived, oh what an unsuspecting trick, Cole Black as the Kringle, and his holly jolly sidekick. “She won’t know what’s coming,” they said with a cheerful gloat Never has a Kringle competition been such a holly jolly cutthroat.

So the people of Kringle all gathered around, The twinkling lights shimmered, snow fell to the ground. Bob Krampus in the center with a smile and a list. A list of all contestants, held tightly in his fist. What a wonderful time, the start of a very joyful season, But Cole and Max were there, only for one specific reason . . .

Shots have been fired, the tension is thick, Bob Krampus is oblivious, just our charming St. Nick. For preparations begin, the Eggnog Wars are up, Who will make the best eggy drink in a cup? Will it be Cole with his hazelnut rendition? Or will it be Storee, with her ginger addition? Frank and Thachary, our judges, will soon let us know, on this beautiful, stormy day, all covered in

So she’s off to the store, looking for eggnog and allspice, Perhaps she might run into someone who is not so nice.

“I’m nice.” Narrator: Sir, I have the receipts to prove otherwise. “You’re telling the story. If you’re not happy with my attitude, then change it.” Narrator: Fine . . . “Golly gee, what a fine day it is. Do you hear those birds chirping, the vibrant colors under their wings as they puff their feathery chests? It’s so beautiful, it makes me want to cry.” Narrator: That better? “Don’t fucking do that again.” Narrator: Then mind your own business and carry on.

Through the hush of the wind on a crisp winter night, they’re about to find out if their eggnog is just right. They loaded up thermoses and some tasty additions, and headed down Krampus Court, dead set on a mission.

The once gray corpse in the wheelchair has resurrected herself into cheering so vivaciously that . . . yes, in fact, she is performing minute hip thrusts, to the crowd’s delight.

They thought they were so smart, they thought they were slick, But Cole thought up a reply, and he thought it up real quick. Dignity and merit were tossed out the window, He’s a man seeking revenge, our dear Daddy Snow.

“It was startling. I gasped when I witnessed her rise, like an erection sprung right from a pair of tighty-whities.”

The warm lit houses shine all through the town, while Cole walks around with a very grumpy frown. For he knows every Kringle will think he’s lost a screw, as he traipses around whistling yodel-ay-hee-who. But he is bound to win, and win it well, even if that means a day in reality hell.

Cole hated Christmas, he hated the whole season, And like I said before, the town debated the reason. But last night, his mood changed, and now in the season he trusts, all thanks to some green paint and one flamboyant pelvic thrust. The town is split, some think it was Cole’s lederhosen that took it all, But Martha says it was because Max’s shorts were two sizes too small.

Dare I say, a not-so-fake romance is in the biting air? You caught that kiss, you saw that longing stare. Lips were locked and they both felt it all the way to their toes, Now the question is, will they heat up? Nobody knows.

And just like that, the tables have turned. Thanks to mashed potatoes, a first place she earned. But the winds seem to be changing, is romance really in the air? In love and Christmas competitions, is all really fair? Could his crush blossom to something that’s so much more? Could true love develop in the town’s candy cane store?

The sugar is boiling, the snow has stopped falling, peppermint is in the air, and cupid’s arrow is calling. “He’s charming, he’s sweet, and I love his sexy smirk,” she thought to herself, “he’s so different now; he’s clearly not a jerk.”

Peppermint candies, Huckleberry truffles, and chocolate-covered chips, Boy oh boy, he hoped that maybe just maybe, they would lock lips. But poor Snow Daddy came up short, sent on his way without a kiss. Some might say he struck out, fell short of love, a total and utter miss.

“You know, you don’t have to be a dick about it.” Narrator: I’m just telling it like I see it. “Yeah, well . . . there weren’t any chocolate-covered chips, everyone can see right through you and your inability to be clever and find a rhyme for lips.” Narrator: Watch yourself, Snow Daddy. I control this story, and if you want any shot at locking lips, then check the attitude. “Who says I even wanted another kiss?” Narrator: Oh, Cole, all the readers and listeners can smell the desperation. Cute that you think otherwise. Now on with the story . . .

Cole stumbled around, chest puffed, with a smile so pleasant, For Christmas came early, her lips, a tasty present. He was floating around, his feet never touching the ground, as he smiled, shook hands, and waved to the Kringles in town. Then he tended to the reindeer, his expression laced with glee, “And now”—Snow Daddy grinned—“I must decorate a tree.”

For someone who hated Christmas, and hated Christmas a lot, his strict position on the holiday, he conveniently forgot. Stockings, baubles, bright garlands, and cheer. Wreaths, bells and even a cranberry beer. And they’re hanging it all, all the while their pulse is thrumming. Because surely tonight, without a doubt . . . they’ll be coming .

The mood is right; the fire is blazing, Will he take her lips like he’s been desperately craving? Cole, Connor, Snow Daddy, which man will he be? Guess we should sit back and just wait and see.

“That was an unnecessary addition in the middle of this scene.” Narrator: Not sure you should be critiquing me when I’ve set the mood for you. I have no problem giving you a wonky willy and sending you on your way. “I’m just saying, the ‘Cole, Connor, Snow Daddy’ thing makes no sense. I don’t see how they differ.” Narrator: Cole is just regular you. Connor is the forgotten man. And Snow Daddy is the one with the pelvic thrust that made her “wetter and wetter.” Do you not remember chapter twelve? “I’m still trying to figure out where the hell you’re coming from.” Narrator: It will be to your benefit to mind your own business. Now, I believe I was setting the mood . . .

They pat themselves down, and they gather their clothes. They turned off the lights, and up the stairs they rose. For orgasms were upon them, a sweaty grunt and a groan, they’d fuck and they’d screw, and they’d moan, moan, moan.

Where did they do it? That question is fair. In the bed, against the wall, and in the living room chair. He thrusted and thrusted, and thrusted some more, He thrusted until they wore a hole in the floor. And now with Aunt Cindy back, they can only send texts, but that didn’t stop Cole from sending sext after sext.

Despite the grim distance, the happy humpers made it work. Through texts, randy photos, and passing by with a smirk. We are sad, they are sad, everyone’s sad the thrusting has ended, but now, it’s competition time and everyone has attended.

Every Kringlee and Kringletown, the old and the young, Didn’t expect Chadwick to like pineapple on his tongue. And yet Jimmy took first; he won the whole thing, While Cole thought of ways to remove Storee’s G-string. With his teeth? With his hands? With the hook of a candy cane? He can’t wait, for the bulge in his pants continues to strain.

gentleman can hold the door open for you . . . and slap your fine ass when you beg for it.”

And now it was time for what Storee dreaded

most of all, to perform on the stage in front of the small and the tall. With eyes staring at her, the Christmas bells will ring, and she will have to sing, and sing and sing, sing, sing. The more she thought about it, the more she grew sick, “I must stop this at once, and I must do it real quick.”

It was a sad day in Kringle, a sad day indeed, How could she take those lights down at such lightning speed? Didn’t matter, Cole’s heart was shattered, it was shattered and crushed, and now where Storee is concerned, he has lost all trust.

Narrator: What he heard, it wasn’t sad. Well, this noise was quite merry. It sounded like people, lots of people, making him wary. He stared down Whistler Lane, and Cole widened his eyes. Then he blinked, for what he saw was a stunning surprise. Up ahead, on the right, was his house lit in green, the brightest house of all houses he ever had seen. And one by one, along the cul-de-sac, they stood hand in hand, the loving people of Kringle, next to a large marching band. And they sang, and they cheered, and they stood in Christmas glory, and right in the middle of it all, the girl of his heart, his very own Storee.

And he puzzled and thought, and he puzzled some more. Then Cole thought of something he hadn’t thought of before. “Maybe Storee,” he thought, “maybe I judged her all wrong,” “Maybe she is the one with whom I truly belong.”

Narrator: And then what happened, in Kringle they would say, was that Cole’s black heart grew three sizes that day. And the moment Cole’s heart didn’t pulse quite so tight, he grabbed Storee at the waist and kissed her under the green light.

Narrator: And they decided that night, they didn’t care in the least, About the competition, but rather enjoyed a chicken parm feast.