F the Halls

Three

"Fields, are you seeing what I'm seeing?"

He looked.  He rubbed his eyes.  He looked again.  Finally, he was forced to reply with a grudging, "Yes."

Seemingly relying on some sort of auto-pilot that Fields knew all too well didn't exist, Peregrine left the steering of the Jag to its own devices as she stared out her window.

"Excellent.  But, just to clarify, the thing that you're seeing that I'm seeing, is it the shadowy thing up on the roof of that house?  The thing that is kind of sleigh-shaped at the back and kind of reindeer-shaped at the front?  The thing that has a red light on it?  Is that thing the thing that you're seeing?"

"Well, it's one of the things I'm seeing, Peregrine.  The other thing I'm seeing is the thing that's also up on the roof of that house.  The thing that is kind of fat-man-shaped and seems to be carrying a thing that is kind of sack-shaped.  The thing that appears to be heading towards the sleigh-and-reindeer-shaped thing.  Are you seeing that thing too?"

"I am now, partner, I am now.  Well seen.  Hold tight."

While it wasn't physically possible for Fields to hold any tighter than he already he was, he nonetheless appreciated the sentiment as the Jag screeched to a gut-wrenching halt by the curb in front of the house in question.  Guns drawn, the two agents leapt out.

"Freeze"—despite his absolute best efforts, despite being confident that he was very definitely a fully-grown adult, with a fully-grown adult's view of just what was what, and despite being fully aware that there would no doubt be a completely mundane explanation for the undeniably very strange situation-at-hand, Fields couldn't suppress a twinge of guilt at what he was about to say—"dirtbag!"

The figure on the roof did indeed freeze—but only briefly.  Only long enough, in fact, to direct a cheery, deep-throated, "Ho-ho-ho!" at the two agents, before continuing on its way.

They exchanged a glance, a glance which—although unspoken—very clearly communicated a I-really-don't-want-to-be-the-agent-who-shoots-Santa vibe.

Peregrine tried again.  "You're trespassing on private property, bucko.  So, hold it right there, state your name, and put your hands in the air!"

Arriving at its apparent vehicle, the figure tossed its apparent sack on board and began to climb in after it.  "Hold it?  Oh, I don't think so, young lady; I've no time for dilly-dallying—not on this night.  As for my name, well"—he gave a hearty chuckle—"I'm sure I don't need to tell you that."

Peregrine flicked off the safety on her gun.  "Oh, I think you do.  You really, really do.  'Cause if you don't, you may just find yourself with a brand new hole or two for Christmas."

The figure shook its head.  "Tsk tsk.  I think you may have just made the naughty list, my dear."

"In that case"—Fields drew a bead on the figure's generous midriff—"you better put me down, too.  Cause I'm happy to add a couple more holes to the set."

"Well," replied the figure, "I'm very sorry to hear that, young man.  But the thing is, you see—you'd have to catch me first.  Ho-ho-HO!"

And with a whoosh that very knocked the agents from their feet, the rooftop interloper rocketed into the star-spangled sky.