Merry Christmas, You Filthy Animal (How My Neighbor Stole Christmas #2)

Prologue

Max

Narrator: Nestled in the trees, off to the left of the reindeer barn and yards away from the commotion of holiday lovers in the year-round Christmas town of Kringle, is the quaint yet grandiose log cabin that belongs to Otto and Ida Maxheimer.

With their family of five, Otto and Ida live on the pine-covered land of Evergreen Farm with their three boys, Felix, Ansel, and Atlas.

Let me introduce them to you.

Felix Joseph Maxheimer, the oldest of the three, an avid weather observer known for his vast knowledge of lagers, loves being right about everything and enjoys watching men in black rain boots sans shirts, preferably wielding a snow shovel and dancing to the tune of “Run Rudolph Run.” In town, he’s part owner of Toboggan Tours, a touring company that takes visitors out on electric snowmobiles to Candy John Hill for sledding and through the mountains just past the town of Kringle.

Then there’s Ansel Daniel Maxheimer, the middle child, known for instigating trouble with everything and everyone who gets in his way.

He is a fan of jam, wingless angels, and chaotic pizza reviews on the internet, preferably cheese ones.

Occasionally classified as immature, he’s the other owner of Toboggan Tours.

Being the talent of the operation, he brings the entertainment to every patron on a snowmobile.

And finally the youngest of the brood is Atlas Peter Maxheimer, known around town as simply Max.

He has an enigmatic charm about him and the presence of a six-foot-four lumberjack with a knack for making people smile.

The complete opposite of his grumpy best friend, Cole Black, over on Whistler Lane is full of life, slightly dramatic in the best way, and a bit overripe . . . some around town might say.

Which makes him the perfect character to frame an entire story around.

Let me set the scene for you.

*Clears throat*

It’s a crisp Thanksgiving Day. A semidry turkey slathered in gravy has been consumed by the bushel of men in the house, the famous Maxheimer sour cream apple pie has been devoured, no crumbs left behind, and Grandpa M is asleep in front of the fire, resting his geriatric body on the braided rug that was constructed of clothes from Grandma and Grandpa M’s early marriage.

Ida and Otto are engaging in an intense game of rummy at the dining room table, where spiral-tapered green candles in gold angel candleholders light the room.

Felix and Ansel are perched on the couch, beers in hand, watching football while talking about the party of fifteen from Illinois they’re hosting the next day.

The house is calm, quiet, and peaceful, and everything seems to be right in the world until . . .

“Mom! Dad!” I fling the door open to the house, panic constricting my chest as I try to catch my breath. “Invaders.” I press my hands to my knees, gasping for air. “In . . . vaders.”

The house falls silent, only the faint sound of a football game playing in the background as my brothers both turn in my direction.

“Jesus, Atlas,” Ansel says from the couch, staring at me with a what the fuck is wrong with you expression. “You startled Grandpa M.” Ansel gestures to Grandpa M, who’s still sleeping on the braided rug in front of the fireplace.

Grandpa M grumbles and then latches on to one of those realistic cat pillows that my mom insists is a charming decoration. Though the consensus among the men is that the cat comes alive at night and scratches on the bedroom doors.

Felix has sworn he’s heard it.

Ansel has sworn he’s seen it.

“What is going on in here?” Dad asks, walking into the living room in his white cable-knit sweater, hands on his hips.

I lift up and lean against the front door, still out of breath from the all-out sprint I just made through the backwoods of our family property, barely avoiding a cracked skull from tripping over a broken log. “Invaders on our land. There’re invaders.”

“Invaders?” Mom asks, joining us in her plaid dress, which she wears every Thanksgiving in preparation for the start of Christmas. “What on earth are you talking about?”

Keeping his eyes on the TV in front of him, my oldest brother, Felix, says, “Apparently there are invaders on the property. Alert the town crier.” He lifts his bottle of beer and takes a drink.

Apparently football is more important to him than the possible chance of his family farm being taken over.

“There are invaders,” I say, my breath more even now. “On the property. I heard them when I was on my after-turkey-consumption walk. They were talking, and I heard them—”

“Talking, ooo, scary,” Ansel says as he picks up my mom’s coffee table book of Christmas markets around the world and flips to the chapter on France.

“People talking calls for battening down the hatches and calling in the National Guard. Felix, grab the blowtorch. If the talkers come close, we’ll roast their heads off. ”

“Roasting heads off? Seems like a pretty harsh punishment for just talking,” Felix adds.

Ansel lifts his fist to the air. “The talkers must pay.”

And this is my family. Not a single one of them takes me seriously.

Expression flat—and somewhat annoyed—I say, “This is not a joking matter. They were talking about the property behind ours. You know the empty lot.”

Grandpa M coughs, his whole body convulsing until he rolls to his back and snores into the air.

Dad rubs his forehead. “Atlas, you can’t come charging into the house like that, startling us all just to say there are people talking on the other end of the property.”

“Really, dear,” Mom says. “We love you, but ever since you won the Christmas Kringle competition last year, it seems like your dramatic ways have kicked up a notch.”

I beg your pardon, Mother?

Standing taller, I ask, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Gently, Mom places her hand on my shoulder.

“You seem to have a flair for . . . embellishing. And this started when you entered the competition last year, addressing everyone in town as sir and madam, wearing a top hat and tipping it to every passerby . . . strutting up on stage as a dog again, panting in shorts far too short for you.” Whispering, she says, “Sherry and Tanya are still talking about your jiggly bits.”

Narrator: Just to step in for a moment, our matriarch of the story is talking about the town’s Christmas competition to see who is the most Christmassy of all.

It’s an annual competition between five competitors who are put through several mini-contests to earn points.

The year before last, Cole, the best friend, battled it out against his now wife, Storee.

Last year, Max took on the treasured contest and won.

His ego has yet to deflate since winning, especially since Cole didn’t take the crown when he entered.

“There is nothing jiggly on my body,” I say, insulted.

“I have video that proves otherwise,” Ansel says while examining a page in the book, using his finger to trace the edges of the Eiffel Tower.

Letting out a frustrated breath, I say, “Listen, I’m not embellishing, and I’m not being dramatic. There were people talking out in the woods, discussing the development of the land. Development,” I enunciate. “Don’t you care?”

Stepping up, Dad says, “Atlas, I appreciate the concern, but there’s no reason for you to be barging into our peaceful home like you did to let us know that people are talking about the land next to ours.

You have no idea if they’re just chatting or if they’re really interested, nor will it have any effect on us. ”

“Uh, I think barging is necessary when they could possibly try to copy our idea. You know the acreage on that land? Thirty, Dad. There are thirty acres of prime space ready to just take over what we have created.”

“Jesus, Atlas,” Felix says, his eyes fixated on the TV in front of him.

“First of all, that land has been vacant for years. No one even knows who owns it. Second of all, there are strict regulations within Kringle that prevent businesses from replicating another business in town, so even if the people who are supposedly talking on the other side of the property are thinking about purchasing the land, they have no ability or right to replicate Evergreen Farm.”

“He’s right,” Ansel adds. “Which in return makes you wrong, Atlas.” He clears his throat and then turns the book toward me. “Atlas, you’re what the French call les imbéciles.”

What a douche. Just say imbecile, you nimrod.

Ignoring my brothers, I raise my voice. “I’m not fucking around. I heard them say farm. They’re starting a farm.”

“Atlas—”

“Dad, I’m serious, okay? They’re going to take over Evergreen Farm!”

Grandpa M startles awake and nearly chokes on his own saliva as he sits up and sputters out a cough.

Ansel is quick to the ground, patting on Grandpa M’s back, coddling the old man. “Hand me my beer,” Ansel says to Felix, who hands him the beer. Helping Grandpa M take a sip, Ansel looks over his shoulder at me. “Look what you did, you jerk. Grandpa M is now awake from his slumber.”

I rub my fingers on my temple, feeling like I’ve walked into an alternate universe where what I say has no validity.

Uh, hello, it’s me, Atlas. Doesn’t anyone care?

Isn’t anyone worried? Evergreen Farm has been passed down from Grandpa M to my parents, soon to be passed down to me.

The last thing I want to do is be the one who fucks up the family business by not exposing any potential enemies coming our way.

“Atlas,” Dad says softly. “I think you should go upstairs and just . . . cool off. It’s been a long day, and the busy holiday season starts tomorrow. Perhaps you should get some rest.”

“Dad,” I say in a pleading tone. “I’m not lying. There were people.”

“I know.” He pats my shoulder passively. “I know. But best you get some sleep.”

“But I’m supposed to take Grandpa M home.”

“The boys will take care of that. You just . . . you just go upstairs.”

When I glance around at my family, noticing all eyes on me, a mixture of annoyed and humored, I take that as a sign that maybe I really should just disappear . . . for the night.

Head held high, I move toward the stairs. “Mark my words, when someone starts developing that land and starts their very own tree farm, I’ll sit back and say, You should have listened to me.”

With that, I head up to the attic, where I’m temporarily living while I save enough money to build my very own log cabin on the family property.

They’ll feel like such fools when this ends. Just watch. I’ll sourly laugh in their faces and point.

Taking my phone out, I text Cole, because if anyone will believe me, it’s my best friend.

He placates me.

He supports me.

He is the sounding board I need right now.

Max: There were invaders on the land today! Fucking scallywags thinking they can take over Evergreen Farm. Can you believe that? Not very Thanksgiving-y if you ask me.

I stretch out on my four-poster bed and let the rich red comforter suck me into its warmth as I stare up at the attic ceiling. They will regret not listening to me.

Regret it!

My phone dings with a response.

Smiling, I open up the text, ready to be welcomed with sympathy and understanding.

Cole: You’re such a fucking disease, man.

Nostrils flared, I set my phone down and shut my eyes.

Jerks. All of them.