Abduction for Christmas: A Short Story
A Short Story by Jonathan Brett
Copyright 2011 Jonathan Brett
It was the week before Christmas, and in the warmth of the house, Mary was planning on ruining the quiet day of her spouse.
Clive sat in his favorite chair pecking away on his laptop, probably organizing a spreadsheet for their Christmas card list. His chair faced the fire. Mary’s computer was on its stand to her left, and she saw that he also had something running there, too. It was their son’s Christmas list.
How many eight-year-olds had a spreadsheet for their Christmas list that was also alphabetized and cross-referenced? That boy was truly his father’s son.
“Clive,” Mary said as she hobbled into the room. “Why is Aidan’s Christmas list on my computer?”
“I think he was editing it before he got distracted,” Clive said without looking up.
Mary bit her lip. She watched his blue eyes scan his spreadsheet and saw that his hair was a little messed up. He planned on spending a quiet Saturday at home, and she planned to ruin that.
Mary decided that downplaying the difficulty of the mission was probably best. She cleared her throat.
“I need a favor,” she said quickly.
He rolled his eyes.
“No, really,” she said. “This is important. Possibly more important than anything else we’ll do this holiday season.”
“More important than the dinner next week with your family? More important than finding Aidan’s Sir Fraggalot action figure with a nuclear flechette gun?” Clive asked.
“My sister called.”
“Oh, no,” Clive moaned.
“She can’t find a toy for her daughter at any of the stores there, and she’s hoping we can find it here,” Mary finished.
“She should move then,” Clive said. “I don’t see why it’s such a big deal. Her daughter’s two. She’ll change her mind about it anyway. At that age, give them a cardboard box and a newspaper hat and they’re happy.”
“She’s three,” Mary said. “And she really wants this toy. We have three major toy stores in the area and two big malls. This shouldn’t be a big deal.”
That was a flat-out lie. Mary felt bad about lying to Clive, but getting him to venture out into the cold world where craven masses were Christmas shopping was a nearly impossible task. But she had a broken ankle, and she had to do something.
“If we don’t get these cards out on Monday, they won’t get to people before Christmas,” Clive said. “According to my calculations, we have fifty Just-Sign cards and thirty-two Special-Note cards we have to send. I can print the addresses on labels, but we have to get those done...”
“I can work on the Special-Note cards and Aidan can do the labels,” Mary said.
Clive looked at the door to where their son was watching television.
“You can see if you can find Sir Fraggalot while you’re out,” Mary said, knowing Clive wanted to take Aidan. The truth was that she didn’t want to risk Aidan’s life by sending him into what would likely be a feeding frenzy. Clive was an adult. He could handle himself.
Clive closed the lid to his computer. “Fine. I’ll do it. What am I supposed to buy the little cretin?”
“She’s not a cretin.”
“She’s the most spoiled child on the planet. Your sister makes Paris Hilton’s mom look restrictive.” Clive sighed. “Just tell me what I’m supposed to get.”
“It’s nothing, really,” Mary lied. “Just a Dancin’ Mister Giggles doll.
“Huh?”
Mary was ready for this. She had torn a picture out of a department store flier. “This.”
Clive looked at the picture and groaned. “I have to walk through a store carrying this? I have my dignity to consider.”
“You can wear your scarf. You’ll look dignified,” Mary said. She kissed his forehead. “Now, get going.”
Clive got out of his chair and grumbled the whole way to the hall closet where he kept his coat.
It had recently snowed, but Clive wasn't worried. His car was completely reliable. He got into the car, put in a Christmas playlist, and started down the hill toward town. The sky was gray and there were still snowflakes in the air, meaning that another squall was very probable. It didn't bother Clive. It was just twenty minutes to the closest toy store.
His neighbors were undoubtedly enjoying a quiet Saturday getting their Christmas cards ready. They'll watch Christmas specials with their children. They didn't have to go out to get a stupid Mister Giggles toy. What was wrong with this world? What kind of sick mind came up with a toy called Mister Giggles anyway?
Clive hummed to the music as he came around a bend. Suddenly, a bright light blinded him and he slammed on the brakes. He skidded to a stop at the side of the road and his trusty car coughed and died.
“Now what?” Clive growled. He tried the engine a couple of times but nothing happened. He then opened up his cell phone and saw that it was dead. “How is this possible?”
Suddenly, someone knocked on his window.
“Look, I have...” Clive's intended comment was cut off by a scream.
Clive woke up in a bright room with several dark shapes looking at him. As his vision cleared, he saw the same things that made him scream earlier.
Three humanoid aliens with V-shaped heads and big black eyes stared at him.
“Human, don't be alarmed!” the closest alien said. “We don't wish to hurt you. I'm very sorry about scaring you into unconsciousness a couple of hours ago...”
“A couple of hours?” Clive shouted. He sat up and instantly forgot about the fact that he had been abducted by aliens.
“Um, yes,” the alien said. “You've been sleeping for three hours.”
“You idiots! I have to get to a toy store. My marriage is at stake here!” Clive said. “Where are my clothes?”
“They're okay,” the alien said. “Since you were unconscious, we thought we'd conduct our experiments so we still meet today's quota. You slept through most of them, but you woke up during the anal probe.”
“Anal probe?” Clive yelled. “What's the point of an anal probe?”
The aliens all looked at each other. One of them shrugged. “Standard procedure?”
“Lovely,” Clive said. “Just give me my clothes and get me to my car.”
“We're working on that. You were caught in a malfunction of our EMP generators. We knocked out power to half of your neighborhood and seemed to have incapacitated your primitive form of transportation. Don't worry! We have our best technician on the job.”
Clive sat on the bench and was aware that sitting was mildly uncomfortable. He sighed and rubbed his face.
“My wife is going to kill me when I get home,” he said.
“Human matrimonial relationships are so complicated,” the alien said. “On our world, we don't allow spouses to kill each other.”
“You didn't fail to get the best toy of the year for your wife's niece,” Clive said.
“Oh, yes, the human ritual of holiday shopping,” the alien said. “We've studied this phenomenon around the world. Did you know that cultures without Christmas shopping rituals are usually less stressed this time of year?”
Clive glared at the alien.
“Okay, I'll help you,” the alien said. “It'll be a research trip. I'm Tom, by the way, and this one's Dick and he's Harry.”
“Tom, Dick, and Harry,” Clive said. “I must have hit my head or something.”
“Where to?” Tom asked.
Clive decided that a flying saucer might h
ave an easier time finding a parking spot anyway, so he gave directions.
The third store was crowded and the display of Mister Giggles was empty.
“That's three stores!” Clive said. “How can all three stores be out?”
“It's really a surprising phenomenon,” Tom said. A few children looked at him, but the parents were too engrossed in finding the perfect Christmas gift to notice.
Tom pointed at a doll of a smiling little girl who apparently drank water and promptly wet herself. The banner over her head read: Matilda Mae Wettum.
“Why don't you buy this instead?” he asked.
“The heart of a two-year-old is set on Mister Giggles, not an incontinent baby doll.”
“Tom, look!” one of the other aliens said. It was either Dick or Harry. Clive couldn't tell them apart. In fact, all three aliens looked exactly alike. They might as well have been clones. Tom had a big black bar on his chest, so Clive assumed that meant he was the captain.
Tom and Clive went over to the other two aliens. They were standing in front of a gigantic Sir Fraggalot display.
“How many knights does a dystopian future society need?” Clive asked. He gaped at Sir Fraggalot's companions and started looking for the one with the proper weapon.
One of the aliens held up a boxed action figure marked Alien Overlord. “This looks like your Uncle Fraziggalo!”
Clive glanced at the alien in the box and the aliens surrounding it. There was a resemblance between the toy and the reality.
“Well, before the laser bore accident,” the alien amended.
Tom nodded. “Yeah, it does. Do you have any