#hes got a tub of margarine also when no butter

[mothscotch]

some second chances doodles (comic by @t3bon3 ((hope u dont mind the tag!)

[trekkiehood]

McDonalds and Chats - SPN Fanfic

@febuwhump : Day 10 - "How Long Has it Been?"

Title: McDonalds and Chats

Fandom: Supernatural

Words: 2k

Setting: Pre-series, Brotherhood AU

Whumpee: Dean

Caretaker: Caleb

Others: Sam

Ship: None

Ao3 Link

Summary: After John's hunt is prolonged, Caleb checks in on the Winchester boys. It seems John's been gone too long.

Trigger Warnings: Implied child neglect, eating/food issues, starvation

Authors Note:

Dean is 14

Sam is 10

Caleb is 22

Hey day 10 on the 24th isn't... that... bad... right?

Anyway, here it is regardless.

Hope you guys enjoy it!

---

Caleb pounded on the door, holding the fast food bag tightly. Of course it had to start raining just as he got into town. "It's Caleb, let me in." He'd driven several hours to get there. Nothing was necessarily wrong, but the need to visit was too strong to ignore. John had rolled his eyes but hadn't told him not to come.

"What's the password?" Sam answered defiantly.

Caleb rolled his eyes, "Scooby Doo." It had clearly been Sam's week to pick.

The door opened and Sam was standing there grinning in the doorway.

"Caleb!"

"I told you it was." He appreciated the safety the password offered the two boys, but it could be annoying at times. Like now, when it was raining..

He went over to the table and dropped the bag of McDonald's cheeseburgers he'd brough. Dean had moved the gun back to the kitchen counter where a bowl was catching water dripping from the ceiling.

"What are you doing here?" Not exactly accusing, but definitely suspicious.

"Don't look so glad to see me."

"What's that?" Dean eyed the bag cautiously.

Caleb raised his eyebrows. "Food."

"Why?"

"What, are we playing twenty questions?"

"Dad didn't say anything about you coming."

"Johnny got caught up in a hunt, said he'd been away longer than he planned and wanted me to check. Passed a Micky D's and decided you could go for some burgers. What's the big deal?" Well it wasn't a lie. John had said he'd only meant to be gone for two weeks, but they were now exiting the third. Caleb had been reassured that the boys should be fine. Johnny hadn't so much asked for him to come check as Caleb had insisted. But semantics.

Sam was poking around the bag with wide, excited eyes. "Can I have one?"

"No, Sammy, they're all for me." Caleb rolled his eyes.

"Oh."

"I'm joking, kid. Yes you can have one."

Sam didn't wait any longer, he snatched a burger with a grin on his face. Caleb tossed one to Dean, who caught it then just stared at it.

"Hungry, runt?" Caleb commented as Sam reached for a second burger.

"I'm growing and my teacher says that growing boys should eat and all I had for lunch was toast and Dean wouldn't even let me put butter on it!" Sam said in a rush to get the next bite into his mouth.

Ah. That explained Dean's reluctance at Caleb's presence. It might also explain Caleb's need to visit.

Dean looked away, seeming to shrink into himself. He cleared his throat. "Now that you're here and can entertain the boy genius. I have some homework I need to finish." He pushed away from the table, leaving the burger.

"What about dinner?" Caleb watched the younger boy. He'd definitely lost some weight. If Sam was complaining about not eating much , then Dean probably hadn't eaten anything .

"Not hungry." Was Dean's murmured answer before he disappeared into his and Sam's room.

Caleb frowned. A quick sweep of the apartment confirmed his suspicions. The only thing edible (and that was debatable) was the heel of bread tucked into a back cabinet. There was no aforementioned butter, but there was an empty tub of margarine in the trash under a box of cereal.

Caleb sighed, picking up the abandoned burger, "Hey runt, if you're done gouging out on the fine dining, why don't you find something for us to watch." The "us" was a bit of a half truth.

Sam's eyes lit up and he hurried to the living room area and quickly turned on the TV. He settled on Tom and Jerry. Caleb eyed the boy as he intently watched the television screen. He wouldn't be moving.

Caleb knocked as he pushed the door open. "Dean?"

"I think you've missed the point of knocking."

The older man tossed the burger on top of the kid's homework. "Eat."

"I told you I'm not hungry."

"Yes I'm sure that piece of toast really filled you up." Not that Dean had likely even had that. He probably considered it taking food out of his brother's mouth. Which was absurd but very Dean logic.

Dean stiffened, his face turning an embarrassed light pink. "I can take care of myself."

"Never said you couldn't." But regardless, a fourteen year old shouldn't have to.

"We don't need you to show up and fix everything we were fine on our own."

This was an argument they seemed to repeat every few months. Dean would swing between warning Caleb there and taking his presence as a personal attack on his manhood. "Dude most kids would be glad that their crazy 'uncle' showed up with junk food."

Dean rolled his eyes, swiping the burger off his work.

Fine. If Dean was going to blow him off, he'd skip the pleasantries. "So," Caleb started, shutting the door behind him and casually leaning against it. "How long has it been?"

"What?" Dean's tone was dark but he kept his eyes on his homework.

"Since you've eaten. How long has it been since you've eaten?"

That poor pencil wasn't going to survive this conversation. "Aren't you supposed to be watching Sammy?"

"Trust me the kid is thoroughly entertained. Now you have two choices, you can eat the burger or we can talk."

Dean turned his eyes to Caleb. He was never relieved from the glare as Dean grabbed the burger, tore off the wrapper and took a bite.

Caleb crossed his arms as he leaned back against the door.

"Good?" He asked with a smirk.

Dean shoved the last bite into his mouth, still glaring. "There." He said with his mouth still half full. "Happy?"

"Not really. So how long has it been?"

"You said-!" And he looked angrier if that was possible.

"The burger postponed the conversation. It didn't cancel it."

"Cheap, Damian." The darkness in Dean's tone caused Caleb to hope that he hadn't crossed a line. But they were here now. No going back.

"Talk, Deuce."

Dean rolled his eyes slamming his school book shut. "You're not going to let this go, are you?"

"Nope."

The teen sighed. "I don't know man, not that long."

"But you hadn't eaten today."

"Don't make a bigger deal about this than it has to be."

"Or yesturday. Probably not the day before it either. It's been long enough that you must have lost your appetite." Dean had likely stopped eating the second he realized they were running low on food. Sammy always came first.

"Lay off, man, I'm fine."

"Johnny was supposed to leave money." He'd promised as much in fact. The comment must have come out harsh because Dean's eyes snapped to him.

"This isn't his fault." He said tensely.

"So he did or didn't leave money."

"He left money."

"And what happened to it?"

"I spent it." Food came first. It wasn't something Dean had to be taught. It was ingrained through a lifetime of not nearly enough.

"On what, Deuce. Stop making this so difficult."

"Look, Sammy had a field trip, okay? Dad wasn't expecting it, I didn't even know about it until Dad was gone. It's not on him, it's just life."

Oh yes, not eating so your kid brother could go on a field trip was such a common factor of life. Caleb sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "When'd you start running low on food?"

"Now who's playing twenty questions?"

"Look if you really want to play it this way I can go out there and ask Sam for an itemized list of everything he's eaten since your dad left. He's nerdy enough to remember. And enjoy telling. It's easier if you just talk but hey I'm not against bribing the runt."

"I dunno man," He ran a hand through his hair, truly resigned now. "Sometime last week? I swiped some bread and peanut butter but the cashier saw me. She didn't say anything but- but I can't go back, man. And that's the only grocery story in this one horse town."

"So what?" Caleb was trying to direct his anger at Dean. That would just make things worse. But he was very angry at the situation. "You just stop eating?"

"I would have figured something out."

"Yeah I have no doubt but the question is what."

Dean's eyes darkened, the resigned tone fading back into his defensive posture. "What are you implying?"

He wasn't sure and he didn't want to dwell on it. "That starving yourself and stealing is only going to get you so far."

"Dad would have been back soon."

"And you think he'd like this arrangement?" Caleb scoffed.

"What's it matter? Sam's been eating. That's what's important." And the problem was that Dean actually believed that. He wasn't being hard to get along with, he genuinely believed that so long as Sam was taken care of John would be happy. The bigger problem was that Caleb didn't know that he was wrong.

"You really think that's good enough, huh?"

"I would have figured something out." Dean insisted.

"For Sam." Caleb clarified. But it wasn't a question. It was a fact.

"What's your point?"

"That you need to take care of yourself too. You can't just starve yourself."

"That I- I'm not some girl, Damian."

"You know that's not what I mean." Caleb pushed himself up, frustration beginning to take over.

"Then what do you mean?"

"I mean you can't just not eat so that your brother can."

"What do you want me to do, Caleb?" The cavalier attitude was back as he rolled his eyes. Whether genuine or put on didn't matter.

"I want you to put yourself first for once. Or at least equal if not first."

"Stop making a big deal about this, dude. I've gone longer."

"What ."

Dean realized his mistake immediately, reopening his homework and once again abusing his pencil. "Forget about it, you're just making a big deal about nothing."

"No I'm clearly not. You're telling me that this isn't a first."

"It doesn't keep happening, but life happens man."

Again with the wildly unrealistic view of 'life'. "Not eating isn't just something that happens ."

"Your concern is touching Damien, really it is." Dean said dryly. "But it's completely unnecessary. I would have figured something out."

"I still think-"

"Well you can stop." Dean snapped, done with the conversation. "This entire conversation is pointless. We both know it's not going to change anything. I ate your burger. Delicious. Now if you really want to do something for me you can go watch my brother so I can finally finish my homework."

Caleb frowned. He didn't like this. At all.

"I want you to call me next time."

"I can take care of myself."

"One of these times the cashier isn't going to ignore it." And that would either lead to Dean being mixed up with the law or both he and Sam getting put in the system. Both had left Caleb scarred and he had no intention of allowing the Winchesters to relive his fate.

"Then I won't get caught."

Caleb didn't know what else he could say. He let out an exasperated sigh. "Deuce-"

"Drop it. And don't even think about mentioning it to Dad." To be fair, Johnny would probably leave less money to make a point.

"I'll pick up some things tomorrow."

"You do that." Dean said without looking up from his assignment.

Caleb sighed, giving up his attempt to discuss the topic. He couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt at the fact that John had so recently given him fifty grand for his company. The idea that Dean wasn't eating because, when it came down to the truth, John hadn't left enough money, while Caleb was using Winchester money for his business. It felt dirty and wrong on so many levels.

There really wasn't much he could do now. The money was long out of his hands. Not that John would have accepted it back anyway. He could take Sam tomorrow to go buy some groceries. Give Dean the day off. And make sure both kids were eating while he was there. And if he left a hundred dollar bill in Dean's duffle when he left, what was the kid going to do about it?

~TH~

I don't know if this would actually be considered "whump" but we're going with it anyway lol.

Would love to know what you guys think!

Feed the author comments and get more and better content lol.

God bless,

Jamie

[latetoeveryparty]

Please imagine McCoy from the TOS movie era delivering this Jeanne Robertson stand up clip about Spock.

for example:

“We don’t go to the grocery store together anymore —”

“��� because I frankly don’t care what things cost by the half ounce.”

(screenshots taken from around 2:17 of this interview, I’m sorry for appropriating your face Mister Kelley.)

Transcript of Jeanne Robertson’s “Don’t send a man to the grocery store” under the cut. (I don’t know how to transcribe accents, my apologies.)

“In our area of the country, as you know, when someone we know gets sick or has passed (head down), that’s the way we do it, have you noticed, if we hear the word passed, we—we (head down), and then we go on. I was seated next to a woman on the airplane not a month or two ago and she was seventy, and going to see her sister. I had never met her.

And I said to her, “How many siblings do you have?”

She said “I have two sisters and then we had a third one but she passed in 1941,” and both of us went, [head down] “Oh I’m so sorry.”

You know what I think it is? I think it’s just a little show of respect, just to stop for a minute and do like this and do this—

Well in our area of the country when someone gets sick that we know, or has passed [head down], we take over food. Have you noticed it? We take over food. You can buy that food. You can go to the deli and to the grocery store, get somethin’ great. Hire somebody to bake it, but put it down in the big list of important things for life. You get a lot more credit if you make it yourself. You can put in your grandmother’s platter but the women in the kitchen will say “I know where she got that chicken,” I’m telling you it works out that way.

And I make only one thing, and that is small little seven up pound cakes. I make ‘em by the dozen. I make ‘em, something happens, I’m out of town, Left Brain takes it over.

And not long ago, got up one morning and heard that a friend of ours was sick and went to my freezer and my pound cakes were depleted. I did not realize I was out. He says “I been takin’ ‘em to a lot of people. A lot of people been sick.”

I said, “Well I didn’t know they were gone, I gotta make a pound cake before I leave town, honey go to the grocery store and get my ingredients.”

He said, “I’m trying to get to badminton.”

I said, “Well it’s just a few ingredients,”

He said, “I tell you what. I can get there and get it and still get to badminton but you make sure, I can go through that express lane.”

No problem. We don’t go to the grocery store together anymore because I frankly don’t care what things cost by the half ounce. So I made up the list and he left. Well y’all. I waited, I waited, he didn’t come back, I thought, he’s gone on to badminton! And I thought, now where could he be? I was getting ready to call the grocery story and I heard the car pull in.

He came huffing up the steps, had two sacks and more sacks hanging on his arms. He just glared at me and stared putting stuff down, and said, “I’ll get some more out of the car.”

I looked in the first sack there’s a pound of margarine, and two gigantic bottles of vanilla flavoring. Doling out a half teaspoon at a time it would take forever, to get rid of these two gigantic bottles of vanilla flavoring. And in the next sack were three dozen eggs!

I said, “They’ve had a special, I’ll tell you, they’ve had a special.” I didn’t need but five eggs, and I just said a dozen. In the next sack was a big ‘ole thing of shortening, two of ‘em. And in the next sack, two more. Twelve pounds of lard. We could fry fish for everybody in here. But in that fourth sack, I found my list.

And I’d like to step out of the kitchen just a minute to tell you something. Left Brain is a smart man. He went to Duke University on a Basketball scholarship, played basketball for four years, and graduated in the same four years. Then he went to Carolina and got a master’s degree and a doctorate. He has over degree-ed himself. But I don’t care how many pieces of paper you frame and put on the wall, if you have a left brain, it’s go’n kick in on you. And it kicked in on him about the third aisle of that grocery store. I’ll step back in the kitchen.

I found my list. And in my eagerness to make sure that he could get through the express lane, for probably the first time in my life, I numbered the items. [laughter and cheers].

Number one, a pound of butter, no problem. Number two, large bottle of vanilla flavoring, I had two of ‘em. Number three, a dozen eggs, this man has a doctorate degree. Number four, a big, big tub thing of lard. I could hear him coming back I looked down at number five, said a five pound bag of sugar, I knew he was coming in with twenty five pounds of sugar. And number six was a five pound bag of all purpose flour. Thirty pounds of flour!

Now I believe in accepting things you can’t change but I also believe in hounding things sometimes, and then sometimes, I let it ride. And this time, y’all would’a been proud of me, I let it ride. I put that list behind my back.

He came in again, plopping down sugar and flour all over—bam bam bam bam! Gets it all down and says, “One more trip!”

I went back to my list and looked and number seven was, a bottle of Seven Up. I don’t want that big bottle because, if you go’n make one cake, and you just use it, it’ll be stale by the time I get back. I told him I wanted a six pack of those medium sized ones, hanging. So I knew he was coming back in with forty two bottles of Seven Up. And in a minute, there he was, I had just cleared a space for him, right here, back it up.

Put ‘em all down and turned around to me before he left and said, “Well obviously, they wouldn’t let me through the express lane.”

But you know what, he got all the way out into the hall and came back and he said, “For the record, I figured out what I had done, but by then she was ringing up the Seven Up, and all these people behind me in line were laughing. And I gotta get to badminton! Don’t tell anybody.”

I said, “I won’t.”

Three days later I went to the grocery store and the woman that was checking me out says “I think I checked out your husband a few days ago.”

I said, “I’m sure you could have.”

She said, “That was an interesting order.”

I said, “Lemme explain to you—” and she was from this area too and this proves it ‘cause I said “Anytime a friend of ours gets sick or has passed—” and both of us went [head down], said, “I make a pound cakes and we take it over.”

This woman said to me, “Is there an epidemic?””

[supportforindieauthors]

Three Sisters, Santa & A Billboard by Laura Smith

In hindsight, it would have been smart to belt Santa into the passenger’s seat before heading home. In all actuality, it would have been smarter not to have contacted the CraigsList poster about buying Santa at all. This was Chrissy and her last minute plan to win the neighborhood decorating contest and surprise her sons at the same time. It was also Emily and her idea to drive with Shannon’s convertible top down and stick one of Santa’s arms out the window so that everyone would notice him driving by.

Shannon’s fault was in letting them talk her into picking up the beast of an ornament. She had to admit, though, Santa did look real with his sparkling blue eyes, rosy nose and cheeks, and doll-hair smooth white whiskers. His suit was thick and form-fitting around his big, round belly, the white trim faded to a yellow and spots of brown speckling his dull, red coat. He even seemed to weigh as much as the real Santa, with most of the weight in his doughy middle. Shannon had lifted up his coat to take a peek at his bare belly and figure out what he was made of before Chrissy yelled at her to, “Stop fondling Santa!”

It took all three sisters to pile him in the car with long-limbed Chrissy wrapping her arms around his trunk to lift him into the seat, chunky Shannon pulling him into place from the driver’s seat, and short, skinny Emily manipulating his limbs so that his boots were flat on the floor mats and his green mittens were positioned with one on the crack of the open window and the other on his left thigh. Santa had taken two cheap shots at her in the process, whacking her once in the eye with a mitten and once in the shoulder with his right boot. Her right contact was still watering when she and Chrissy climbed into the back of the convertible to leave. Chrissy, too, was panting like she had carried him on her shoulders like a soldier in battle, wondering how she was going to get the big oaf on her roof, even with her husband’s help.

Santa’s previous owner, Jan, stood under her porch in shorts and a tent of a sleeveless flowery top, waving her three, crisp, ten dollar bills like a Chinese folding fan and watching the three-on-one wrestling match play out, happy to be down one piece of her late husband’s junk collection and even happier to have a hearty stack of cash for Saturday Bingo. Shannon waved a quick goodbye to her, a half-genuine, half-sarcastic “thanks for your help” wave before she slid into the driver’s seat with Santa by her side.

He smelled like unworn clothes that had been sitting in a closet too long. The fresh air of the convertible ride home would do him good. The weather had thawed out the past two days, making the roofless ride home bearable for late December, something that Emily whined about as they pulled away from the curb. She had begrudgingly unbuttoned her black pea coat as the mid-60’s temperatures beat her into submission to embrace the heat wave, revealing two Dalmatians in Santa hats on her white tshirt underneath.

Chrissy rolled up the sleeves of her hoodie and tied her long, brown hair back to keep the wind from matching the wavy volume of her sister’s next to her. Shannon’s hair came out of its twisted knot and blew backwards, each strand brushing Chrissy’s cheeks so that she had to sit all the way back in her seat to keep it out of her face.

“God, Shan. It’s like I’m being slapped back here!” Chrissy yelled over the wind as Shannon picked up speed, heading out of Jan’s neighborhood and into town to take the tunnel back to the suburbs.

“Sit back, then, or better yet, tie my hair up!” Shannon cried back, both hands tight on the wheel as traffic slowed on the way to the bridge.

People were everywhere, lined up in blobs at the crosswalks, smoking against the McDonald’s, coming out of rotating doors with Macy’s bags in hand, carrying boxes of tacos and drink caddies to the park where the pigeons were flocking in the bright but matted grass. Some were in shorts and t-shirts like Jan, juxtaposed against the wreath-shaped lights hanging from each lamp post on the avenue. Others were festively clad in their long winter coats and scarves.

Chrissy pulled a spare hair tie from her bag and leaned forward to tie up her older sister’s hair at a traffic light. Shannon, grateful for the relief from the blow drying effect her beloved car had on her knotted mane, leaned back to let her. After tying it in a sloppy ponytail, Emily snorted at Chrissy’s asymmetrical work, the hair tie closer to Santa than the middle of Shannon’s head.

“Way to go, Chris,” she sneered, “Good thing you have all boys.”

“Shut up,” she said, then sighed and griped, “Fine, I’ll fix it.”

“No, it’s good. I’ll fix it when I get home,” Shannon insisted.

“No, Emily’s making fun of me. I have to fix it now.”

Just then, the light changed, and Shannon pulled ahead.

“Ah! Wait!” Chrissy cried.

“I can’t wait. The light’s green.”

She pulled forward, grateful that the traffic was clearing the further down the road she got. She picked up speed, hoping to make it through the next four lights before they changed. Chrissy decided to fix her hair anyway, reaching from the confines of her seatbelt and her sister’s head bent unconsciously forward as she drove.

“Ha ha! People are waving at Santa!” Emily exclaimed as they drove past a parked minivan with three kids pressing their noses to the window and waving wildly as they mouthed “Santa!” from behind the glass.

“Sit back at least!” Chrissy ordered.

“Here!” Shannon cried and pressed her head to the back of the seat so that Chrissy couldn’t get to it at all in front of the head rest.

“Oh that’s helpful,” she cried, “Wait. My arms are tired anyway.”

Chrissy sat back to rest her arms for a moment, the most perfect moment for her sake because that’s when the box truck from the opposite direction crossed over the line and its distracted driver, laughing at a funny Christmas GIF that his buddy sent him on his phone, plowed headfirst into them. The impact was at first sudden and blunt followed by the chimes of headlight glass breaking and falling to the ground. Shannon saw nothing but the dark pillow of the airbag as it deployed in her face followed by the smell of burnt fabric. Emily’s perfect view, though, was of Santa being launched out of the car like a pumpkin in a catapult before her forehead slammed into the back of his seat. Chrissy flew forward too, the hair tie popping from between her ready fingers and flying backwards into the road where it landed in the sewer, never to be seen again.

A horn honked after the fact. A woman screamed from the sidewalk. A man yelled, “Whoa!” from the opposite side of the street. The box truck had hit the driver’s side front end before skidding back in his lane and pulling over to his side of the street, taking advantage of the free parking that week.

“You guys okay?” Shannon asked, shaking the fuzziness from her head.

“Yeah,” they each replied, equally stunned.

“I’m calling the police now!” a woman on the sidewalk shouted to them, “Does anyone know CPR?”

“CPR?” Chrissy asked. “No, we’re…fine?” Emily said quietly.

“Oh my God. Is he all right?” the man driving the truck shouted as he ran up to them.

“Who?” Shannon asked.

“Him!” he cried.

Shannon peered around the car, and there was Santa lying face down in the street, arms outstretched, legs apart, a pool of red fluid draining out from under him.

“What the…” Shannon called.

“My God. I think he’s dead!” a man shouted from the sidewalk, stepping down into the street, gathering the courage to check his pulse.

“Girls! Girls! Come up onto the sidewalk!” the woman on the phone motioned to them.

None of the sisters could have been categorized as girls for a solid decade. Emily ranked as the youngest at 25. Chrissy was pushing 30 with three boys under her belt. Shannon had just attended her 20th high school reunion the month before, but the woman had mistaken them for college girls, perhaps volunteering at the children’s hospital with a professional Santa who now lay splattered on the street.

“What’s his name?” the man asked him.

“Santa,” Emily said, matter-of-factly.

They didn’t have a scratch on them, not even a shard of glass from the spidery windshield, which, by the way, Santa had totally cleared in his high jump. He was a good 15 feet from the car in the middle of the road, and Shannon was staring at the puddle, trying to determine the source of the reddish liquid that appeared to be coming out of him.

She looked up just then and saw a billboard right above them. The ad was for butter. To the left, a little boy in a Christmas sweater made a face while holding a snowflake-shaped sugar cookie with a bite taken out of it. Next to him was a tub of margarine with a red circle around it with a line drawn through it. Below the two pictures was a sentence in white letters that read, “That’s not how cookies are made!” The logo for the butter company was displayed proudly in the corner. When Shannon saw it, she burst out laughing and pointed at the ad to signal that that’s what she was laughing about.

Chrissy and Emily looked over at the billboard.

“That’s not how cookies are made,” Emily read aloud to herself.

Then, she burst out laughing too. That kid thought he was having a bad day? Try freaking out a bunch of bystanders with a dead Santa. Chrissy joined in, mostly laughing at how ridiculous those two sounded. The strangers around them shot them horrified looks before they turned to looks of sympathy. They must be in shock, they thought. Temporary insanity.

“Come on. Let’s get him out of the street,” Shannon said.

“No! Don’t move them!” called a voice behind them.

“It’s okay!” Shannon said, holding up one shaky hand at him.

As they approached the limp Santa, an unsuspecting car from the forming line behind them decided to take advantage of the break in traffic and cross over the lane to get around them and on to the next light. As the driver hit the gas, she didn’t notice Santa till she was halfway over him. She hit him like a speed bump, sending him jumping and falling over and causing the forming crowd on both sides of the street to scream out in terror. The sisters shrieked out in surprise, just inches from reaching Santa when he was hit a second time. The driver sped away, thinking she had run over a dead animal or a piece of metal from the crash and zoomed through the red light up ahead, in a hurry to get her Christmas shopping done.

Santa had been flipped clean over, his face now tattooed in tire marks, his belly deflated, revealing itself to be the source of the liquid spilling onto the road. Mr. Jan’s work, they suspected. The sisters really lost their minds then as people in the crowd turned away and made ungodly noises of terror at what they had just seen. They laughed so hard that no sound came out, and they clutched their stomachs and stumbled around like three drunks, having narrowly escaped tragedy twice in two minutes.

Now, whenever a plan went horribly wrong with any of them, they always exclaimed, “That’s not how cookies are made!”