“Ya see, Mistuh Santa Claus,” the bear said, once Mr. Santa Claus had finished materializing, “we gotta talk ta Terrance Larson. He be tha aboriginal man dat has tha first key ta tha Octahbahg’s Kingdom-Unda-Tha-Mountain.” Nick blinked.
“And it’s a Big Mac?”
“Yassuh.” The bear surveyed the traffic, and when it was safe, lumbered across the road. A car slammed on its brakes, and swerved into a telephone pole. At a loss for anything better to do, Mr. Santa Claus followed, and they found themselves at the entrance to the Golden Arches, surrounded by angry pixies.
“Oy! Chubbles!” A red imp prodded Nick in the belly, “Got some change, mate?”
“Git lost, ya damn pixies!” Sir Reginald cried, swatting at the fairies. “We’s got bidness ta attend ta! G’won! Git!” Pixies swarmed around Sir Reginald’s head, and as they moved in to strike, he swallowed them up.
“Le’s git on insahde, sah.” The bear grunted, licking his chops. Two meals for the bear, Mr. Santa Claus thought. When’s it my turn?
Together, the bear and the old elf strolled in. Over in one corner, hunched over a stack of chips and a burger, sat a dark-skinned Aboriginal man. Thin scars covered his face. More scars peeked out over the neckline of his dusty shirt. He eyed them suspiciously as they approached; he looked ready to throw food at them when they made to sit.
“Mr. Larson?” Nick offered his hand, but Terrance would have none of that.
“Whaddya want, Gadia?” His voice was very flat, very dry; almost entirely unlike British Columbia. Mr. Santa Claus opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, closed it, opened it again, then finally decided que sera, sera. Whatever will be, will be. Still, Terrance didn’t say a word.
“What’s a guy like you doing in this,” Mr. Santa Claus fumbled, searching for some way to salvage the sentence that was quickly Hindenburging on its way out of his mouth. Words fell out of his mouth and plunked on the floor. “This—”
“What’s a blackfella like me doin’ up here in whitefella country?” Terrance interjected. He chewed on a chip while Mr. Santa Claus hunted for some inoffensive way to cover his ass.
“Er, well, yes.” He wasn’t terribly successful at these word games. He supposed that was why he never got far in his school’s debate league. He wondered what his next move should be. Terrance decided for him.
“I’ll tell ya, Gadia, cause you look ah’right,” Terrance took a sip of his Coke. “This McDonalds, this place, it be my Dreamin’. McDonalds Dreamin’.” He laughed quietly, watching a look of confusion travel across Nick’s face, and drop onto the floor. It slithered away to lurk in some dark corner where it could spawn undisturbed.
“Is my home, my spirit ground, my Dreamin’, whitefella,” he explained. There was a long pause. Two tables over, Tom Selleck detached his moustache to eat McNuggets. “Now, whaddya want, mate?”
Mr. Santa Claus regarded Terrance. Terrance regarded Nick. They regarded each other. Just when the tension became unbearable, Tom Selleck coughed.
“This!” Nick shouted, snatching the Big Mac from Terrance. “Woopwoopwoopwoop!” Mr. Santa Claus bolted, scattering chairs and children like bowling pins. “Nyaaaa!”
“Ey! Come back with my goddamn burger!” Terrance charged after Nick, shouting a rainbow of curses at the fat man’s back. “I point de fuckin’ bone at ya! Get de Lawmen on ya!” He scrambled over a chair. “Come back wid ma damn sammwich! Fuckin’ Gadia!” Sir Reginald charged through the doors after them, and just as Terrance got his fingers around Mr. Santa Claus’ neck, the bear cleared his throat.
And with a whiff, a poof, and a zuzzle, they vanished.
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