Friday, January 16, 2015
“So that’s how you want to play it, huh?” yelled Santa. “You wanta play rough?” He leaned down and picked up a tommy gun from the floor. “You wanta play games? Let’s play! Say hello-ho-ho to my little friend!”
I sprinted for the bank of windows along the far wall as he swung the big gun around at me and pulled the trigger, screaming. Santa’s machine gun belched flame as he cut a jagged swath of death across the room: rat-a-tat-tat...
Grandma got run over by a reindeer. Or did she? There's only one man tough enough to take on the Santa syndicate and get to the truth: Johnny Jingleballs, North Pole P.I. But Santa's midget goons aren't about to let Johnny just walk in and bust up the Kringle gang. Can Johnny lick the fat man and his dinky Dillingers? Find out in "Farewell, My Portly," a gooey, raisin-filled fruitcake of a mystery.
Click here to read "Farewell, My Portly"