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It wasn’t wise to receive gifts from Spamton—not unless you wanted to clog your chosen anti-virus program. Giving gifts to Spamton? Perfectly safe. Getting scammed by Spamton knowing perfectly well what he was capable of (and gleefully so) was your own damn fault, as Kris had learned the hard way. Something something, fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me. But what Spamton did with the present Kris got for him was on him. But to be honest, they hoped he liked it. It wasn’t a pot of kromer at the end of a rainbow, but if they succeeded, it was something even better.
“A PRESENT??? FOR ME??!?” Spamton asked. “AHAHAHEHE! YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE!!!”
“It’s too large to bring in the house, so it’s out back,” Kris said. “A big shot deserves a big shot gift this holiday, right?”
“KRIS [KRINGLE] [“Always Delivers!”] DOES THAT DOES THAT MEAN I’M ON YOUR [Naughty or Nice] LIST?!?!”
“...Yes.” Kris replied, taking Spamton’s hand. “Here, follow me.”
They led him through the castle, mindful of his glitches as he sometimes phased through the air. Blinking lights, chattering guests, and the smell of warm gingerbread surrounded the pair as they made their way down the hallway and outside into a rug of snow. There were small private shacks around the castle where yard tools, gardening utensils, carpentry, and other knick-knacks were stored. One of them functioned as an old garage, and that was where Kris made their stop.
“Merry Christmas, Spamton.”
The puppet’s jaw dropped. Not a sound popped out of his mouth as he soaked in the sight that lay before him; he blinked and rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses, just to be sure. Cautiously, Spamton stepped toward the radiant red cungadero displayed before him—the very car of his dreams. The scarlet slab was sleek and lush with a metallic luster, daring and radical as the lightning bolt streaked across its sides. The windows were a dusky tint, matched with an open roof and brilliant headlights like two golden suns winking back at him. The tires were onyx and silver, slotting inside the car like perfect puzzle pieces. To top it all off was a classic license plate with its own words: “BIG SHOT.”
Spamton opened the door, listening to the satisfying click that followed. The interior was wholly black, decked with a music player and cup holders and all the necessities you’d expect a car to have and more, fashioned with a slick professional flair. He inhaled the fresh scent of leather and carpet wafting with the crisp winter air, noting the lack of cigarette smoke or stale chips. He patted the driver’s seat in admiration. The cushions were round and firm and supportive; not so hard it felt like sitting on concrete, but not so soft he’d be swallowed up either. In other words, those thick leather seats were exactly what Goldilocks ordered. The steering wheel had a wonderful grip and a smooth rubber that was a heavenly delight for his thumbs. It fit his small hands like a glove, and for a second, it was like he held the entire world.
The sweet taste of [Freedom].
Spamton reluctantly exited the car, closing the door carefully as though it were made of solid gold. He turned his gaze toward Kris, eyes wide with disbelief.
“1997, right?” Kris spoke gently. “Your favorite year.”
Spamton nodded, still at a loss for words. Usually, he’d go bonkers—if he ever came across a used cungadero in some parking lot, you bet he would hack his way in and steal it, speeding beyond the city and leaving every conceivable traffic law in the dust. (Jail time? Ha. Worth it!) Even broken ones found in the dump he treasured, using them as makeshift shelters until a near-death encounter with a trash compactor forced him to migrate between garbage cans. Thinking about it too hard reminded him of the glory days, which unfortunately spiraled into the time the repo men arrived to take his belongings, [“Not the cungadero, NOT THE CUNGADERO PLEASE NO!”]
It’s not his old car. It’s not the car he loved and missed so much—he’ll never get it back. But it is a certified vintage 1997 cungadero.
A certified vintage 1997 cungadero blessed upon him by none other than Kris Dreemurr.
Spamton removed his glasses, the colored lenses having fogged up like frosted windows. He wiped his arm across his eyes, burning tears rolling down his face before he could stop them. He swallowed the hiccups and weak sounds stuck in his throat the best he could—he couldn’t let Kris see him like this. But it was too late and before he knew it, Kris had knelt down before him, offering their arms.
Spamton held Kris tight, sheltered by their embrace.
“...Thank you Kris.” he articulated. “Thank you so much. For everything.”