Fatal Frost

“Hey, baby, haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”

Strike one, Tinsel thought. Blitzens was hopping tonight. All she wanted was a nice warm drink in her favorite dive. Was that too much to ask for? Rolling her eyes, she took a sip from her steaming cup of cider and set it back onto the bar. She motioned to the bartender to add more whiskey.

The Whovian did so with an ingratiating smile. The green guy was right, they were insufferable.

“Wait!” Tinsel’s assailant shouted drunkenly, startling both her and the bartender. “I saw you on that episode of Elves Gone Wild! I’d recognize that rack anywhere…”

“Listen, pal,” the elf hissed between clenched teeth, “You have a snowball’s chance in hell of getting with me, so why don’t you make like a sleigh and jingle off.”

“A snowball’s chance in hell,” the drunk snowman chuckled. “I like that. So, you ever done it with a snowman before?”

He’d moved closer. So much closer that a single drop of something wet landed on Tinsel’s arm, just below the elbow. Turning her head only slightly, she leveled her iciest glare in the drunk’s direction, warningly.

“Ooooh, baby,” the ice man cooed. “You are one cold bitch. Just the way I like ’em!” Leaning with one elbow on the bar, his red bowtie undone and his top hat perched precariously on the back of his head, the snowman was well on his way to becoming completely slushed. Water ran in rivulets down his face and across his round chest. One coal black eye was noticeably lower than the other and the corncob pipe in his mouth drooped carelessly toward the floor.

Tinsel surveyed the mess beside her. “If you don’t get away from me, I’m going to take a blowtorch to your tiny icicle. Got it?”

The snowman flinched. Standing a little straighter and leaning closer to the elf, he smiled menacingly. “Why do you have to be such a bitch, huh? I’m just trying to be nice.”

Tinsel turned back to her cider. “Well, be nice somewhere else. You’re melting all over my new shoes.”

“Do you know who you’re talking to, you little bitch? I’m one of a kind! People sing about me. Television specials have been made about me. I’m Frosty, gawdammit! FROSTY!!!”

“I know who you are and I’m not impressed by your Christopher Walken impression,” Tinsel said dismissively. “Go pedal it somewhere else, you overblown lawn ornament.”

The elf tried hard to ignore the frozen creep, until he made the mistake of reaching out and laying a slushy hand on her moneymaker. Without thinking, the elf reacted, bringing the steaming cup of cider around and flinging the contents directly into Frosty’s face.

Reeling backwards and bringing his hands up to cover his melting face, the snowman screamed. All around the bar, heads turned and all sound stopped. Leaping from the barstool, Tinsel backed away, never taking her eyes from her tormenter.

“I didn’t give you permission to touch me, you overgrown popsicle!” she screamed for everyone in the bar to hear.

All around, murmurs and hesitant questions began to fill the air, but the snowman remained standing, breathing heavily. Nervously, Tinsel licked her lips and took several more steps backwards and around the nearest pool table, putting it between herself and the shivering snowman. In the end, it was that move that saved her.

With a speed that belied both his bulk and his sobriety, the snowman lunged forward, mouth wide and obsidian eyes glittering murderously in the blasted face. Grabbing the pool table with his spindly branch-like arms, the snowman tossed it aside like an empty cardboard box. Somebody screamed and the bar erupted into motion.

Tinsel braced herself and swung high with a pool cue. The snowman ducked its head to avoid the swing. The cue connected with the top hat and sent it flying across the room. Time slowed down as Tinsel twirled out of the way and the icy terror thundered past her, before faltering and stumbling.

The light went out of its coal black eyes and the corncob pipe clattered to the ground. His body followed, with a sound like a blue whale’s bellyflop, and splashed against the wall.

Within seconds all that remained of the snowman was a puddle of slush at the shapely elf’s feet. Frosty may have been a star, but she’d seen him slumming here before. She hadn’t expected to pull the short straw tonight, but fate had other plans. It’s what passed for entertainment in snow country.

That sauced snow cone would be back again tomorrow, thinking it was his birthday and drinking way too much eggnog. The elf made a mental note not to be here.

“Anybody got a mop?” Tinsel asked, peevishly.


Ed note: What you just read actually has a very long, sordid history. Not the story itself, that’s new, but the character of Tinsel. She’s been around for about 20-some-odd years now. I originally created her as the main character of a running serial in a now-defunct adult entertainment magazine: Sort of Perils Of Pauline as written by Russ Meyer and directed by Chris Columbus.

Actually… that would be amazing.

Set at the North Pole, amidst the sweltering sweatshops of the Santa Claus Corporation and its colorful employees – Tinsel Tales was definitely not for the prudish or easily offended. Most women hated it (strippers loved it!). Guys couldn’t get enough of it (but usually hid it from their girlfriends, spouses or mothers). You get the picture.

(And before you get all judgmental, that serial helped put my son through college, so I don’t want to hear it…)

I’m not entirely sure why Tinsel popped back into my head after so long, but she did. I can tell you that this is the most family-friendly tale in which the elf has ever taken part. Nobody had to rescue her, and she didn’t have to use her sex to negotiate her way out of a mess. She played it cool and heroic. It’s a good look on her. Maybe she’s growing up…

Just like her creator.


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