Detective Jack Marlowe leaned back in his worn leather chair, the weight of the city’s troubles sagging on his shoulders like a wet trench coat. Christmas Eve in Quemado was no silent night, not with a gang of misfit toy heisters on the loose. This wasn't any regular gang—this was Bad Santa and his merry band of wicked elves; a crew that made Scrooge look like a charity case.
The call came in just as the clock ticked past eleven. The voice on the other end was shaking like a leaf in a gale. “Marlowe, it’s the Chief. We’ve got a situation. Bad Santa’s been hitting houses all over town. Stealing presents, eating cookies. We need you on this.”
Jack sighed, rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Alright, Chief. I’m on it.”
He threw on his coat and hat, the cold metal of his revolver a familiar weight against his side. The streets were deserted, save for the occasional flicker of holiday lights that seemed out of place in this late-night gloom. Marlowe headed for the last known hit—a cozy little bungalow on Elm Street, its once-cheerful facade now overshadowed by a crime most foul.
Inside, it looked like a Christmas tornado had swept through. Wrapping paper littered the floor, and the scent of freshly baked cookies still hung in the air, mingling with a faint whiff of peppermint. Marlowe crouched by the tree, examining the scene.
“Whoever did this wasn’t in a rush,” he muttered to himself. “They had time to snack.” He spotted a small footprint in the scattered flour—definitely elf-sized. He followed the trail out the back door, into the alley. Snow fell softly, covering up the tracks. Jack cursed under his breath but pressed on, the trail growing cold and his patience wearing thin.
A hunch led him to the old toy factory on the edge of town—a place long abandoned, now a perfect hideout for anyone trying to play Santa with stolen goods. Marlowe approached cautiously, his breath forming clouds in the icy air. The factory loomed, its broken windows like the eyes of a ghost.
He slipped inside, his footsteps echoing through the empty halls. The sound of muted laughter caught his ear, guiding him to the source. Peering around a corner, he saw them—Bad Santa, as jolly as a snake oil salesman, and his gang of elves, munching on cookies and sorting through their ill-gotten gains.
“Alright, fellas, party’s over,” Jack announced, stepping into the light. The room went silent, all eyes on him. Bad Santa’s grin faltered.
“Detective Marlowe,” Santa said, trying to keep his tone light. “Come to join the festivities?”
“Not exactly,” Marlowe replied, his voice hard. “You’ve been naughty, and I’m here to check your list.”
Before anyone could react, Marlowe whipped out his revolver. But just as he was about to make his move, one of the elves—a particularly wiry one—shouted, “Hit it!” Suddenly, a blinding flash and a cacophony of noise erupted. When Marlowe’s vision cleared, the gang had scattered, and he was left alone in the chaos.
Jack swore under his breath and started after them. He caught a glimpse of a red coat disappearing down a side hall. He pursued, his footsteps pounding the gritty floor. He turned a corner, and there they were, loading the loot into an old sleigh hitched to a mangy reindeer.
“You’re not going anywhere, Santa,” Marlowe called, leveling his revolver. But just then, the reindeer—suddenly looking a lot less mangy—started to glow. Bad Santa smirked.
“See ya around, Marlowe!” And with a flick of the reins, they were off, flying straight up through a broken skylight and into the night.
Jack stood there, dumbfounded. Flying reindeer were definitely not in the detective handbook. As he was about to give up hope, a sharp clatter caught his attention. The sleigh, it seemed, had lost a bit of its load—a sack of presents tumbled back down to earth, landing right at Marlowe’s feet.
Jack chuckled to himself. “Well, I guess Santa does have a heart after all.” He slung the sack over his shoulder and made his way back to the station, a small victory in a night of madness.
By morning, the presents were returned to their rightful owners, and the city breathed a sigh of relief. And as for Jack Marlowe, he treated himself to a stiff drink and a long nap, knowing that in this crazy world, sometimes even the toughest cases had a bit of holiday magic.
And that, dear reader, is the tale of how Detective Jack Marlowe saved Christmas, one slightly chewed cookie at a time.
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