Rudolph! Read Online Free PDF Page B

Mrs. C.
    I ignored Rudolph and his weird black humor, and stumped towards the pair of doors. Santa chuckled behind me, but even his famous joviality seemed subdued. The doors of the building opened smoothly as I approached, and I paused on the threshold as the warmth and smell of the shop washed over me.
    "Smells just like—" Rudolph began.
    A robed figure with sandals and close-cropped white hair swooped up to meet us. He looked like one of those vampire kids that were still popular among the teen readers—seventeen going on a hundred and sixty—and his teeth were somehow whiter than his robe. Pinned over his left breast was a tiny sword-shaped brooch. The blade was outlined in orange. On his right pectoral was a tiny stick-on nametag. It read: Mike.
    "Hello," he gushed. "Welcome to Café Perkatory."
    "—coffee," Rudolph finished.
    "Are you here for a beverage?" the old young man asked. "I don't mean to brag, but our coffee is simply the most divine blend."
    "Shade grown on the hills of Oaxaca?" Rudolph asked.
    The greeter wrinkled his nose at the hairless reindeer. "Good guess, but no. We carry GOB, exclusively." He waved a hand over towards the counter. "Right over there. Just tell the barista what you want. Latté, mocha, cappuccino, brevé—whatever you desire, they can make it for you."
    "GOB?" Santa whispered to me out of the corner of his mouth.
    "God's Own Bean," I whispered back, somewhat appalled that the translation of the three letter acronym had come so quickly to me. That said something about how long I had been in the corporate world. Talk about purgatory.
    Our host was still chatting with Rudolph. "If I had to guess," Mike said, "I'd peg you as a quad grande skinny extra whip caramel mocha."
    Rudolph let out a short bark. "Oh, you can see right through me, can't you?" he tittered in a voice that made my sphincter pucker. Seriously? Do not tease the irradiated reindeer.
    Santa—exuding some of that natural serenity that made standing in line to get your picture taken on his lap seem like the most pleasant afternoon ever—laid a hand on the reindeer's tense flank. "Do you offer other services?" he asked. "Is this café wired for the Internet?"
    The greeter flashed his pearly whites again. "Absolutely." He pointed towards the far wall where a computer monitor sat on a walnut desk. "The terminal over there is plugged right into a 10GbE backbone. No firewall filtering, anonymous remailer services, no cookie presets, no popup advertising, and—" he winked at Santa "—no site or download restrictions."
    He smiled down at me. "And you, young man, what about you? Are you here for Passage?" There was something in his eyes—was it a touch of sorrow?—as he asked.
    "No," I stammered. "No, I'm not." I jerked a thumb at Santa. "I'm with him."
    The moment of human empathy passed on Mike's face, replaced by a confused expression that made him seem younger. He looked out at the spoon-shaped sled parked on the lawn. "None of you are here for Passage? Someone still in your conveyance, perhaps?"
    Rudolph shook his head. "Well, we do have some friends along but they wanted to wait in the car."
    Santa's hand moved to my shoulder, and he pushed me towards the monitor in the back of the room. Rudolph stayed behind to torment the greeter. "It's the craziest thing," I heard him say, "none of us are dead. I don't know where we took the wrong turn, and I'm really surprised you don't recognize me . . ."
    Santa kept me on course through the maze of plush chairs. A large fireplace was quietly chewing through a pile of logs. The trio of individuals behind the counter were dressed like the host—just as androgynous and just as perfectly formed. In addition to offering espresso drinks, they also had a fully stocked bakery and ice cream parlor. The people scattered about in the chairs all had full beverage at their elbows and were contentedly thumbing through glossy magazines. None of them appeared too concerned with the large