THE SEVEN MINUTE WAR
Roxette, rawboned and badassed, figured Santa was on his own naughty list. She knew he’d like her letter, the way she drew floating breasts above her signed name, the way she wanted Bucky dumped down the black of her chimney--tape-over-mouth, rope-around-wrists.
Roxette would take care of the other supplies: the gloves, the bags, the rags, the chainsaw.
And later, she’d give a gift of her own and send a Mime-O-Gram. They’d do the Edgar Allan Poe and rap, tappity-tap on the chamber door of Bucky’s girlfriend—the klepto-whore-o with a penchant for engaged men.
Oh, these mimes were multi-talented. They were also reenactors: War of 1812, The Battle of Thermoplyae, The Seven Minute War.
Seven Minutes of pure mime realism.
That’s what Roxette paid for. That’s what was needed to incorporate the gloves, the bags, the rags, the chainsaw. That’s how long it took her to win her not-so-nice little war.