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A Christmas Scooby Part 8A Christmas Scooby Part 8A Christmas Scooby Part 8 by Jaguaro
Christmas Day began. I had struck out. The floor was littered with torn wrapping paper, discarded boxes, and all kinds of gifts. No bunny suit from my Aunt, thankfully, but an assortment of jackets, hats, scarves, a desk set, a football, and plenty of socks.
“Get everything you wanted for Christmas?” my old man asked, holding up his pair of pajamas that mom gave him. She was suspiciously eyeing a bowling ball, wondering if dad’s gift was really for her.
“Yeah,” I muttered, wondering if Velma or Shaggy could catch a football.
He nodded. “Guess that wraps up another…hey, what’s that in the corner?”
I looked at him blankly, hoping against hope that Christmas wasn’t quite over.
“Behind the desk.”
I dashed over faster than Bob Mathis in the decathlon. Paper, ribbon and the bow lasted about as long as Custer at the Little Bighorn, as all wer
A Christmas Scooby Part 7A Christmas Scooby Part 7A Christmas Scooby Part 7 by Jaguaro
But it didn’t solve the Christmas problem. I was no closer to getting the Sherlock Holmes Detective Kit, signed by Basil Rathbone himself. Miss Romano had seen to that.
My mother noticed I was upset, given that I barely touched the dinner, pot roast, a previous favorite of mine. “Is it about that Velma girl getting hurt today?” she asked.
My old man glanced up from the sports page. “I know what will cheer him up, if he finishes his dinner. Freddie, how about a trip to Santa?”
Santa! Why didn’t I think of it! The Boss Himself! The Chief of Christmas! Certainly he would get me a Sherlock Holmes Detective Kit, signed by Basil Rathbone himself, right?
The pot roast nearly disintegrated with the speed I attacked it. For once, my old man’s driving, which resembled that of the Indy 500 in the final lap, seemed to slow. And our town’s twenty min
A Christmas Scooby Part 6A Christmas Scooby Part 6A Christmas Scooby Part 6 by Jaguaro
The next day, we got chased, again, by those two neighborhood bullies. But all of that short-term terror would certainly be replaced by Christmas glory, as I would get my Sherlock Holmes Detective Kit, signed by Basil Rathbone himself.
I opened the garish folder that I turned in the essay with only to find….
And a hand-written note from the cruel Miss Romano. “Focusing too much on scary crimes will give you nightmares, Freddie Jones.”
My jaw dropped. I glanced over at Shaggy, who covered his face and looked upward to the heavens, as if to ask why he had been forsaken. I could see the large red pen note, which read “An easy-bake oven is no toy for a boy. D+”
Loud sniffles broke my stunned silence. Tears were rolling down Velma’s cheeks. All she could manage to do was push her essay away, but closer to where I could read it.
“Proper young ladies do not ask
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