The Case of the North Pole Gang Part 2

The name's Dixon.

Trixie Dixon Girl Detective

In the event, I do not survive this Christmas, please forward this message to my mother,

and also possibly the Smithsonian, for this is a matter of utmost possibly historic importance.

It shall commemorate the moment when, as one people, we rose together in opposition to our

cruel Christmas overlords and their enforced holly jollying.

The moment in which we reclaimed the entire month of December and that little bit at the tail end of November that nobody really knows what to do with.

From the forced, Bon Amie that we have endured for too long.

Once again, my brothers and sisters, let us have drinks,

and make questionable moral decisions and listen to hot jazz music in places that our mothers

would not wish to know that we are aware of, much less frequent.

For the love of whatever saint governs wayward lady detectives,

shall we not choose to be self-involved in slightly immoral 12 months of the year,

rather than the paltry 11 to which we have been bound by harsh tradition and wholesome merriment?

I say thee, yea. Forgive me. I have been passing as a joyful elf at Santa's workshop in

Zwingski's department store downtown for

eight days now, chasing a phantom conspiracy amongst the seasonal staff, and I do not think

that I am going to make it. I had been placed in deep cover amongst the highly suspect temporary

staff members in the highest profile, lowest appeal of all the holiday jobs. My days were spent

ferrying an endless human chain of the city's youth, from the loving yet extremely pushy hands

of their parents to the lap of an elderly bohemian gentleman whose name is apparently

...