A Very Vegas Christmas

Six moms a swinging

Five reindeer crashing

Four elves a thieving

Three Santas packing

Two families clashing

One killer shift.

xxxxxxx

A little gift from the Ghost of Christmas Past

More than a little late

Like one of those presents you bought and wrapped ages ago

but which somehow never managed

to make it under the tree:

Some not so little holiday mischief in five parts

An episode in prose form -

because some of us just have to do everything the hard way

and can never just leave well enough alone.

xxxxxxx

Prequel to "Special."

Takes place Christmas 2012.

xxxxxxx

Teaser

"'Twas the Night before Christmas"

'Twas the night before Christmas...

And Las Vegas is anything but snug it its bed...

When all through the house...

Out in Winchester, the Moore family table groans with all the wonders of a real Christmas Eve feast: turkey, ham, roast beef, casseroles of all colors, all the accoutrements and then some.

Only the overturned chairs and hurriedly cast off cutlery belie the bountiful setting.

Not a creature was stirring -

Not even a mouse.

Apart from the not so distant sound of retching.

While in front of The Fountains of Bellagio, a well-heeled couple canoodles to the final, fading notes of the casino's holiday water, light and music spectacular.

The perfect end to a perfect night.

Except for one hitch.

When the man reaches into his coat for his car keys, he finds his wallet's missing.

Too busy frantically patting his pockets, he doesn't notice the elfin-clad little person slip the billfold into his costume before melting into the crowd unobserved.

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that Saint Nicolas soon would be there.

It doesn't matter that the CCTV feed in the back room of the Pack 'n Carry records in old-school black-and-white, there's no mistaking the pompom-hatted, fake beard wearing, Christmas costumed, rifle-toting trio barging in barrels blazing.

Santa Claus has come to town definitely wanting something a lot stronger than milk and cookies.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds...

Down along The Strip, the uber-kitschy The Toy Box resembles more war zone than toy store. End caps tilt precariously off-kilter; their boxes scattered, candy and toys explode across the floor.

Only there's no bomb. Just half a dozen bruised, ruffled and bedraggled women - and one far too fashionably dressed to be straight man - attempting to wrestle themselves from the grasp of the entire security squad it takes to restrain them.

While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.

All the while from atop his perch on a shelf above the counter the source of their conflict, this year's hottest and rarest, must-have "it" toy, the very last remaining Muddy Your Puppy Buddy, blithely surveys the damage.

And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap...

Meanwhile, up on a Summerlin rooftop, the most garish, over-the-top, larger-than-life-sized Santa and his reindeer display irradiates the night.

Well, part of it does.

Half the reindeer sprawl haphazardly in the freshly fallen snow; two dangle over the edge from their halters.

And down on the ground, an unmistakably red-nosed Rudolph pins a wide-eyed, but definitely dead Clyde Matthews into the snow.

Had just settled our brain for a long winter's nap...

xxxxxxx

"'Twas the Night before Christmas'? Really, Greg?"

Festive, Julie Finlay's tone was anything but.

"And I thought Sara was cranky at Christmas," Greg Sanders muttered and electing to exchange recitation for munching, reached for a sprinkle-coated cookie from the heaping platter in the center of the break room table.

For her part, Finn opted to ignore this as she emptied the last remaining dregs from the coffee pot into her mug.

"Where is Sara anyway?" asked Morgan Brody, sipping at her own coffee. "It's not like her to be late for shift."

Greg's impish "Playing hooky?" only earned him a withering glare from both women.

"What?" he shrugged. "Grissom just got home -"

"Not exactly," Nick Stokes corrected as he entered, a towering stack of assignment slips in hand. "Guess his latest consulting gig ran over."

"That's been happening a lot lately," Morgan observed into her mug.

"Yeah, I probably wouldn't mention that around Sara if I were -"

Nick's voice trailed off. For as if the mere mention of her name could conjure her into being, Sara Sidle, slightly breathless and still clad in her coat, charged into the break room.

"Sorry I'm late," she began, dusting a smattering of snow from her shoulders. "It's really coming down out there. Never would have believed it if I hadn't seen it myself."

Greg smirked. "Not dreaming of a white Christmas?"

Sara scoffed. "That's the last thing I'm dreaming of. People are crazy enough this time of year."

"Well, they don't call it the holiday shift from hell for nothing."

Finn gave Greg an even more dismissive: "It can't be that bad."

Nick laughed. "Spoken like a true Christmas in Las Vegas virgin. Remind us how you managed to miss out on the fun last year - again."

"Blood splatter seminar in Miami."

"Miami in December," mused Greg. "So not feeling sorry for you about that one."

Sara, not even bothering to sit, only sighed, "All I know is no one in Vegas knows how to drive in the snow. I must have passed five accidents on the way here. Traffic's back up for miles."

"Like you can talk California girl," teased Greg.

"Harvard. Four years - well, three. Experienced plenty of snow, thank you very much."

Before the discussion could degenerate into any more of a proverbial pissing contest, Nick called the group to order. "Since we're all here -"

He scanned the top slip in his pile. "Looks like our Santa bandits are back again -"

Sara snagged the sheet. "Mine!"

And even before anyone else could utter a word, she was back out the door. There was however no missing the stoked determination in her, "And this year, they are so going down."

"Someone's a little eager," grinned Morgan.

With a shake of the head, Nick quipped, "Definitely wouldn't want to be wearing a Santa suit tonight."

"Santa bandits?" asked Finn.

Greg leapt in to explain. "Every Christmas like clockwork. Three guys. Random liquor stores all over the city. No prints. Only ID: Santa Claus."

"What makes you think it's the same guys?"

Morgan leaned back in her chair. "How many rifle-toting Santas can there be - even in Vegas?"

True.

Captain Jim Brass popped his head in. "Nicky, I gotta steal Morgan for the night. FOS business."

Both Nick and Greg exchanged identical better you than me grins, which Morgan returned with an eye roll and a "Thanks, guys." To Brass she asked, "What's the case?"

"Pickpocket sting over at the Bellagio."

Grabbing one final cookie for the road, she slipped on her coat. "Well, nothing says 'Merry Christmas' like having your wallet stolen."

Nick turned to Finn. "You're with Russell. Desert Palms. Food poisoning case. Suspicious circs."

There was definitely no mistaking the sarcasm in Finn's: "And he didn't want me to miss out on the fun. How thoughtful."

Nick passed her the slip. "Bon appétit."

Whether it was this or Greg's gleeful, "Just remember it's the most wonderful time of the year," if looks could kill, they would have been short at least one CSI that shift, probably two.

"Guess that just leaves you and me, cowboy," Nick said. "And since your so keen on snow -" He handed Greg the third slip. "Looks like grandpa got run over by a reindeer."

"It's grandma -"

"Not this time. 419. Summerlin. Merry Christmas."

Greg gone, Nick staring down at the last slip, mused:

"So much for a silent night -"