I didn’t mean it. Honest.
They say never to make decisions when you’re angry; but considering there’s not a moment in the past year where I haven’t been angry, I figured an exception could be made.
Why wouldn’t I be miffed? Three-hundred years in the service just to get canned—pension revoked, pointy shoes confiscated, jingle bells ceremonially muted. Truly it was the walk of shame.
The Big Man caught me skimming toys off the other elves’ lines and just like that I’d been handed my notice. ‘Freeloader’ they called me. Where to go. What to do. For a time I considered heading south and trying my luck at blending in, but vestiges of that Will Ferrell movie began to stir in my head and suddenly moderate (s)elf respect turned me against the idea. I could not, I would not end up like that. I’m not an object of amusement—I’m an elven being!
Why do I gotta’ pay the price? It was Bauble who asked if I’d retrieve a few nutcrackers for her. I got ’em off Tinsel’s line, then Mistletoe’s line, then Bob’s. Little did I know none of the aforementioned had given the green light for this. Bauble had been falling behind off and on all year, and she’d been threatened with the dreaded pink slip (yes they still have those in the North Pole; I know—dreams crushed, childhood ruined). She told me all these elves had consented to help her by donating a few wares to the cause. And I could give a very detailed explanation of her sins, but why do that when I could just consolidate it—she lied.
She lied and I got caught. Then she gave me the puppy eyes, so I wound up taking the full rap like the sucker I was. Yep, I’m the freeloader. Me. Employee of the Month 1859 through 1940. Not a deadline missed, and I tell you I was a legend. But that’s over, so...I’m not bitter. I’m still sugar sweet. Sweet as a candy cane. Whoops, it broke. Ignore that.
But onto my regrets. I almost forgot. Two weeks ago Christmas whirred around, as it is wont to do, so I decided to play a little trick on Santa. See, I’d heard of this...special mirror known to invert the personality of the subject and thence materialize said personality. The elves all knew of this mirror, informally nicknamed Rorrim. Nobody really knows where it came from. Legend has it that a thousand years ago a group of elves accidentally messed up building...something and their mistakes culminated in Rorrim. To which I reply, how in the South Pole do you even manage that? That takes some talent in itself. But no matter, it exists, and it’s kind of a taboo among the elves due to its inherently dark nature. Fortunately we have a system. We throw a sheet with happy snowmen faces over it to hide the evil aura seeping from its pores. Problem solved.
But I, being a genius, removed the sheet, and swapped Santa’s normal mirror with Rorrim. Banal revenge, blah, blah. I didn’t think it would be that big of a deal. I mean, Santa’s antithesis is already rumored to exist. Krampus anyone? But Rorrim put something of a darker spin on it. The thing that stepped out of the mirror looked like a scrawny, leathered Santa, who wore chains like a Christmas tree wears garland and whose eyes were much, much redder than my comfort zone could tolerate. He scrambled off, jacking Santa’s sleigh and leaving all the presents behind in the snow. It didn’t take long for us to realize: what’s the opposite of someone who gives?
Someone who takes.
And this wasn’t just a ‘bad kids get punished’ sort of deal. Anti-Claus was bent on punishing everyone, naughty or nice. Like Santa, he made a list and he did indeed check it twice, but this was more in the vein of...the death list from Kill Bill. You DID NOT want your name getting checked off of that list.
Beside himself, Santa rushed to check the coordinates of his sleigh. You see, there’s a tracker installed near the backup motor, in the case of something like this happening—well, not this specifically, just a sleighjacking in general. I’d...be highly concerned if it was the former. Anyways, Santa got the coordinates and it turns out Atnas (yes I just called him that) had yet to reach any houses. He was flying over a field, so Santa hit the emergency eject button and changed his course if you catch my drift. Yes there’s an emergency eject button in Santa’s office that’s synced with the sleigh. I think it’s in case terrorists hijack it—I don’t know; the man’s thought of everything.
So Atnas fell—but he didn’t die. That would’ve been too easy. No, it wasn’t two hours before a breaking news report came to our attention. A strange figure had been spotted wandering along the outskirts of a forest in Iceland.
I’d like to pretend I acted all cool......but honestly I had a practical aneurysm over the prospect of this thing actually killing someone because, yeah, it would kind of totally be my fault. We needed a way to subdue him. But how?
How did we resolve this giant pickle, you might ask. Well, I could tell you that we dispatched a whole elven militia complete with Glock 17s and full drone warfare to perform reconnaissance and terminate Atnas. But honestly Clumsy Klaus just snagged his toe on the mirror and it tipped over and broke. Apparently that’s all you needed to do to kill a Rorrim creation.
WHY DIDN’T I THINK OF THAT?!?!?!
Maybe I deserve to be fired.
So yeah. Moral of the story. Stay away from anything that seeps evil aura: even if it’s covered with a pleasantly inviting snowman sheet.
Notes: And yes Rorrim has been done before, I think multiple places but I could be wrong. When I was younger I saw the “My Babysitter’s a Vampire” take (having looked it up--a tad different; I think it was just a vengeful spirit in the mirror that possessed people and made everyone it possessed bad regardless; I don’t think it turned you opposite or materialized anything) and I and my friend(s?) consequently paired a similar take with Santa Claus...for some reason. I once did a picture of Santa looking into a mirror and seeing his evil reflection. I...don’t know what became of this drawing, but it was pretty cool.
#fiction, #strictlyfiction, #donttrythisathome
Réveillon de Noël
’Twas on Réveillon de Noël, a starry night when one of the elves went to check the shelves.
Most of the other elves had been cheering, most of the toys were working.
The oldest elf scrunched his nose and shook his head.
This was another night he could try to get his plan into motion.
He was sick & tired of Mr. and Mrs. Clause always letting the elves do all of the work: sitting on the shelves in people’s homes to watch the kids in order to report back to Mr. Clause, cleaning the stables and making the toys, some were even given the task to tag along with Santa on Christmas Day to deliver presents to the kids around the world.
Well, not this time, this elf was done!
He tip-toed carefully and tried not to make a squeak as he went to check on the toys that had been placed in the ginormous infinite red velvet coloured bag.
All the toys were in the bag and it had been tied securely with a golden thread.
The elf pulled out a scissors from his back pocket and snipped the side of the bag.
Very soon, all the toys rushed out of the bag and onto the wooden floor.
The elf then pulled another item out of his back pocket.
He laughed as he opened a mystery box.
As soon as the box was fully open, a grand whirlwind emerged from it and pulled all the toys into the box.
The elf quickly closed the box once all the toys were gone.
He gathered all his belongings and left a note in the kitchen for Santa:
I tried my best to be good, but I do not want to work at the North Pole anymore.
P.S. Do not worry about all the toys that are missing. I am sure you will think of something else to give the kids this year.
P.P.S. I am off to explore the rest of the other parts of the world. I might pay a visit to the Easter bunny, a bit later, too. I need to try some of the Easter chocolate. The tooth fairy told me that it really is quite tasty!
Happy holidays. Oh, and I also took your sleigh. Sorry, Santa.
18th Dec., 2020. ©
The Fat Man named me Tinkles, so he was on my shit list from the beginnin’.
I was ten years old when my parents dragged me to the North Pole and left me on his front porch wearin’ nuttin’ but a sweatshirt, some breakaway pants and two pairs of gym socks. We’d just come from Vegas, so I wasn’t prepared to deal with anythin’ close to cold weather - let alone the god damn North pole - but good ol’ Ed and Louise sped away in their beloved 1990 IROC before Mrs. C even opened the door. For all they knew, I froze to death that very night, but the only thing that mattered to them at the time was bein’ long gone by sun up. They were aimin’ to outrun their Lepruchan bookies and catch a ferry to Canada to start a new life on the Toronto casino circuit widdout me. And as for yours truly, I’d end up spendin’ the next eight years in The Fat Man’s dump of a workshop that couldn’t even rival the Flamingo Hotel.
I should prolly mention that the reason my folks were even able to find the right place to ditch me is because we’re Elves, so we can see through the magic that keeps it hidden from humans and most other inhospitable creatures, like your run-of-the-mill goblins, swamp things, malevolent fairies and the like. And before you ask, no, we ain’t the Christmas kind - we’re Golden Elves. Totally different race, same species.
Christmas Elves are these little green furry things the size of bunny rabbits that get off on candy canes and egg nog all year round. Meanwhile, my kind look more like The Fat Man himself. That is to say, we can pass for human. But instead of chalky white skin and rosacea, we look good. Caramel bronze all year round, sleek black hair that never grays and green eyes the color of money, baby. And as far as stature is concerned, well, we’re tall enough to see the top of a poker table, which is really all anybody needs.
So you can imagine Mrs. C’s surprise that day I showed up. Not only was I an unnanounced guest ringing their jingle bell at 4 AM, but that was prolly the first time she’d seen an Elf like me live and in the flesh. Her mouth was still hangin’ open when I handed her a letter that read as such:
“Dear Mr. & Mrs. Santy Claus,
Please take care of our boy, Tommy. He’ll be better off witchoo and your little Christmas Elves than he could ever be wit us. See, we need to put all our energies (and serious talents, we might add) into our new magic act so as to help us straighten out a few financial misunderstandins’.
Ed & Louise Piccoli
P.S. If the show takes off, we’ll send you some tickets on the house!”
When she got done readin’, she just stood there shakin’ her head until I sneezed, which finally made her look up. Somehow, she’d forgotten I was still standin’ outside freezin’ my ass off. Thankfully, she pulled me in the house just before the wind ripped the snaps on my pants wide open for the whole world to see.
“Oh dear, come in child!” she said, like an oldie time nanna or somethin’. Then she put her arm around my shoulders and sat me down in front of the biggest and only fireplace I’d ever seen.
“Just a minute dear,” she said, before givin’ my knee a nice little pat and disappearin’ down a long hallway.
While she was gone, I stood up to warm my hands on the fire. Lookin’ around, it was like Christmas threw up all over the place - tinsel, twinkley lights, nutcrackers, you name it. The only thing like home was the warmth. I closed my eyes and thought of that big, bright Nevada sun. And that’s when I felt the tears comin’ on.
I knew I should suck it up and be a man like Ed always told me to, but I couldn’t stop feelin’ like I was about to be a big cry baby. Luckily, Mrs. C was back by my side right before I lost it. So I plopped back down into that cooshy armchair as she covered me wit a blanket and handed me a cup of hot cocoa, complete with these little red and green marshmallows thingies and a big peppermint stick.
“There, there dear. Now you just wait right here and enjoy your cocoa while I fetch Santa. Everything’s going to be just fine.”
I nodded but said nothin’, as I was busy lickin’ a freakin’ delicious chocolate mustache from my top lip.
“By the way,” she said, “I’m Anya Claus. But you can just call me Mrs. C; all the Elves do.”
‘I ain’t no Chrismas Elf,’ I mumbled to myself, looking down at my feet. I could’ve said it louder, but I was sucking marshmallow outta my teeth or whatever.
I’d downed the whole mug of cocoa before The Fat Man finally decided to grace me wit his presence. It tasted really good, but I think there must’ve been some magic in it too because after I drank it I suddenly felt a lot less sad about bein’ abandoned by my parents in the middle of the freakin’ Artic. Little did I know that feelin’ wouldn’t last for very long.
I was practicin’ holdin’ the peppermint stick between my teeth like I’d seen Ed do with his cigars when I heard him comin’. Big clompin’ foot steps and more god damn jingle bells. He had ‘em on his boots, on his belt and even on that stupid hat of his. I wonder if Mrs. C used ‘em to keep track of him in the house like a dog. I pictured him down on all fours, his belly draggin’ on the ground and had a good chuckle to myself as he knelt down my by side.
“Glad to see your settling in, uh what was it? Timmy?”
“The name’s Tommy, sir.” I said, offerin’ a proud chin tilt in his general direction.
“Oh, ho! ho! ho! Please, call me Santa. As for your name, Tommy - it’s a fine one. But we might want to think of something new to help you fit in a bit better around here. Think of it as a nickname. Come, let me take you to meet your new brothers and sisters and we’ll think it over on the walk.”
Uh...who the hell did this guy think he was?
I definitely didn’t need any Christmas Elves as family, and I’d been Tommy for all ten years of my life. Sure, my parents had left me here, but what of it? They left me alone most days in Vegas anyway while they were workin’ the tables. I was a big kid, and I didn’t need nobody.
“I saaaaiiiiddd the name’s TOMMY!” I stood up from the chair, wrapped the blanket around me like a cape and planted my legs firmly on the ground. I crossed my arms in front of my chest to let him know I wouldn’t be takin’ his bull, but he just crinkled his nose and smiled that shit-eating grin of his I’d later come to know so well.
“Did you know that Elves can be on the naughty list too? Ho! ho! ho!” He asked, laughin’ right in my face.
The disrespect! I couldn’t believe it. And then he just left me standin’ there as he waddled along the hallway. So, at first, I didn’t move. But as he got about halfway down, he turned and yelled at me so loud I swear it shook the fireplace bricks and his eyes glowed bright red. “Come along now, young one!”
I snorted and shoved my hands hard into the front pocket of my hoodie before followin’ his jinglin’ ass. I wasn’t scared, mind you. I only went wit him because he smelled like gingerbread and I was hungry, alright?
When we got to where the toys were made, I was amazed. Of course I was, I was ten - I’m not a monster! I liked toys as much as the next kid, and I’d never seen this many in one place before. I’m talkin’ floor to ceilin’ shelves of firetrucks and teddy bears and robots and red wagons. You name it, it was there. I myself felt immediately drawn to a particular gold model car that made Ed and Louise’s IROC look like a garbage truck. But just as I reached for it, I felt somethin’ furry smack me upside the head, and it knocked me to the floor.
“Get it off me! Get it off me!” I screamed and swiped at my face. Then whatever it was scurried down my chest and stayed there, sort of vibratin’ against me like a purrin’ pussy cat. Terrified, I peeked out of one eye to see a Christmas Elf staring back at me wit a smile more crazed than I’d ever seen before - and that’s including the all the high rollers I’d watched win the jackpot over the years. I tried to ease myself onto my elbows and sit up when suddenly, in the distance, I heard a rumblin’ like an earthquake. The sound kept gettin’ louder and louder until I saw wave of green fuzz rollin’ past the toy shelves and headed straight for me.
“BROTHER!” They yelled in unison, their voices soundin’ like they’d just sucked all the helium tanks at Party City dry as a bone. They pinned me to the ground with their sticky little hands covered in peppermint candy bits and drool.
“What the he...” I panted, but before I could finish my sentence, those grubbly little hands were covering my mouth and the smell of mint became so strong it burned my eye balls.
“NooOoOoOoo! Naughty! Naughty!” They yelled.
Turns out Christmas Elves are little psychos.
“Ho! Ho! Ho! Okay little ones, give your new brother some room. He’s going to be helping out around here from now on and we need to give him a name with a little more Christmas cheer. What do you all think?”
At this, the rabbid little green guys somersaulted and tumbled their way off me and formed a circle between The Fat Man and I before cheering, “Hooray! New name! New name! New name!”
I wiped the candy goo off my face and spit a few tufts of green fur from my mouth.
“Now listen here, aint nobody givin’ me a new name. I’m Tommy Piccoli and I’m a Golden Elf. I’m not one of you little gremlins!”
“OOOooOooO NAUGHTY! NAUGHTY!” They roared, while The Fat Man continued on.
“Now Tommy, that’s no way to talk to your new family. Boys and girls, why don’t you give Santa some name ideas?”
So they started rattlin ’em off as fast as they could.
And at every suggestion, The Fat Man was absolutely tickled.
“Oh, ho! ho! ho! What great imaginations you have little ones! You’ve really got me in the Christmas spirit now. With your help, I think my heart now knows the perfect name. From this day forward, you will no longer be Tommy Piccoli of Las Vegas, Nevada. You will be Tinkles the Christmas Elf of the North Pole! Ho! Ho! Ho!”
The Elves all cheered. “Tinkles! Tinkles! Tinkles!” while The Fat Man knelt down and put his hand on my shoulder.
“Don’t worry Tinkles,” he told me. “You’ll be very happy here.”
And that’s when I looked him dead in the eye and bit his crusty old sausage fingers as hard as I could.
For the next eight years of my life, I was a prisoner, no - a slave - to Christmas. Every wakin’ moment we were buildin’ toys and checkin’ the list for The Fat Man, makin’ sure that the nice points kids wracked up matched the level of gifts they were gettin’. And it turned out even the naughty kids didn’t get passed up for presents. They just got kinda disappointin’ ones - nothin’ as bad as coal, but more like plain socks and pencils for school. Ya know, practical stuff instead of magical kid things. Then, after a year or two of gettin’ those kinds of presents, they almost always shifted to the non-believer list, meanin’ no more gifts from The Fat Man at all.
As for me and the Christmas Elves, we got a whole bunch of nothin’ every year! The kicker was that the green guys were all fine and dandy wit this because it is literally in their DNA to live off ‘the joy of givin’ (and sugar). Meanwhile, the most I got was Mrs. C. sneakin’ me a toy or two that didn’t come together quite right - like a jack-in-the-box that popped off a good five minutes after it was meant to (terrifyin’) or only one walkie talkie wit nobody at the other end. If you ask me, all of this seemed like a serious violation of child labor laws, even if we weren’t technically human.
That’s why on my 18th birthday, when the magic of the workshop could no longer hold me in that frozen hellhole, I made my escape and haven’t looked back in twenty years.
That is, until today.
This mornin’, I turned on the TV to see a news story about how Amazon’s due for another year of record profits this holiday season. I was busy picturin’ Jeff Bezos swimmin’ through his vault of gold coins like Scrooge McDuck when the blonde lady anchor actually said somethin’ that grabbed my attention.
“With Amazon delivering at lightning speed before Christmas, one has to wonder, can Santa handle the competition?”
Cue that Grinch lightbulb poppin’ over the top of my head. Sure, she mighta meant it as a joke, but what if she was onto somethin’? There were more and more non-believers by the day, and they had enourmous warehouses filled wit state-of-the-art tech all over the place, making The Fat Man’s operation nearly obsolete. So what if all that was needed to hammer the final nail in the coffin was one Tommy Never Tinkles Piccoli? Bada bing - that’s what I call poetic justice, baby.
And as luck would have it, I was gonna be able to kill’ two very deservin’ birds wit one stone, as Ed and Louise happened to e-mail me outta the blue just last week. They heard I’d been really cleaning up these past couple years at the regular Vegas poker tournaments. Ya see, I’d had a lot of time to play the Christmas Elves for candy canes over those years, and though they weren’t the brightest bunch, practice was practice. And I guess it did make me pretty perfect - so much so that these two deadbeats suddenly decided they wanted to see their ol’ sonny again. Of course, they assured me that their uncanny timin’ had nothin’ to do with the fact that I was runnin’ flush while their two-bit magic act was headed straight into the toilet:
Our sincerest apologies for not gettin’ in touch sooner. We was just doin’ what we thought best all those years ago - as much as it tore both our hearts in two - and we hadn’t quite figured out how to do the email until just recently. Then we saw your address listed in one of those online poker magazines and knew it was a sign. We just had to see our baby boy again!
It just so happens that we’ve gotten an unexpected vacation from our lucrative and very well-respected Canadian magic act, and we thought we might use this time to visit you in our old stompin’ grounds. How’s that sound? Please let us know if we can drop by next week.
Mommy and Daddy
P.S. We don’t need no fancy hotel. We’re perfectly happy sleepin’ in your bed if you wanna just take the couch.
Now, if they were gonna come and freeload on me, apologizin’ for not sending an email as opposed to, oh I dunno, being the WORST PARENTS OF ALL TIME, then of course I was gonna use the situation to my advantage. So I replied:
″Hello Ed and Louise,
I would be happy to welcome you into my home - no hard feelins’ at all. In fact, I would also love to cut you in on a particularly juicy deal that I am certain will be of interest to you. Please pack some warm clothes, as they really pump up the AC where we’ll be goin’ to make the magic happen.
P.S. You’re about to see more green than you’ve ever have in your entire life.”
When Ed and Louise arrived the followin’ Monday, I swear that the Nevada sun was shinin’ brighter than I’d ever seen before, and I knew it was a sign. A positively golden day for a Golden Elf like me.
They uncermoniously tossed their bags on the floor as soon as they came through the door and acted as if they’d seen me just yesterday.
“Nice place you’ve got here baby boy! I assume you got some cold ones in the fridge? Your mother and I are P-A-R parched. Be a good son and get us a little something to nibble on too, eh? It’s been a long trip.”
I thought I was gonna have to wait at least a little bit before the right opportunity came about, but they immediately gave it to me on a silver platter. I should’ve known they’d start lookin’ for handouts as they got here.
“Comin’ right up, pops.” I said, wit a smile that was meant just for me.
Once I got to the kitchen, I reached into my pocket for the zip lock baggie I had containin’ several lovely little sleepin’ pills. I cracked open their bottles of Miller High Life and plopped ‘em right in, watchin’ happily as they dissolved away before my eyes. With a little bubble and fizz, they were now virtually undetectable. I then grabbed a High Life for myself and cracked it open on the side of the counter as I’d watched Ed do all those years ago.
I presented the champagne of beers to them on a literal silver platter both as an inside joke to myself and to give the level of fanfare I knew would distract them from any slight after taste.
“To family reunions!” I said, as we clinked our bottles and cheersed. After 30 minutes, they were out cold easy.
I paid the bouncers from Caesars a nice little chunk of change to load ‘em into the back of my Escalade, no questions asked. Even if they coulda got curious, they were too busy admirin’ my newly installed 24 K gold rims to notice the various North Pole-related paraphernalia in the back - sled, ropes, parkas and one hefty bag of candy canes.
Now I know what you’re thinkin’. How exactly is Tommy Never Tinkles Piccoli gonna get from Las Vegas to the North Pole in an Escalade? Number one, I don’t seem to remember you askin’ questions at the beginnin’ of this story. Number two, may I remind you that I’m an Elf? I had plenty of magical advantages to help me along the way, but I can’t go tellin’ you every secret ingredient to my special sauce, okay? Besides, all the important stuff happened when we finally got back to The Fat Man’s.
As you may recall, I am not a monster, so I put my folks in parkas before I tied them to the sleigh and dragged them along with my sack of candy canes through the woods behind the good ol’ Christmas sweatshop. I didn’t want ‘em to freeze to death partly because I like to think I’m a better Elf than them and partly because I wanted to make sure they’d have plenty of time left to suffer for their sins later on. I know at that point it musta been a very long list including but not limited to abandoing their only child, though I’m assumin’ that definitely took the top spot.
It was a good hour before I got ‘em to the back door. I was sweatin’ like a pig, but it was worth it. I had 10 minutes to spare before 5 AM when the head Christmas Elf, Jingle Bells (of course) would unlock it to step outside for his regular swig of egg nog before the day’s work got started. Only this time, his nog was gonna be a little stronger than usual. I promptly plopped another trusty sleepin’ pill into the jug of it he kept behind the firewood. And being as tiny as he was, it only took a few minutes for him to pass right out.
After the coast was clear, I hauled Ed and Louise inside and began the tedious work of wrappin’ ‘em with the finest paper The Fat Man had to offer. I also used as much ribbon and tape as I could, just to really stick it to him. Then, wit ‘em hidden in the wrappin’ room in plain sight, I made my way to the main room of the workshop. This is where all the assemblin’ and storage of the year’s toys took place. And since there was only one more day ‘til Christmas, the shelves were stuffed to the brim with all the kids’ goodies.
I looked at my watch and saw that I had exactly 15 minutes before the Christmas Elves would make their way out of their stockins’ and down here wit us. So I jogged over to shelf number one, where all the classic toys were kept and went straight for a baseball bat. I took a deep breath and scanned the shelves for my first target before decidin’ on an ugly ass plastic doll made to look like The Fat Man himself, complete with that doofy hat of his. So I aimed for the head and knocked it - and the hat - clean off. Boy, did that feel good.
Then I unleashed on the rest of the joint.
Wooden blocks went flyin’, porcelain tea sets were shattered to bits and the fluff of teddy bears filled the air like cotton snowflakes. As I made my way to the last of the toys, I spotted it. A golden model car just like the one I’d loved all those years ago. I gave it a kiss and put it in my pocket before smashin’ the rest of that shelf to smithereens. As the Frenchies say, it was then time for the “pièce de résistance”.
I dragged my parents out among the broken remains of this year’s toys, into the center of the room, and then went back to get the candy canes. I could see and hear them beginnin’ to stir under the paper. They poked little holes through it as they shifted, and sent small clouds of glitter to the floor. Workin’ quickly, I poured the sack of the candy canes right over top of ’em. And as they plunked down on their heads, I couldn’t help but laugh at all their little groans and gripes.
son of a...”
And then the morning’s jingle bells rung.
As the Christmas Elves made their way to the toy room, my folks finally popped their heads out of the wrappin’ paper, though their arms and legs were still tightly secured by the magic rope I’d nicked from the reindeer’s barn before I’d went on the lamb. It was tougher than steel, so they weren’t goin’ anywhere. And they could hear the rumblin’ in the distance just as well as I could. The Christmas Elves would soon be upon ’em.
I turned and looked ‘em in the eye as they struggled to break free, not realizin’ how useless it was.
“I did promise you’d see more green than you ever had in your whole life.”
And at that, the Elves rounded the corner. Ed yelled, “You son of a...” but before he could finish, a chorus of high-pitched voices echoed across the room.
I lit a cigar and flicked the match to their feet.
“My gift to you, Mom and Pop.”
As I turned to leave, the Elves descended. Spit and fur whizzed by my head as they rejoiced at their good fortune - a gift of candy canes before the day’s work had even begun. Turns out those little gremlins were good for somethin’ after all. I prayed hard that The Fat Man wouldn’t try to work ’em to the bone to save Christmas this year, because it was a lost cause. No magic in the world could help him recover all that I’d destroyed.
I hopped back into the escalade and traveled through the night, willingly listenin' to Christmas carols for the first time since I was 18. When I got home, that warm Nevada sun was risin’ once again. I pulled on my finest silk pajamas and curled in bed wit my laptop. After just a few short clicks, I’d invested the rest of my life savings into Amazon stocks.
It sure as shit was gonna be a Merry Christmas after all.
A Letter Detailing My Plot to Kill Santa
I’m going to kill Santa Claus.
Okay, I know that sounds bad. And maybe it is. But listen –– Santa Claus? He’s worse.
Let me explain.
So there I was –– actually, before I get started, how are you? I know it’s been a few weeks since I wrote you. How are things in the Keebler factory? Still good? I hope they’re alright, because I’ll need a place to hide out after I do this murder. Anyway . . .
So there I was, December 26th –– yesterday. I was enjoying one of my very few days off a year, when who should appear? Mrs. Claus herself!
‘Dingle,’ she said. ‘You’re needed upstairs. In the Official Naughty or Nice List Room.’
Now, as you know, almost nobody’s got the clearance to go in there. So I was like, whaaaa? But I went up, fully expecting to meet a grumpy day-after-Christmas Santa. I thought: Maybe I’m on the naughty list? Maybe I accidentally parked my work sleigh in a reindeer-only lane?
But nothing –– nothing –– could have prepared me for what I found up there.
It was . . . Mrs. Claus!
Now, obviously the first thing I wondered was why she’d gone to the trouble of telling me to meet her in this secret, high-security location, when she just as easily could’ve talked to me before. So I asked her.
‘I have to tell you a secret, Dingle,’ she answered. ‘And no one can overhear.’ And she looked me right in the eyes and said: ‘I’m in love with you.’
I know! I was shocked too!
Now, I can’t say I hadn’t thought about Mrs. Claus romantically before. I mean, those rosy cheeks? Adorable! The way she spreads joy and cheer wherever she goes? Admirable! Her love of experimenting with new cookie recipes? Delicious!
But of course, whenever those fleeting thoughts entered my brain, I had to remind myself: Dingle, she’s married. To your boss, no less! But now, here she was, confessing her love for me!
‘Does Mr. Claus know?’ I had to ask. If he did, that would complicate our next moves.
Unfortunately, he does know. You see, Mrs. Claus told me she’d gone to Santa and admitted her secret love –– but he’d said, in no uncertain terms, that such a romance would be expressly forbidden in the North Pole. The old villain!
So I thought: poor Mrs. Clause. Her husband is too busy for her –– too busy making toys and spreading goodwill! Not even doing anything worthwhile, like lifting weights or practicing chess in the mirror. Mrs. Clause needed a big, strong, aggressive elf, not that irritatingly cheerful old man she’s saddled with. (And yes, I know I’m only 3’9’’ – but that’s considered big for a North Pole elf!) And now, that old man stood in the way of our happily ever after.
The next step in the plan came easy now: kill Santa Claus.
Honestly, I’ve been complaining about wanting to kill old Saint Nick for a few years, since he demoted me from Head of Video Game Console Testing to Junior Stuffed Animal Stuffer –– just because I kept throwing controllers through the TVs! I’m sure I’m not the only one who wants the old man gone –– although, everyone I’ve ever asked has been too wimpy to agree that Santa needs a permanent vacation.
You know, I bet word got around. I bet that’s why Mrs. Claus fell in love with me! (Like I said before, big, strong, aggressive elf.) Wow, it all makes sense now!
So back to my secret meeting with my new lover, Mrs. Claus. Together, we crafted an ingenious plan: Mrs. Claus will ask Santa to meet her in the middle of the sports toys and equipment factory. There, I’ll use my massive muscles and equally massive brain to create a “tragic accident” involving a bunch of baseball bats falling onto Santa’s stupid head. Then I’ll whisk Mrs. Claus away to the Keebler factory, where we’ll live out the rest of our days eating cookies and being in love and stuff.
Now, I’ll be honest, it does seem odd that Mrs. Clause would want me to murder her husband in such a high traffic area . . . but who am I to question the will of my beloved? I only hope we can escape before the security elves catch us –– they hang out in all the factories, especially the more dangerous ones like sports and gardening. Oh well! I’m sure my dear Mrs. Claus has her reasons.
Our plan is scheduled for tomorrow. Prepare for me to arrive at the Keebler factory sometime this week! Oh, and maybe keep my and Mrs. Claus’s plans on the down low. You can’t trust anyone these days!
Tell Dad I say ‘hi,’ and remind him that I’m a grown elf and I do not need anger management classes.
See you soon. Your favorite son,
#letter #Christmas #murder
Working in Santa’s workshop is torture, or so Sparkly Glitterface thought.
The singing, the costumes, the names, the pay: it was all terrible. For twenty-three days a year, the elves worked tirelessly making presents for kids that were only okay. The Naughty List? Barely a thing anymore. Pretty much everyone made the "Nice" List now. Everybody but elves.
They slaved away for twenty-three days, and they did not even get a stocking on Christmas morning.
Sparkly Glitterface was tired of it. It was time Santa treated them right!
Sparkly Glitterface worked next to Jimmies Sprinkles. They grew a close bond over the one hundred seventy-two years that they worked at the workshop. Jimmies Sprinkles and Glitterface shared the same views towards Santa. In fact, it was Jimmies Sprinkles who brought it up.
This year was different for the two close friends. Rather than talking about how awful Santa was, Sparkly Glitterface and Jimmies Sprinkles planned to murder Santa. If that failed, their plan was to threaten him until he caved and improved the poor economy in which the elves lived, as well as improve the naming system, the uniform, and the fact that they were forced to sing constantly.
They were paid eighty-thousand candy canes a year. One candy cane was equivalent to one U.S. dollar. There was no taxation because Santa had no need for the money. He ruled over the land as king. Whatever you owned was his. He did not flaunt this. He acted as if he was a normal citizen, though he did not have to pay for anything. This explains why he is morbidly obese… and why he needs nine reindeer rather than three or four.
At birth, Santa named each child. He then handed the parents a workshop uniform, made by Mrs. Clause, for the child. These uniforms were the only clothes available in the North Pole. They are very accurately depicted in Elf, the movie.
Singing was a requirement. There had to be singing in the workshop at all times. If you were not talking, which Santa allowed, you had to sing.
While Sparkly Glitterface and Jimmies Sprinkles talked, the elves sang Santa Clause is Coming to Town.
He sees you when you’re sleeping,
He knows when you’re awake,
He knows if you’ve been bad or good,
So be good for goodness’ sakes!
Sparkly Glitterface pulled the massive candy cane out of his mouth. This particular candy cane was worth twenty candy canes, but it was important to his plan to be sucking on it.
“I went to the bank today,” he said to Jimmies as he put dresses on Barbies. “Made this withdrawal for our plan tonight.”
“Awesome,” Jimmies replied, struggling to put a particularly stiff dress onto a Barbie.
“It already has a small point. Are you sure you don’t want to join me?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. I really, really want to, but you know how difficult it can be to sneak out without Giggles knowing.”
“Ah, yes. I forgot about your wife. How’s the boy?”
“Kitty-kitty Purr-purr? He’s doing alright. Bummed about starting work next year. I remember when I was twelve… Worst year of my life, man.”
“Can’t believe that fat--I mean--Santa named him that,” Glitterface said, shaking his head.
“Trust me, he hates it too. Giggles doesn’t like hearing me talk politics with him though, so I try not to bring it up. At least my name is kinda normal. Jimmies? I’m lucky. You and my son got the short end of the stick.”
Sparkly itched his neck. “I hate these costumes so much!”
“Do you think we should let others know about our… what the heck is this?” Jimmies lifted a Barbie off of the conveyor belt and hit the stop button on the control panel in front of him.
“It’s a fat Barbie,” Jimmies confirmed. “When did these start getting made?”
“I guess this year. I never would have guessed to see one of those,” Sparkly replied. “What were you gonna say?”
“Oh, yes,” Jimmies began, turning the conveyor back on. “Should we spread the word about our plan? I mean, the more support we have, the better, right?”
“Sure, that’s a good idea. I’ll tell a few people I know at lunch. Maybe you should do the same. Maybe we can hold a huge uprising tomorrow morning when Santa makes his annual visit to the workshop on the fifteenth, rather than attacking him at night,” Sparkly Glitterface added.
“Sounds good. I know about twenty people, so word should spread fast.”
Santa walked into the workshop at 4:45 A.M. . He walked in with every elf that worked there. 4:45 A.M. to 9:30 P.M. were the hours for an elf. But Santa did not care: he sat on his butt basically all year, had the elves put the gifts into his magic bag, then flew around eating cookies and drinking milk.
Santa Clause loved his life.
Santa walked onto his platform in the far corner of the workshop. The young elves danced around him, asking him questions. He laughed his jolly laugh as they attempted to show off to him. After about ten minutes, Santa made them get back to work. It is then that he looked up and noticed that not many elves were working at all. His smiling face turned to a frown as he realized many of them were holding bats and sharpened candy canes.
“Now, now,” he said, “there is no need to be violent. Let’s talk about this!”
“You already had your chance, fatty,” Sparkly said.
“Glitterface, there is no need to call names!”
“Hah! We want to make some changes ’round here, Nick. Ain’t that right, boys?”
In unison, the elves yelled, “YEAH!!!”
“Since you brought it up, let’s start with names, shall we? Why did you have to name us like you did?”
“What’s the matter with Sparkly Glitterface?”
“Everything, Pilsbury. We want new names.”
Sparkly rolled his sharpened candy cane in his hands, then pointed it at Santa. “This mandatory singing? I want it gone. I also want a new uniform… something that isn’t as femine or childish.”
“Okay, anything else?” Santa said calmly.
“You get paid really well already,” Santa Clause said.
“Candy canes? Really?”
“Fair point. I’ll do my best."
"What is it with us not getting any gifts on Christmas? Like, really, dude? We work our booties off for you, and you can't even squeeze yours down our chimneys Christmas night to give us some gifts. How's that fair?"
Santa scratched his chin and thought for a moment. "The gifts would be spoiled."
"Really? Is that all you've got?"
"Alright, I'll give you guys some gifts! Jeez! Anything else?" Santa said.
The elves looked around at one another. No one said a word. “If you don’t mind, then, I’ll be on my way.”
The sea of elves parted as Santa walked past.
"Well, that was easy," Sparkles said, looking over at Jimmies who was standing next to him.
Sparkly walked into work on the seventeenth with a huge grin on his face. His new orange jumpsuit really screamed "I work in a factory."
Every other elf walked in with the same uniform: orange jumpsuits with their new names on their backs, as well as a sweet ankle chain thing. It had two clamps that attached to each leg, and a chain connecting them in between. Everyone loved the new uniforms.
“Prisoner 638, you may enter," a robot said as the elf in front of Sparkly entered the workshop.
"Ooo, robots!" Sparkly said. "Fancy."
"Prisoner 626," the robot said to Sparkly, "you may enter."
Oh, I know, I let you wear the pants;
You look pretty cute in suspenders.
But who’s left swiping the crumbs from the ants
After one of your cookie/milk benders?
Who’s the one who fixes the leaks?
Who knows where worktools reside?
Who’s the one who wraps presents for weeks,
And hitches that sleigh that you ride?
Well I’m done. I’ve had ’nough
Of doing all the work, while “Santa” gets all of the credit.
So this year, your dear deer will fart up a storm, from all of the candy I fed it.
You’ll be itching from all of the ivy and oak
That I hid in your Whitebeard Shampoo.
And your butt will get stuck (what an excellent joke)
In the tar-glue I left in the flue...
Oh yes, this will be a fantabulous year;
And while you’re out fumbling and stinking,
I’ll be here, fondling your best ginger beer...
I’ll be laughing, and eating and drinking.
I can picture it now; dear old Santy, you’re toast!
Serves you right; “loyal elves” you dare boast...
“Sugar Plum! Why are you standing around? This is Christmas! Let’s get back to work!”
“Yes Sir. Of course Sir. Sorry Santa Sir.”
Rocco Cinnamonsticks quickly dove into the snow. Whew...So close...Almost. Almost that old oaf saw me.
Three years ago, he ran away from Santa’s workshop. He wanted to escape the slavery, the constant joy, the constant making of gifts for kids that they didn’t even know, checking the gift lists...
But, every single year, right around December, those memories resurfaced, because he couldn’t seem to escape the spirit of Christmas...or the spirit of Santa.
Now, it was December 20. Yes, he was cutting it very close, but his plans wouldn’t work out any other way. It had to be December 20, five days before Christmas...
Mrs. Claus quickly finished setting the table. She frowned lightly, and adjusted her cap. Now...if only nothing goes wrong tonight...
Dressed in red and white, she sure looked like the wife of the jolly, fat man. But, resting between her breasts, hidden under her outfit, there clung a golden ring to her skin.
It was not a ring given to her by old Nick, oh no. It was the ring of the one man she loved more than anybody else in the world. The one man that made her feel like a woman again.
It might be good to point out that Santa and Mrs. Claus have been in existence for many years. Yet, they do not grow old. And it is why we find Mrs. Claus with lightly graying hair, but still with a youthful face.
She quickly stepped into the master bedroom, her eyes not even taking in her surroundings, only the small jewelry box on her mahogany vanity. Her eyes stayed glued on this box, and soon she lifted the lid, fastening her gaze on the special set of jewels.
Beaming up to her, the emerald-studded necklace shone. In the middle of it, lay the two large golden emerald-studded earrings. Shaking, she quickly clipped them in, and then clasped the necklace around her neck, allowing it to sink away, hiding underneath her red and white blouse.
Rocco tapped impatiently on the door. Come on, Ranger. You know I’m coming today. He shoved his hand through his black, curly hair, frowning even more when his hand hooked on to his pointy ear for a mere second. How he wished that he could be rid of these hideous things. It really made it difficult to blend in with the people. How fortunate that he was one of the taller elves; at least that helped him to blend into the modern world with some ease.
Finally, the door swung open and his mirror image stared back at him. Well, his twin brother.
“Rocco, plans have changed. Come in.” Ranger pulled his brother inside, securely bolting the door behind them. They faced each other. “Nick has decided to take the missus on a vacation this year. Well, not really a vacation. It’s mo-”
“Ranger, don’t take the long way around things. Spit it out.” Rocco said, much more calmly now.
“Nick is not in the factory anymore. He’s not with the reindeer anymore. He’s heading home. He’s going to take Holly and they’ll be leaving right after dinner. So...you have an hour...”
“Brother,” he started with a mischievous smile, “I will need a few things, if you please.”
“My dear Mrs. Claus, something smells marvelous.” Santa said as he entered the cozy kitchen. Stunned, he stopped dead in his tracks.
Holly was also left frozen, biting her lower lip, pondering her next move. Finally, she turned around slowly, flipping her shoulder-length black hair to the back.
“Thank you, Nick.” She said calmly, but the quivering of her nose gave away her uncertainty.
“H-h-oll-ly?!” He stuttered, taking a step backwards. “H-h-oww?”
“Easy, actually.” She said, slipping on her kitchen mits and lifting the pot from the fireplace, placing it on her kitchen table. “To impresss you, I decided to disguise my actual hair color. To appear older and more favourable to you. But, I never got rid of my natural hair color.”
“And now,” she continued, “I’m just tired of being older than I really am. I’m going back to my youthful self; the ever-youthful soul you turned me into when you married me. See...I’m immortal now.” She smiled evilly, her blue eyes steeling over.
“Now...Holly.” He warned, stepping closer. Then he noticed her slim shape. “When did you lose weight?” He asked, his mouth falling wide open, finally paying full attention to her.
The dark green dress clinging to her body, reaching down to sweep the floor. The wooly white shawl hugging her shoulders. An emerald necklace and earrings glistening maliciously at him.
“It all started the day I met the true love of my life.” She informed him haughtily, tilting her head upwards.
“And who might that be?” He asked sternly, coming to stand in front of her, slightly surprised at the heat being radiated from the fireplace. “The fire is too hot.” He added.
“I know that. I stoked it to be this hot.” She said and took a step backwards, her eyes scanning him warily.
“Who might be this true love of your life, Holly?”
“ROCCO CINNAMONSTICKS?!!” He burst out laughing, folding his arms around his paunch. “My dear wife, that elf has left us long ago. You are waiting for somebody that will never return.”
“That is where you are wrong, dear old Nick.” The taunting voice echoed through the room.
“Rocco!” She cried joyfully, but stopped when she saw the warning look on his face. Santa turned around, his eyes growing big.
“Oh...Look who’s here...Tell me, Rocco,” and he glanced behind him, “what are you doing here?”
“I’m here to take away Holly, kill you, and stop this horrid holiday that we have to go through each year.” He stated confidently, keeping his hands behind his back.
“Oh, really? May I ask how you are going to accomplish that feat?” Santa asked, seemingly amused.
“Look outside.” The answer came calmly.
Ranger took a deep breath, and then brought the match down. It ate at the short line.
At Rocco’s harsh “Holly!”, both fell to the ground, as the shot burst through the big kitchen window, fire crackers lighting up the room, being followed by the deafening noise.
The fat man stepped back among the chaos, and then fell backwards, hitting the kitchen table with force. As he sank to the ground, the pot was tipped over and fell on him, scalding his whole body.
Rocco chuckled dryly, jumping over the table, and grabbed Santa’s legs.
“Rocco, what on earth are you doing?” Holly screamed, where she still lay on the ground, covering her ears. Another round of fire crackers flew into the room, the chaos being renewed.
Under his breath, Rocco cursed, but slowly lifted Santa, dragging him towards the fireplace. A cracker flew past his head, momentarily disabling his hearing.
Biting his lip, he dropped down, and crawled to Santa’s head. He lifted his victim upwards, groaning as he fought against the bulk of man.
“For FREEDOM!!!” He yelled as he pushed Santa forwards and into the seething fire...
“What kind of boss works only one day a year and expects to get all of the credit for it?” I exclaimed incredulously as I pulled the sugar cookies out of the oven.
“Well dear, he is Santa,” Mary said awkwardly, shifting in her seat, “what colors should we use to ice the cookies?”
Even the sweet smell of the treats couldn’t distract me from my anger. I knew Mary had a point, but I had reached a breaking point. I had been switched departments for the 5th year in a row. First, Doll Manufacturing. Then, the Wrapping Department, which was probably my least favorite. But, that was where I met Mary, so it turned out to be not too bad. After that I got switched to Quality Control-- pretty mundane stuff at The Workshop since all of the other Elves didn’t really make a lot of mistakes. Last year, I finally started to see a glimmer of hope when I was put into remote control toys, but alas... I got moved again.
“I just can’t take it any more sugarplum,” I said, exasperated, pulling out the red and green buttercream icing from the icing drawar next to the oven.
“You just need to have more holiday cheer!” she smiled sweetly up at me as she began to move the cookies to the sparkling cooling tray.
“And that’s another thing, everyone keeps telling me to be more jolly or to embrace the holiday spirit, but that doesn’t...”
The doorbell rang the first few notes of a high pitched Frosty The Snowman. Oh great, just what we needed, a guest. Whoever was at the door was getting impatient and rang the bell a few more times, setting off our Rube Goldberg doorbell.
A train started chugging around the top of our kitchen, cranking our jack-in-the-box as it went. Jingle Bells rang throughout the house and finally the box popped open, pushing the button to the snow machine, which began to spurt snow from our roof into our kitchen.
“Ohhh I love it when it does that!” Mary exclaimed.
“Well are you gonna get the door?” I said, annoyed.
She opened the door and suddenly Fredrick, Santa's personal assisant, walked in.
"Mary! So good to see you!" he smiled warmly, his wide mouth reaching his pointed ears.
"Yes, good to see you too! Come in, come in," Mary insisted.
"Well hello there Bobby, just the elf I wanted to see." he slapped me on my back as he walked through our door.
"Now this is something," he said as he moved toward our kitchen, now covered in snow.
"We were just making some sugar cookies if you would like to stay," Mary offered.
"Thank you, Mary, but I can't stay," he then turned abruptly toward me, "let's just get right to tying the bow on this visit," he winked at Mary.
She giggled softly, "of course, what can we do for you?"
"Well... It's more about Bobby here," he glanced down at his clipboard, "you've been transfered to the South Pole," he shot an overexaggerated frown in my direction.
"The South Pole?? That can't be right! I-- I have been working so hard!" I was getting angry now.
"Yes! Exactly! That's just the reason you are being transfered... uhh... again. We need hard-workers like you down there to make sure things run smoothly. Besides, you are Ah-May-Zing at entering new departments and... uh... motivating your team. Oh, Bobby, it'll be a blast! It'll be just the thing to renew your holiday spirit," he was talking so fast and I was starting to feel nauseous.
"I don't understand, I didn't ask for a transfer... How can I leave Mary?" I sat down in the nearest chair.
"Well, the thing is... the big man figured that your relationship with him has gotten a little rough... and that you might need, say, a vacation away from each other."
"What? Why does he get to call the shots anyway? He sits around eating cookies and drinking milk for 364 days a year and then just expects us to do everything for him? I mean I have been transfered 5... well... 6 times now! He obviously doesn't care about our happiness. Why should I even work here anymore?!" my anger was bubbling up.
"Exactly, Bobby, exactly!" Fredrick said, nodding, "that is why you are being sent to the South Pole, where you'll be under new management."
"I am not going to leave! I-," I started.
"Well, must be going," Fredrick interrupted me, "lots to do! Just stop by ER for more details!"
"I don't want to stop by Elf Resources! I want to speak to Santa!" I screamed.
"Sorry, there's only so much I can do! Goodbye Mary, hope to see you around." He gave Mary a wink and stepped out the door.
This was it... This was the last straw. I was going to sabotage Christmas and no one, not even Fredrick, was going to stop me.
Y’all Got it All Wrong
Dear Lovely Humans,
Christmas lights, the only real illumination of the world on Christmas Eve. The only thing Santa can truly use to guide his way. That's at least what you books say. You see, even though in all the stories and movies, all the books you read about Christmas, they aren’t telling the truth. Santa isn’t fat, he doesn’t have a big white beard, and he doesn’t eat your cookies. He doesn’t ride around on a magical sleigh pulled by reindeer. No, you see that is all the elves. Santa isn’t even real. It’s something that us elves came up with a long time ago to explain to you,what was really happening on Christmas. We were saving you, from yourselves. Christmas is a magical time of year, but unfortunately, you humans can’t survive without Santa Clause. Without the man in the red, someone parading around singing carols to people, you will all die. Not really, but you get my point. You see,Santa is a mythical being. We created him, and we are the ones who are actually in charge. It's the only way we can keep our anyimity. It’s the only way that us elves can survive.
All of the elves have different skills. My best friend Ed for example, is great with lights. My girlfriend, Jen, is great at fashion. And me, well, I am a writer. I write all of your christmas stories, I was the one who came up with Rudolph. The reindeer whose nose guided the way on a stormy Christmas, the actual story is much more funny than that. And I will tell you because it’s hilarious.
One that specific Christmas eve, it wasn't foggy, it wasn’t storming, and there for sure was no Rudolph. What happened that night will change history. (That was sarcastic by the way). Anyways, that night when we took off with the presents, the gifts and everything, we flew for your information, on jet packs. We’ve had those for about 100 years but we like to see you guys fail at building them, it’s quite funny.
Back to Rudolph. So that night we all took off, with everything, but when I came to New York City. I saw the Statue of Liberty, standing there, looking lonely. And then I looked over and saw a large bundle of christmas lights, they were all red. And I came up with the grand idea to take those lights, and wrap them around the crown of the Statue of liberty, and then parade it around NYC. I did, and that is where the story of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer came from, it was Lady Liberty lit up with red christmas lights. HA, bet you didn’t think that was what I was gonna say.
I feel like I’ve gotten kind of off track here, back to me. I am the head writer, I write all the stories, and I make sure that the stories about us, the elves and Santa Clause, are correct. Or, at least correct in the sense of how we want the story to be told.
Sometimes though, I come across web sites like Prose, and I decide to test my hand at writing against you famed writers of the human world.(in a super deep voice like morgan freeman or something like that) And so that is what I am doing. I’m telling a story. A story that may be true, or maybe this elf is just tricking you. But I just wanted to say, Santa isn’t real. He’s us. So it would be mightily impossible for me to write a story about an elf, who is going against Santa, if Santa is the freakin elves. Just sayin.
So to round this wonderful story out, I would love to tell you another one of your christmas stories that I have created, and then written stories about, and then they become your fantasies. The story I am mentioning is…
FROSTY THE SNOWMAN. Just kidding that is actually factual. Don’t make me explain how, I honestly don’t know, you’d have to talk to the elves that handle inanimate objects. That is something a bit above my pay grade. The real story that I have given you humans, is the story of The elves and the shoemaker. This one isn’t as crazy or out of this world as the Rudolph story, but it is quite interesting. You see, elves are actually quite terrible shoemakers, we suck at it. Anytime we try to even lace up some shoes for someone, we break the entire shoe, and the threads of the lace all fall apart. So this story was actually born out of the fact that nobody would believe someone saying a human helped elves create shoes, or make them. No, nobody would believe that, it was just out of this world. To elvish, just kidding that’s a bad pun. So in my downtime I thought that what if the elves helped the shoemaker create the shoes. And it became a bestseller. The shoemaker became quite mad, at me and all the elves. Almost ratted out our operation to the authorities. But it worked out, and he got paid quite handsomely.
So as you can see, there is no possible way that Santa Clause is real, the elves are Santa. Just drill that into your mind now, because if you do, the naughty and nice list, might not be checked twice…
(just kidding, we actually check it like 500 times to make sure we have enough toys. Sorry if that ruined your song Frank.)
Thanks for letting me write with you humans, it is quite an experience. But honestly, if you try to make someone write a bad thing about Santa, you should probably get your facts right, cause it's pretty impossible for a elf to go against another elf. Well, not impossible. It did happen once. I should probably tell you that story.
You see, he forgot to check the list that one last time, and so we didn't have enough toys. And his excuse was that he heard on the radio that Frank Sinatra said"He's making a list, and checkin' it twice, gonna find out who's naughty or nice" and that made him think we were all doing it wrong. It spiraled out of control and so that is where the beatles came from. He was John Lennon actually, quite a crazy story that one. We had to send an elf to go kill him, you know, he couldn't spill the secrets of the universe type of thing. And we've been trying to get that dude out of jail for a while now, but turns our you humans really liked John. Just kidding I made that entire thing up. We actually have never had any "rogue elves" so that kind of defeats the purpose of your prompt.
With Love and tons and tons and tons and tons of presents(it's literally tons),
The Elves, and more specifically J.R.R. Tolkien.
p.s.( we actually do speak elvish, its a quite a complicated langueage, but nothing like English, I mean that, that is a nightmare.)
An Elf’s Place in the World
Raya watches the next item approach on the conveyor belt: a heart-shaped box of chocolates, its exterior glossed and boasting 10 FLAVORS TO WARM THE HEARTS OF YOU AND YOUR LOVED ONES THIS CHRISTMAS! in green and red font.
If she were back at the factory, she would have cut two pieces of her favorite wrapping paper (bright yellow with PSY's face printed every two inches) and sandwiched the box in between them. She would have folded the bottom edges around the point of the heart, and carefully pushed the top of the paper around the two curves and crinkled it just enough to fit the shape. No one wrapped presents as perfectly as Raya did.
But Santa no longer wants perfection. He wants a machine system of slave-elves and a quota to be filled every day. No more being gentle with the presents, fondly thinking about how each object passing through one's hands would bring joy to a child who has been waiting for a year for a magical holiday. Every child gets a present, good or bad, because Santa gets a 1% commission on every present he makes from the United Nations.
Raya, because she is not at the factory, scans the box and tosses it into one of the open plastic bags next to the counter, ignoring the customer glaring down at her. "Happy holidays." She's already eyeing the clock as she hands the customer her receipt.
Done. The clock hits 8 PM and Raya barely contains her desperation, waiting for the last customer to be ushered out. Her apron is tossed into her bag, her lane is wiped down, and the chocolates in the aisle are replenished just seconds after, and she drives herself home.
"Hi, darling," she says, giving her cardboard cutout of Jack Sparrow a kiss. "I missed you." She imagines that he winks back and makes a suggestive remark, as Jack Sparrow does.
"What's this?" She picks up the letter that she missed on the floor as she was entering her home. It's green with red borders, and smells like it was dipped in melted peppermint candy. It's kind of sticky like it was, too, and that's the telltale sign that now brings dread (and curiosity) to her gut.
Raya walks over to her desk to get her reading glasses and opens the envelope with trembling fingers. As she peruses the document, she loses feeling in her legs with every word until she collapses to the ground, stricken by the weight of unjustice.
"You may be evil, but you're no fool," Raya mutters. She urges her car to move faster and takes a swig of eggnog. Her fellow working elves may be too meek to stand up to Santa, but that letter was the end of his reign, at Raya's hands.
Hello, Elven Creature #1474!
This letter comes to you from Santa's Factories Incorporated. We noticed that you retired 103 years ago, so perhaps this new development has escaped your notice. All elves are to be taxed as per the Existential Taxation Decree, established 42 years ago, as a return payment for Santa's Factories Inc. creating you. This is a 90% tax on your yearly income, which you'll be happy to hear was negotiated down from a 100% tax (seeing as you do owe your entire existence to Santa).
You appear to be 42 years behind on your payments.This letter is to remind you to deposit $12,250,001.52 to your Santa's Special Elves :) account, which you can open today for a small fee of $80. You could also choose "Termination" as per Clause S1 and your offspring or any relatives would distribute the payment among themselves.
You have 2 weeks to make your payment before everything you own is seized.
Happy Holidays from Santa's Factories Inc.!
There is no way in hell that she's making that payment (and not just because she's very, very poor at the moment). So there's only one other option: a single-person, fury-driven, half-drunken coup. On Santa.
Raya's car sputters out of gas three-quarters up the cliff that the Clauses live on, so she grabs her axe and her bottle of eggnog, psychs herself up by imagining Santa with his face bashed in, and hikes up the remaining 2 miles through the snowstorm.
Mrs. Claus answers the doorbell with a disgusted look on her face. "What do you want, elf?"
"Your husband's head," Raya responds with a smile, then swings the flat of her blade at Mrs. Claus's spray-tanned face. She closes the door on her way in, taking care to step on Mrs. Claus's nose job.
"Was that the agent with our money, sweetheart?"
There it is. That despicable voice, dripping with greed. Raya doesn't realize that she's stomped up the stairs until she comes back to mind, face-to-face with a very surprised Santa Claus.
"You will never build upon our bones again," she hisses into his face.
Santa tries knock her away, but elves, as he wanted, were made for resilience. Strong arms to wrap presents all day. Dextrous fingers to fold tricky corners, scarred and strengthened by constant papercuts. And the most balanced, poised, and focused creatures on Earth, to deal with the mental war waged against a selfish master.
An hour later, Raya finds herself utterly drunk and nearly asleep on the floor. She turns to the side, smiles at the resting head of Santa five feet from the rest of its body, and then passes out completely, lost in dreams about a legacy of elves who work not for survival, but for genuine happiness.