Number 57
Have you ever wondered why Santa’s elves don’t have names?
It’s because they have numbers. Numbers and ranks based on their spot on the assembly lines. Names slow them down; keep things regulated in a system. It gives them move to work another day in hopes of receiving a higher number, a higher rank or maybe even a pat on the back by the man in red himself.
The red light beamed brightly and the siren went off again. 57 knew it was time to push the button again. He trudged towards the cold steel podium carrying a bright yellow button with X written on it. He pushed it down for the 76th billion time in his career, every time hoping it would be the last. The X used to stand for Xmas he thought for himself, as he recalled the day he joined what he then thought was the most joyous vocation an elf could have. Now the X is just an emblem of the slow crawling slimy black snail of death that doesn’t seem to come by despite his wishes. The walls were lined with signs that read “The happiest place on earth” with all sorts of Christmas symbols bedazzled around it, trees, bells, signs, reins… You name it, they had it. Happiest place? Does the happiest place on earth have suicide nets? Or big security ogres with blue skin and giant maces with crusted dried crimson flakes from past disciplining procedures? 57 couldn’t take it, but couldn’t do anything about it. Until today.
The fat man pranced around all jolly-like, the bells on his shoes chiming along. He hummed along a little unrecognizable hymn as his prying eyes watched around carefully for elves trying to take a breath away from work costing him another dollar. “Gentlemen, HO HO HO, the day is almost upon us, we must be done with all the toys by the 23rd.”
The day is almost upon us indeed 57 said to himself, as he gnawed on yesterday’s candy cane. He prepared the end into a sharp spike that could split a hair, the red and white sugary treat has become a shiv. He’s been hiding it into his boot all morning waiting for the right moment. The old man was started his rounds along the assembly making sure all procedures are in check, his eggnog stench moving ahead of him by around 10 feet. 57 waited Santa to approach him and lay a hand on his shoulder, then he would strike with malicious intent.
It’s been years in the cold factory. He doesn’t even remember how many it’s been. The desolate fog has trapped him in there for so long, he barely remembers what snow feels against bare skin. Plucked in the prime of youth and forced to labor away the best years of his life pushing a button in staggered periods. 57 couldn’t take it, but he was about to do something about it.
“Great female massage rod you’ve made number 56” Santa shrieked in his ever so jolly, ever so ear tearing tone, “you’re gonna make one lonely missy very happy my good friend.” Now, do it now 57, his inner monologue was all he could hear. He used to have a name. He can’t even remember what it used to be. His fingers clutched the cane so tight the sugar was melting into a warm sticky fluid. “And you 57, what do you have for us today? HO HO HO.” “That’s it you fat kingpin, you’ll own me longer.” In an instant 57 did what he should have done so long ago. No more forced singing, no more unpaid labour, no more fingers bleeding, no more chimney sweeping and no more Santa. No more.