The Human Santapede

by Adam Millard

  Jimbo swung his legs out of bed. “I’m up. I’m up. Deary me, why’s it always got to be about mailing severed body-parts to my mother with you, huh?”

  “Just go and find out what went clunk!,” Sissy said. “I don’t want to live in a house that makes strange noises.”

  Jimbo headed for the door, a door that he could barely discern through the gloom. There was no light coming in through any of the windows thanks to the snow, which meant the house was in a state of perpetual darkness, apart from the twinkling red and green bulbs on the tree, but that was in the living-room. Jimbo had stumped his toe four times before he made it out onto the hallway and collapsed in an untidy pile, clutching at his foot and sucking in air through clenched teeth.

  “Was that you?” his wife’s voice asked from the bedroom.

  “What did it sound like?” Jimbo said, still grimacing.

  “Bump, clobber, shit that hurt, bump, hiss,” Sissy said.

  “Yep, that was me,” Jimbo said, clambering painfully to his feet. “Can I come back to bed now?”

  “Have you found the source of the clunk!?”

  Jimbo sighed and shook his head. He was about to tell his wife exactly what he thought of her when he heard it. A clunk! followed by a terrible scraping noise. In the other room, Sissy crawled beneath the sheets.

  Now that he’d heard it for himself, Jimbo moved across the hallway with extreme caution. In fact, so careful was he, that he was hardly moving at all. The way he saw it, the slower he moved, the longer it would be before whatever had gone clunk! ate him.

  Unfortunately, the thing that had gone clunk! had other ideas. A huge, dark-cloaked figure emerged from the living-room, stepping out onto the hallway like a pro-wrestler climbing into the ring.

  Jimbo made a noise he’d never heard before.

  “Ahhhhhh,” the shadowy hulk hissed as it glowered down at the elf. Then there was a sack, and the intruder was opening it, and Jimbo, frozen stiff with fear, couldn’t do anything but watch. “Be a good chap and get in the sack.”

  Now Jimbo, who was a quarter of the size of the assailant and nowhere near as menacing (elves are many things, but foreboding isn’t one of them), figured he had three options. Firstly, he could attempt to talk to the invader; some things could be settled with a nice mug of eggnog and a slice of pud. World War III was rumoured to have been abandoned over a nice cup of tea and a wedge of Battenberg. Option two was to do what the intruder said, but Jimbo wasn’t keen on the idea of willingly getting into the sack, since nothing good could possibly come of it. He was hardly going to be whipped off to some sun-kissed island for a fortnight of Mojitos and all-you-can-eat teppanyaki.

  Jimbo didn’t realise he’d already set option three into effect until he was running for the bedroom.

  “There’s nowhere to hide,” the deep, gruff voice hissed behind him. “Nowhere to run.”

  “SISSY!” Jimbo said, arriving at the marital bed. “I found the thing that went clunk!.” Dread washed over him as he realised his wife was no longer cowering beneath the covers. She was gone, kaput, as if consumed by the mattress. It was an odd thing for a mattress to do, but this was The Land of Christmas, where anything was possible…

  “Don’t make this any harder than it has to be,” the dark figure said, stepping in through the bedroom door, which was far too small for such a colossal being. And yet it fit anyway, as if its bones contracted and disconnected on one side of the frame and recoupled on the other. It was a rather disturbing thing to watch, like one of those Jihadi beheading videos or a Miley Cyrus concert.

  “Please don’t kill me,” Jimbo said, climbing onto the bed. It was probably not the best move, considering the thing had just devoured his wife. “I’m just an elf, and not even a good one at that.”

  “Oh, you’re not going to die,” the beastly thing said. “You’re going to…evolve.”

  Frowning, Jimbo said, “But evolution takes place over the course of centuries, with minute changes occurring in each generation.”

  “Yes, awfully tedious process, isn’t it?” the figure said. “So, hop in the sack and we can get the show on the road.” Jimbo wasn’t certain, but he thought he saw a smile beneath its dark hood.

  Jimbo sighed and lowered himself down over the edge of the bed. “As long as there’s no death involved,” he said. He skulked across the room, and was about to leap into the intruder’s wide-open sack when he saw her above the door, hanging there like some tiny superhero.

  Sissy!

  The bed hadn’t swallowed her after all, which was great news, since beds were so damn expensive to replace.

  “Hi-yah!” Sissy said, bringing her hand down into a chop as she leapt from the wall. Unfortunately, she hadn’t had much practice with home invasions, and the intruder was just so damn big. She bounced off his shoulder, rolled down his arm, and landed upside-down in the sack.

  Jimbo shrugged and smiled sheepishly. “Don’t worry, Sissy,” he said. “I’m coming, too.” And with that he climbed headfirst into the sack. Two pairs of legs kicked and thrashed as the sack’s drawstring sealed them in.

  The figure grinned, for he had his first elves. The ghastly creation was underway, or would be once he got this pair back to his lair. He laughed, and laughed, and coughed a little before laughing some more.

  4

  “This is a public service announcement from The Fat Bast…I mean, Santa Claus. All elves are to report to the workshop this morning. Failure to report will result in loss of job, loss of house, loss of pension, loss of respect, and loss of tenure in The Land of Christmas. The blizzard is over, people. It’s time to get back to work.”

  Finklefoot and Trixie arrived at the workshop early, and yet not as early as some of the others, who were already settling down at their stations with mugs of steaming eggnog. Conveyor-belts were already moving, shifting partially-completed toys from one section to another. On the radio, an elfish version of ‘Ding Dong Merrily on High!’ played on loop, and would continue to play until someone decided to change the tape.

  It seemed everyone was eager to get back to work, eager to gain back the seventy-two hours they’d lost, eager to put Christmas back on schedule.

  “I’ll see you in twelve hours,” Trixie said, kissing her husband tenderly on the cheek. A couple of his gang watching from across the room began to laugh, but Finklefoot didn’t care. They could go fuck themselves.

  When he reached his section, Finklefoot began assigning the shift’s jobs. “Rat, I want you on heads, arms and legs. Nothing gets past you with appendages missing. If there are any dolls or teddies in the reject bin at the end of this shift, I’ll make it my personal goal to convince The Fat Bastard that a career in human Hollywood is all you’re cut out for.”

  “Yes, boss,” Rat said, snapping his feet together and saluting Finklefoot.

  “Shart,” Finklefoot said, turning to an elf that had a face only a mother could love. “You’re on batteries. What’s the most important rule about batteries?”

  Shart grinned. “I’m to remove them from every third box, thus making it a nightmare for some parents on Christmas morning.”

  Finklefoot nodded. “Gizzo, you’ll be on wood construction with me. We’ve got three million plywood cars and planes to put together this morning, and another eight million this afternoon. You up to the job?”

  Gizzo pulled a screwdriver from the pocket on the front of his green dungarees. “I feel the need,” he said. “The need for speed.” Quite where he’d got such a silly line from, Finklefoot didn’t know.

  “Right,” the foreman said. “That blizzard has royally fucked us over, and it’s going to take a miracle to get back on track.” Not a miracle, per se; just a lot of elbow-grease and as few interruptions as possible.

  “Finklefoot!” a voice said. It was a beautiful voice, and one with which he was very familiar. He glanced up to see Mrs Claus leaning sumptuously over the railing above, her long, red hair tucked behind her ears. She’d gone to town on h
er make-up, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out why. The last three days must have been hell for her, what with being marooned with The Fat Bastard and the lack of elf-cock. “Santa would like to have a word with you.” And with that she was gone. On the workshop floor, a thousand male elves adjusted their erections to a less painful position.

  “Whore,” Finklefoot said. “She knows exactly what she’s doing.”

  “I like her,” Gizzo said. “She does this thing with her mouth, kind of like a suck but a blow at the same time, and it—”

  “!” Finklefoot said, cutting the elf off mid-sentence. He marched toward the steel steps at the end of the workshop, ignoring the boisterous chuckles from his gang.

  This meeting was going to be a nightmare.

  *

  “Ah, Finklefoot, my good elf!” Santa said as Finklefoot stepped into his office. “How good to see you. My, how you’ve changed. Have you put on height?” The Fat Bastard poured himself a large brandy; something about the way he moved across the office, glass in hand, told Finklefoot it wasn’t his first of the morning.

  Over in the corner, Mrs Claus threw herself around a pole. Finklefoot couldn’t help but notice that one of her breasts had fallen out. On purpose?

  “I’d offer you a drink,” Santa said, “but you’ve got a lot of work to get through today, and the last thing we need is something terrible happening to our most productive elf.”

  Finklefoot felt something akin to pride wash over him. He was, and had been, the most productive elf for nigh-on two hundred years. In any other profession, that would have been rewarded with a handsome pay-rise, or even a promotion. But being one of Santa’s elves was like being an elephant-masturbator – a lot of hard work with very little in the way of benefits.

  “What’s this about, sir?” Finklefoot said. “I’ve got a lot of work to be getting on with, and…” He trailed off, suddenly mesmerised by the stripping Mrs Claus in the corner of the room.

  “Well,” Santa said, sipping at his brandy. “I was just wondering if you and your gang would like to put in a few extra shifts, say twelve of them, you know? Just to get things back on track?”

  Finklefoot grimaced. “Twelve extra shifts?” he said. “On top of what we’re already doing?”

  “That’s right,” Santa said. “To catch up, so to speak.”

  “But that would mean working solidly around the clock until Christmas Eve.” Finklefoot frowned.

  Santa laughed like the jolly fat bastard he was. “Oh yes! You’re right!” He took another long slug from his glass. Finklefoot watched as the brandy soaked into his boss’s silver beard. “It’s either that, or we’ll have to ship in some Polish elves, and I know how you all feel about that.”

  “They’re very good at not stealing paperclips,” Finklefoot said.

  “I’ve heard that, too,” Santa said, with a nod and a smile. “So, what do you say? Care to pull us out the shit just this once?”

  Just this once? Just this fucking once? It wasn’t just this once. It was every year. Every year something went wrong. Every year, someone fell into the poster-paint vat. Every damn year, some fool accidentally put the voice of Osama Bin Laden in the Tickle-Me-Elmos. Last year, Rudolph had been unable to pull the sleigh after the other reindeers had deemed him worthy of a jolly good buggering. It was always…something, and this year was no different.

  “We’ll do it,” Finklefoot said. What choice did he have? If it wasn’t his gang working overtime it would be someone else’s. At least this way it would be in his hands. He would save Christmas – as he always did – on his own terms.

  “Marvellous,” Santa said, patting Finklefoot on the top of his head. “I knew I could rely on you to make this right.”

  Behind her husband’s back, Mrs Claus twisted her exposed nipple and licked her lips. Finklefoot crossed his legs and said, “There will be conditions.”

  Santa, who had been refilling his glass at the Christmas-light-adorned bar, turned and frowned. “My little fellow, you’re hardly in any position to barter. I thought I made myself perfectly clear. Make the toys or star in the next George Lucas blockbuster.”

  Poor Wizzle, Finklefoot thought. He must have been a little ball of sweat wearing that insidious Ewok suit. “We both know that those rules don’t apply to me,” he said, hoping that he was right. “I’m what they call in the trade ‘indispensable’. Without me, every Christmas would be another Easter. Just a boring thing with cards and chocolate.”

  Santa’s lips curled ever-so-slightly into a sneer. “Go on,” he said.

  “For the next century, no elf is to be banished to the human world. No more Star Wars, no more Harry Potter, no more Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, and no more body-doubling for Tom Cruise. Elves shouldn’t be treated like shit. We’re not Mexicans.”

  Santa scowled. Now, most people are accustomed to the jolly, red-cheeked version of Santa Claus; Christmas cards wouldn’t sell quite as well if they featured the expression that he currently wore.

  “That’s all very well and good,” Santa said, his eyebrows knitted together, “but how else will we punish the slackers?”

  “You could try not punishing them,” Finklefoot said. It was a long shot, but worth a try.

  “Three lashes with a thorny tree and a force-fed plate of holly,” Santa said. “And that’s my final offer.”

  Finklefoot sighed. “Two lashes and a mince pie with bauble-glass in it.”

  Santa smiled. “You drive a hard bargain, elf. That’s why you’re my number one.”

  Then why do I always feel like your number two? “Then I’d better get to work.”

  He turned and headed for the door, unsure how the rest of his gang were going to take the news. Just before he reached the door, though, it flew open, and there stood Ahora, the forelady of the jigsaw-puzzle section. She looked horrified, as if she’d only just realised she was an elf after years of believing she was human.

  In the corner, Mrs Claus threw a hand over her exposed nipple; as much as she loved elves, she wasn’t of that persuasion.

  “There will be a very good reason as to why you’ve barged into my office unannounced,” Santa said, crushing a glittery purple ball in his giant hand and allowing the tiny shards to fall through his grasp and sprinkle onto the floor

  “Terrible news!” Ahora squeaked. “Sissy and Jimbo haven’t turned up for their shift! Oh, this is awful! They were on cutting duty. Without them, we’re just making cardboard pictures!”

  Santa rolled his eyes. “Remind me again,” he said. “Which ones are Sissy and Jimbo?”

  “Small people,” Finklefoot said. “Pointy ears. Wear a lot of red and green.” He was, of course, being sarcastic, but The Fat Bastard didn’t seem to notice.

  “Ah, yes. Jimbo and, erm, Sissy. Small, pointy ears…yes.” He sipped thoughtfully at his brandy while Ahora skipped nervously from one foot to the other in the doorframe. “I will have to arrange for someone to pay them a visit, make sure they’re aware that we’re back at full steam today.”

  Finklefoot edged slowly toward the door.

  “Finklefoot!” Santa said, so suddenly that Mrs Claus almost fell off her pole. “Be a good chap and pay a visit to the missing couple before you begin your tremendously tiring shift. Take a thorny tree with you, just in case.”

  Finklefoot thought about arguing, but it would be futile. Besides, the walk would do him good. Clear his head, so to speak, before embarking on the mother of all shifts. The absent pair had probably just overslept. Yes, that’s all it was. Lazy bastards.

  Always something, Finklefoot thought as he pushed past Ahora and headed out onto the steel mezzanine. Always fucking something.

  5

  The Land of Christmas was back to normal, inasmuch as you could see the village and the lights and you didn’t have to worry about drowning in twelve feet of snow. Trucks beeped through the streets – Beep! Beep! This vehicle is reversing! – as pathways were cleared to reveal the cobbled ground. Of course
, the trucks were unmanned automatons, since every elf in The Land of Christmas was employed by Santa Claus Inc., and therefore required to make toys up at the workshop. Other than Finklefoot, there wasn’t a soul in sight. It was quite unsettling, and as Finklefoot walked through the ominous streets, he found himself checking over both shoulders.

  It was silly, really. There hadn’t been a crime in The Land of Christmas for many years, and that’s if you could call leaving a fiery bag of reindeer poop on someone’s porch a crime. Statistics said you were more likely to die in a sleigh crash than be murdered in the village, but again, Finklefoot was wary. If everyone was up at the workshop, who had time to conduct statistical surveys?

  After almost being squashed flat by one of the automaton snow-clearers (never trust a robotic truck when it indicates left) Finklefoot arrived at the residence of the missing elves. The sign screwed into the front door said ‘SISSBO’, an amalgamation of their respective names. “Fucking tacky, if you ask me,” he muttered, even though no-one had asked him anything.

  He knocked three times and waited, huffing a plume of frozen breath at the ostentatious sign. He wondered how his gang were getting on. They hadn’t been best pleased with him when he left, as if he should have told The Fat Bastard where to go with his extra shifts. He hoped (yet doubted) they would have calmed down by the time he got back. There was nothing worse than working in an atmosphere; it was extremely counterproductive.

  “Jimbo? Sissy?” he called through the door. “Sissbo?” Worth a try. When there was no reply, he reached down and turned the knob, expecting to meet resistance. When the door eased inwards, Finklefoot audibly gasped.

  Crime was non-existent in The Land of Christmas, as it has already been established, but that didn’t mean elves went around leaving their doors unlocked willy-nilly. People liked their privacy, especially married people, who liked to occasionally engage in acts that single people could only fantasise about. Finklefoot was suddenly very aware that he was standing in the absent couple’s hallway.