by Adam Millard
Mrs Claus, visibly offended by her husband’s terseness, walked across the room, her hips grinding together like a pair of clubbed seals. She opened the office door and stepped out onto the mezzanine. “SCRAT!” She had the voice of an angel, if said angel had a mouthful of jellied eels. “WALKIE-TALKIES, NOW!” She sauntered back into the office and headed for her pole.
Santa arched his eyebrows. “I might live to regret this, but…” He stood and walked across the office, to where a six-by-eight watercolour of The Fat Bastard himself adorned the wall. He slid the painting slightly to the left, revealing a small safe. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, or anything, but can you look at my wife for a few seconds while I turn the knobby whatchamacallit?”
“I’d rather not,” Finklefoot said, but before he knew it, his eyes had settled upon Mrs Claus as she completed rotation after rotation on the pole. Limbs blurred together to make…well, it looked as if an octopus was having a seizure. Finklefoot had to admit, it was rather mesmerizing. It wasn’t until a chubby, heavy hand fell upon his shoulder that he snapped out of it.
“This has been in the Claus family for generations,” Santa said. He was holding a small box with gilt trim and red, velvet sides. On the top, engraved into a solid gold plaque, was the name Claus. It was, Finklefoot thought, the kind of box that could only contain invaluable treasures. So when Santa opened it to reveal a cheap, plastic water-pistol, Finklefoot checked the corners of the room for hidden cameras.
“It’s…it’s plastic,” Finklefoot said. Either Santa was lying about the family heirloom, or he’d completely lost his marbles.
“It’s whatever it wants to be,” Santa said, removing the pistol from its box. “This year, most of the toys we’re making are plastic, and so it adapts, to fit in…” He held the water-pistol out for Finklefoot to take. The elf wasn’t sure he could trust an object that could alter its material at will. “I want you to take it. It is a very powerful weapon.”
“Well, water is often referred to as the bullet of the tap,” Finklefoot said, his voice drenched with sarcasm. He accepted the pistol, regardless.
“Ho, ho, ho! It doesn’t fire water,” Santa said.
Finklefoot frowned. “Then what does it—”
“You summoned me!” a flustered elf said, practically falling into the office.
“Ah, Scrat!” Santa said. “I trust you’ve brought a set of your fine walkie-talkies?”
The elf glanced down at the box in his hand. “These are my new Spiderman walkies,” he said, with some pride. “They have a good range, and if you push a button on the side, it makes you sound like the Green Goblin.”
Santa nodded. “They will do nicely.” To Finklefoot, he said, “So what do you say, my dear elf? Are you up to the task of saving Christmas?”
Finklefoot turned the water pistol over in his hand and shrugged. Aren’t weapons meant to make one feel safe? Protected? A little better off than not having a weapon? “I guess—”
“Fantastic!” Santa said. “Scrat, these things have batteries, don’t they?”
The elf frowned. “In the box,” he said. “But there’s just one, and it’s flatter than Britney Spears without auto-tune. Do you want me to get some good batteries?”
“That would be useful,” Santa said, snatching the box from Scrat and stripping the packaging away with eight stumpy digits and a couple of fat thumbs. It was like watching a muzzled dog attempt to thread a needle.
Finklefoot took a deep breath, and prayed for something to strike him down where he stood.
13
The liquorice factory on the other side of The Land of Christmas was the kind of place that sounded nice, and yet had all the endearing qualities of Guantanamo Bay. Elves were crammed so tightly together, there was barely room to swing a dormouse. The conditions could only be described as iffy, and the elf in command of the whole thing, Hattie Hermann, was an insidious little creature, with a small, silver bun sitting atop her huge head and a face constructed entirely from wrinkles. She worked the elves hard, and got the respect she deserved (at least to her face), which was why the liquorice factory ran like a tight ship. They were, in fact, three years in front with their stock, and yet Hattie showed no sign of relenting. As far as she was concerned, you give an elf an easy time for one year, the next it’s like trying to light a firework that’s been left out in the rain. It was best to maintain the merciless schedule, despite the current overstock. Besides, kids loved liquorice. And old people. It was just the fifty year gap between that they needed to work on.
Hattie marched through the factory, dipping her fingers in things that would have scalded a normal elf. Elves leapt to attention, saluting her as she passed. As soon as she was gone, though, fingers were jabbed into the air, and mutterings were made. Occasionally, though very rarely, she would catch one of the workers flipping her the bird, and those were the moments she relished.
Making an example of scallywag elves (or cunt elves, as she liked to call them) was what she did best. Sometimes, she would have one dipped in a vat of something boiling; others, she would string up to the ceiling like broken Christmas lights. One of the elves, Ginger Somethingorother, had spent an entire week sitting naked atop the black, liquorice Christmas tree in the foyer. Sitting atop was not, perhaps, the best way to describe it, for the branches most certainly went inside the poor fellow. And all because he’d called her a, “Bitch-faced whore from the planet Gofuckyourself.” Some people just can’t take an insult.
“Taste this!” Hattie said, jabbing a warty finger dripping with goo in the general direction of a terrified worker. The worker-elf gagged, but managed to conceal it with a cleverly-timed cough. “Go on. I’m not moving until you’ve sucked it off.”
The elf, whose name was Blix (not that it truly mattered), slowly moved toward the finger, closing her eyes and trying to control her quivering lips. Hattie grinned, for she was a repulsive little bitch.
“Make sure you get it all,” she said. “I hate sticky fingers.”
The trembling lips enveloped the knobbly digit, and when they came away the dark goo was entirely gone.
“What does that taste like to you?” Hattie asked, frowning so much that her forehead was almost concertinaed in on itself.
“Finger,” Blix said. “And salt.”
“That’s right,” Hattie said, wiping her finger on the worker-elf’s apron. “It’s too salty. I wouldn’t serve that to one of The Fat Bastard’s reindeer.”
“But I…I followed the recipe to the word,” Blix said.
“Well that’s where you went wrong,” said Hattie. “Times are changing. Humans don’t like salt as much as they used to. They’re always campaigning against it. Sugar, too. It makes our job a living hell, but we have to move with the times.” She slapped Blix once across the face, hard enough to leave a bright red handprint. “Consider that a warning. Less salt from now on. I’ll be back this afternoon, and if I’m not happy, I’ll make it my personal goal to have you despatched to the human world, where you will spend the rest of your days playing Munchkin #47 in the West End. Do I make myself clear?”
“Less salt,” Blix said, fingering the slap-mark on her cheek. “Got it.”
“Good. Now go and wash your mouth out. You don’t know where my finger has been.” And with that, the worker-elf disappeared in a flurry of arms and legs. Hattie’s smile revealed a mouthful of rotten, popcorn teeth; it was one of the downfalls of running a liquorice factory.
She finished her afternoon inspection and headed outside for some fresh air. The automaton road-cleaners had finished clearing the street, which meant that she could once again see The Fat Bastard’s workshop up on the top of the hill. Music – Ding Dong Merrily on High, of course – drifted across the village. Hattie wished someone would change the tape.
She lit a candy cigarette and exhaled a plume of green and red smoke into the air. Ah, it was like heaven, but without all the righteousness and beards. She’d managed to cut down to fifty-a-day,
which was much better than the hundred she’d been smoking, but old habits die hard, and at least she’d knocked the eggnog on the head.
It was snowing again, though not as heavily as the previous three days. Hattie didn’t know why The Fat Bastard couldn’t simply pick up the whole operation and drop it in the Bahamas. It wasn’t as if he’d signed a lease, or anything. There was nothing keeping them there, in the freezing conditions with the persistent snow and occasional fog. It would be nice, Hattie thought, to have a tan, if only for a few days. She, and every elf in The Land of Christmas, were pastier than a gaggle of Irish sunblock testers.
Hattie finished her smoke, and was about to head back in to the factory when something caught her eye.
A dark shape, just in the periphery of her vision, but when she looked, there was nothing but the corner of the factory and a pile of gathered snow.
Now Hattie wasn’t mad, at least not in the psychological sense of the word, and so when she thought she saw something, chances were good that she did, in fact, see something.
“What in the name of buggery…?” She slowly waddled along the cleared path beside the factory wall, being careful not to slip. Someone was there; she could see their breath as it crystalized in the air. Whoever it was, they thought they had the upper hand, but you have to get up early in the morning to catch out old Hattie Hermann. “I’m not in the mood for this,” she called out. “Whoever is there, you might as well give up. I’ve got a splitting headache and a thousand elves to mistreat, so…”
The hulking, dark figure stepped out from its hiding place. “What was it? It was the breath, wasn’t it? I fucking knew it.”
Hattie recognised that voice, but she couldn’t quite place her finger on it. The trickster’s hood did a remarkable job of concealing his identity. “Who are you, and what are you doing lurking around my factory like some drunken ninja?”
The shrouded figure hissed. “I’m looking for a few good men,” he said. “Well, elves, to be more specific, and I have it on good authority that you’re a bit of a nasty bitch with elves to spare.”
“Now just you hold on a min—”
“I’ll make it worth your while,” the figure said. “Fifty elves of your choosing and I promise not to include you in my masterpiece. How does that sound?”
“What masterpiece? Who are you? Are you a little bit crazy?”
“Miss Hermann, I’m perfectly sane,” the beast said. “Which is why I’m giving you this opportunity to save yourself.”
“I don’t have elves to spare,” she said. “And whoever said I did obviously doesn’t know a thing about the liquorice game.” She thought in silence for a moment, and the hooded figure watched, licking his jet-black lips with anticipation. “This…masterpiece? Would it have anything to do with the big man?”
“If, by ‘the big man’, you mean The Fat Bastard, then yes, yes it would.”
Hattie’s frown turned into something more affable. She looked as if she’d just been told she’d never have to look at another fucking Liquorice Allsort for as long as she should live. “Is it something terrible?” she said, evilly. “Is it something that will annoy him greatly?”
The figure waved her questions away with an indifferent hand. “It’s much worse than that,” he said, rubbing his spiderlike fingers together. “It’s something that he has had coming to him for a very, very long time.”
Hattie Hermann turned and marched away, leaving the shrouded maniac standing there, confused and unsure if he should have just knocked her head off when he’d had a chance. Then she stopped and turned back. “Are you coming, or not?” she said. “These fifty elves probably aren’t going to volunteer.”
Beneath the hood, the beast grinned a mouthful of razor-sharp teeth.
14
The surgery – for that was what it was, despite its lack of clear signage, broken elevators and just about adequate cleanliness – was almost silent. The lunatic had gone; off to gather more links for his sickening chain, no doubt. He had left the trio (though now, thanks to the beast’s adroitness with a sharp knife and a needle and thread, they were a single organism) with an explicit set of rules, and the knowledge that, should they break any of those rules, there would be hell to pay.
Rule One: Don’t try to escape. There is no way out, and it would therefore be impossible. A waste of time. Why not sing a song, instead? Or, in the case of Rudolph and Jimbo, hum one?
Rule Two: No Justin Bieber. See Rule One.
Rule Three: Try to keep the screaming to an absolute minimum. This is a very nice neighbourhood, and the last thing people want is an incessant screeching ruining their day.
Rule Four: Try not to move around too much. The stitches are new, and liable to come away should enough force be used. This might sound great to you (yay, freedom!) but I assure you that would not be the case. A very painful few minutes would follow, and then, due to massive blood loss, death. Why not sing a song instead?
Rule Five: No Katy Perry. See Rule One.
They were very clear rules and, since there were only five of them, not too difficult to remember. One would have to be an absolute idiot to disregard them.
“Shall we try to escape?” Sissy said, pushing up onto her elbows.
“Mph!” said Jimbo.
“Pfpfpf,” whinnied Rudolph.
“Yes, I know what the lunatic said, but we’ve been here for hours now, and I’m starting to get a little pissed off with the whole thing.” She scanned the room, looking for anything that might be of use. The nutter had taken the bag of sharp objects with him. The sharpest things in the room, now, were Rudolph’s antlers, and one of those was wedged inside her husband. Still, a tiny light-bulb appeared in the air above her head before disappearing just as quickly. “Rudolph, you’re a sentient beast, aren’t you? I mean, you know what I’m saying right now, yes?”
“Trtrtrtr,” Rudolph said, which was good enough for Sissy.
“How are you at picking locks?”
“Pffffff,” said the reindeer, which was not the answer Sissy had been hoping for.
“Typical,” Sissy said. “You can fly, and not only that but you can pull a sleigh laden with toys and a clinically obese saint at the same time, but when it comes to sticking your antler in a lock and giving it a little wiggle, you’re about as useful as a pair of tits on a fish.”
Rudolph shrugged.
“Well, we’re just going to have to improvise,” Sissy said. “After three, we start walking toward the door. Everyone understand?”
“Mph ermh ermph?” Jimbo asked.
“What are we going to do when we get there?” Sissy echoed. “We’re going to attempt to get the hell out of here. I’m going to line Rudolph up with the keyhole and, whether he likes it or not, he’s going to stick his free antler in it and jiggle until we hear a click. Failing that, we’re going to have a little lie down and wait for the maniac to return.”
“Mrh mph, o ah mrph t murgh.”
“No, it doesn’t sound like much of a plan,” Sissy said, “but it’s better than anything either of you have come up with, and don’t give me the old ‘Oh, we can’t suggest anything because our faces have been stitched to arseholes’ pretext. I can understand you just fine, so if either of you have any bright ideas, now’s the time to speak, or mumble, or whatever…”
Silence, and then Rudolph farted. Sissy didn’t envy the poor bastard that was going on the back end of the reindeer.
“So, on the count of three,” Sissy said, suddenly glad that she was the one leading this incongruous expedition. “One…two…”
“Mrph whr mpth o thr mph mrhfth thr?”
“Are we going on three or after three?” Sissy growled, clearly annoyed with her husband. “It doesn’t fucking matter. I’ll be surprised if we make it to the door at all.”
“Mpth mrhth,” Jimbo said. For some reason, he had a terrible headache coming on. He had inhaled a lot of gas…
“Okay. One…two…thr—”
“Amph
t ftht.”
“What do you mean, you’re stuck?” Sissy shrieked. “How can you be stuck on anything?”
“Fthft mph, Rdlph!” Jimbo said, wiggling his backside.
“Oh!” Sissy said. “Rudolph, be a gent, or a lady, and turn your head to the left so my husband can crawl without you tickling his ribs.”
Rudolph sighed, for reindeer are renowned for their lack of tolerance. The reindeer turned its head anyway, lest it never hear the end of it.
“One…two…three!” Sissy edged forwards, Jimbo did the same, and Rudolph, who was trying to wake itself up from this terrible nightmare, followed suit. Before long, they had gathered enough momentum to shift at a decent rate. They were never going to win any medals, but, as the saying goes, ‘Slowly, slowly, catchy monkey’. Trouble was, the people who usually said it had never caught a monkey in their life, or even chased one.
“We’re halfway there!” Sissy said. “Doing very well!”
“Hrmph!” Jimbo said.
“Out of breath?” Sissy said, incredulous. “We’ve only covered three feet!”
If only, Jimbo thought, she was the one in the middle. “Harmph hmph mrth thrm stft!” he said.
“Yes, I know you’re attached to my bottom, and therefore subsisting on the little air you can suck in through your miniscule nostrils, but that’s no excuse to start slacking. We’ve got an escape to make. Do you really want to be here when that freak comes back? Do you really want to get caught trying to escape, when he clearly stated in his list of rules that it was absolutely fruitless and would result in a terrible punishment?”
“Frfthtfrthfth,” Rudolph said. Has she always been like this?
“Lwyth,” Jimbo replied. Always. To be honest, I don’t know why I ever married the old trout.
“I am here, you know,” Sissy said. “And I don’t appreciate being called an old trout, Jimbo. You might want to watch what falls out of your mouth, because I’m in complete control of what falls in, if you catch my drift.”