by Adam Millard
“Ho-Ho-Hold your horses, Finkleflaps,” Santa said. “The reason I called. Yes, there was a reason. Your wife, Trixie. She’s not best impressed that you’re working straight up until Christmas Eve. A couple of your gang reckon she’s on the warpath. You might want to keep an eye out for her; I know what elf bitches be like when they gets a bee in their bonnet.”
“Did you just speak gangsta?”
“Is that what it was?” Santa said. “I thought I was having a stroke.”
Finklefoot closed his eyes and sighed. Not only was he standing on the porch of one of the most terrifying Companions in The Land of Christmas, but now Trixie was after him, and the longer it went on, the angrier she would get. By the time she caught up to him, she might be carrying an incredibly sharp spear and wearing nothing but a loincloth.
Why can’t I just say no when people ask for help?
“Oh, and I’ve just had a call from Hattie Hermann,” Santa went on. “She reckons that fifty of her elves have gone missing. Just disappeared off the production line. Apparently she’s down there right now cleaning up. I don’t know much about liquorice, but I imagine it gets quite messy if left unattended.”
“Fifty!” Finklefoot said. “Did you say fifty!?”
“Yes,” Santa said. “As in Shades of Grey, Gates of Wisdom, US States, Golden wedding anniversary, the amount of rings you need to transform Sonic to super Sonic in that hedgehog game, the—”
“I get it,” Finklefoot said. “But how can that happen? I mean, how can fifty elves just vanish like that? We’re small, but if you put enough of us together, people are going to start noticing if we just…cease to be there.”
“One would think,” Santa said. “Anyway, I think we can safely put these latest disappearances down to our Xmas extremist. On the bright side, it should be easier to find the culprit now.”
“How so?” Finklefoot removed his hat and scratched his head.
“Well, like you said,” Santa said. “You put enough of you together, it’s much easier to notice you.”
Finklefoot couldn’t fault his superior’s logic, no matter how hard he tried. “Thanks for the heads up,” he said. “If you don’t hear from me in ten minutes, Belsnickel has ground me to a fine powder and, no doubt, snorted me.”
“You’ll be fine,” Santa said. “Just ask the right questions and get the hell out of there.”
“What are the right questions?” Finklefoot said, exasperated. Only the crackle of the walkie-talkie answered. He attached it to his belt and stepped up to the magnificent door.
He knocked.
He waited.
He knocked again.
He panicked.
He farted.
He waited.
He cried a little.
He was about to knock one last time when he discerned movement on the other side. A growl, followed by the click of a latch, and then the door swung inwards to reveal a hulking tower of a man. Covered head-to-toe in fur, and with a face only a mother could love (and even she wasn’t too keen on it), Belsnickel was the epitome of creepiness. If one were to bump into him in the dead of night, perhaps in a dark alleyway, one would certainly shat oneself, and if one didn’t, then one was a much braver elf than the one standing on Belsnickel’s porch.
“Do you have a minute to talk about Jesus Christ?” Finklefoot said, for reasons unbeknownst to him. He’d panicked; pretending to be from the Society of Elfish Jehova’s Witnesses seemed like a much better option than accusing the big guy of elf-larceny and reindeer-rustling.
The fist that caught Finklefoot on the nose suggested he’d probably made a big mistake.
And then there was darkness. The kind of utter opaqueness that only came from being knocked the fuck out.
18
“Did you have to hit him?” a voice boomed.
“Yeah, that was a bit much,” added another. “You could probably have just said you were into Satan. They give up pretty quickly once they know you’ve moved over to the dark side.”
“I panicked,” said a third voice. “I didn’t know what to do. He was talking about Christ, and, well, I’ve always thought the best way to make them stop is with a clobbering to the temple.”
Finklefoot was drifting in and out of consciousness. Though he could hear the three voices as they bickered amongst themselves and discussed the best way to dispose of the body, he couldn’t see who they belonged to. His vision was hit and miss, with the emphasis on the miss. When his eyes were open everything seemed to swirl together, like one of the kaleidoscopes Rufus cobbled together up at the workshop. This, Finklefoot thought, is what Keith Richards must feel like all of the time…
“I didn’t hit him that hard,” the third voice said. “He went down awfully easily.”
“He’s an elf,” the first voice said. “You’re Belsnickel. You could have flicked him and he would have gone over.”
“Not-as-white-as-everyone-else Pete is right,” said the second voice (presumably, Finklefoot thought, Knecht Ruprecht). “Elves aren’t great at taking giant fists to the face.”
“Well, they should come with some sort of warning,” Belsnickel said.
“What? Like an elf-warning?” Knecht Ruprecht said, sniggering. And then there was much merriment and endless witticisms, none of which Finklefoot found funny in the slightest.
“Hang on! He’s coming to,” said Belsnickel. “See, I told you he wasn’t dead.”
“I’m not dead,” Finklefoot said, pushing himself up onto his elbows. He was in some sort of games room. Pushed up against the walls were myriad flashing slot machines and videogames. Across the room was a pool table and bar. A neon sign hanging from the ceiling said ‘BELSNICKEL’S – WHAT’LL IT BE?’. “I’ll be okay in a minute. I just need to get my bearings…” Though Finklefoot knew that his bearings were the least of his troubles. He was in a room – Lord knows where – surrounded by three out of four Companions, each of which glared down at him as if he’d just spat in their beards.
“Look, I’m sorry for punching you upside the head,” Belsnickel groaned. “It’s just that I’m not very good in social situations, especially with elves I don’t know.”
Finklefoot climbed to his feet, went down again, climbed to his feet and managed to stay up, thanks to Not-as-white-as-everyone-else Pete’s cloak. “That’s okay,” he said, though it wasn’t. He hadn’t been punched that hard since Trixie’s father found them rutting behind the sleigh-shed. “I don’t think there’s any permanent damage. I guess I’ll find out in a few years’ time. You wouldn’t happen to know the way to Amarillo, would you?”
“He’s confused,” Knecht Ruprecht said to his buddies. To Finklefoot, he said, “HOW MANY FINGERS AM I HOLDING UP?” in that way that people do when they’re talking to a recently-concussed idiot, or a drunkard, or George W. Bush.
“I’m fine,” Finklefoot said. “I just need some fresh air, and…” He paused as his vision cleared for the first time since coming round. That was when he remembered the water-pistol The Fat Bastard had presented him with. He reached down, and was surprised to find it still there, tucked behind his buckle. He didn’t want to have use it, but it was nice to know it was there if things turned ugly, or if he should suddenly grow a pair…
There, on the table the Companions were seated around, was a deck of playing cards. Stacks of chips were neatly aligned in front of each player, along with their respective hands. In the centre of the table, a bowl of pretzels looked mighty inviting. Bottles of brandy and sherry stood next to half-empty glasses.
“Am I interrupting a poker match?” Finklefoot asked. He didn’t know much about poker, but the way the cards had been dealt, it was clear they weren’t playing Snap!.
“You could say that,” Not-as-white-as-everyone-else Pete said, lighting a cigar that was almost the same size as the elf. “We like to get together every few weeks, play a few hands, smoke some stogies and drink some spirits. It gets us in the mood for Christmas.”
“Yeah, i
t’s the only thing that keeps us sane in the run-up to the big day,” Belsnickel said. Leaning back in his chair, he poured himself a very large Brandy. “You can only get so excited about handing out shitty gifts to naughty kids.”
“Santa’s got it easy compared to us,” Knecht Ruprecht said, forcing a handful of pretzels into his mouth. “He gets all the good kids, the ones who’ve been nice. I get to deliver sticks and coal to little shits. And if those little shits are still little shits next year, I get to beat them with the stick.”
“I hand out stings to bad children for a living,” Belsnickel said. “Do you have any idea how degrading that is? Stings? I mean, who’s afraid of a little sting these days?”
“It must be really tough for you,” Finklefoot said. But he wasn’t interested in their traditions; he was more interested in the poker game. “How long have you been playing?” he asked, gesturing to the large table.
The Companions exchanged confused glances. God, there was a lot of facial hair in the room.
“How long has this particular session been going on?” Knecht Ruprecht said. “Or how long since we started getting together for drinks and cards?”
“The first one,” Finklefoot said. For some reason, he was no longer frightened. It probably had something to do with the fact he was still slightly concussed. No sane elf would stand around conversing with seventy-five percent of the Companions. In a moment, he thought, I’ll come to my senses and run for the door. Until his legs started to function again, though, he had no choice but to natter. While they were talking to him, they weren’t thumping him in the head, which could only be a good thing.
“About three days,” Knecht Ruprecht said, as if that was a perfectly normal answer. “We like to make an event of it. Drag it out for as long as possible. Like B said; it’s the only thing that stops us from going mental before Christmas Eve.”
Interesting, Finklefoot thought. Three days…they’ve been playing cards for three days…together, which puts the Companions in the clear…
Or at least three of them.
“And Krampus would normally be here with you?” For the first time, Finklefoot felt like he was in control. He wished he had a brown mac and a glass eye, so he could act all confused, even though he knew damn well what was going on.
“Hasn’t missed a poker session for centuries,” Not-as-white-as-everyone-else Pete said, slamming down a glass of brandy as if they were going out of fashion. “And then, all of a sudden, he sends Belsnickel a letter. Something about a head cold. Personally, I think he’s just scared. We took him for two million candy canes last year, and I don’t think he’s got over it.”
Finklefoot walked across the room, to where Belsnickel had perched himself on a stool next to the bar. He picked up a bottle without checking what it was first – it was one of those days where anything alcoholic would do, including turps and surgical spirit – and took a deep gulp. Once the burn subsided, and once he managed to peel his lips away from his teeth, Finklefoot said. “Did Krampus mention anything to you boys about ruining Christmas?”
Glances were exchanged, most of them confused.
“All the time,” Belsnickel finally said. “It’s kind of his thing.”
“Remember that time,” Knecht Ruprecht laughed, “when he was going to swap all the toys in the sleigh for reindeer shit?”
Not-as-white-as-everyone-else Pete and Belsnickel sniggered in unison. The room palpably shook. “And that year he was going to lace The Fat Bastard’s mince pies with Rohypnol.” They were laughing so hard now that, to an elf (and therefore to Finklefoot), it was slightly terrifying.
“What about that Christmas he fucked Mrs Claus, and then tried to blackmail her with the sex tape?” Belsnickel snorted.
“Forgot to press record on the hidden camera, didn’t he?” Knecht Ruprecht said, laughing so hard that he was leaking gas. “Oh, Krampus! He’s a card.”
At some point, Finklefoot had joined in with the laughter. Wiping tears from his eyes, he said, “So, he’s always banging on about it, is he?” he said. “Ruining Christmas, and all that malarkey?”
“Oh, god, yes,” Belsnickel said, filling his face with peanuts from the glass bowl sitting atop the bar. “I mean, we all talk about it, but Krampus… well, he’s a maniac.”
Interesting, Finklefoot thought, for the second time in as many minutes.
“Not that he’d ever do anything, really,” Knecht Ruprecht said, stroking his beard. “He’s a lot of talk, and very little walk.” Though he didn’t sound as convinced as he might have wanted to…
Finklefoot was on to something. He could feel it in his stumpy little bones. And his scalp tingled, but that might have just been the fleas he’d contracted from one of the many beards in the room.
“Where,” Finklefoot said, “might I find Krampus, if, say, I wanted to have a little natter to him about something?” That’s the way to do it, he thought (though for some reason it sounded high-pitched and nasally). Keep it loose and obscure. The less these three giants monsters knew about what was going on, the better.
“You really don’t want to go bothering Krampus this close to Christmas,” Belsnickel growled. “Especially if he’s feeling under the weather. I mean, you wouldn’t go tickling a polar bear with a feather, would you?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Finklefoot said. “But just humour me. For future reference, as it were, where might I find the one known as Krampus?”
The three Companions sighed in unison. Suddenly, the air tasted stale, and extremely flammable.
“Do you know where that new takeaway mince-pie shop is over on Festive Avenue?” Not-as-white-as-everyone-else Pete said.
“Pie on the Fly?” Finklefoot said. “Yeah, I know it.”
“Well, if you take a right from there, you’ll come to a small blue house.”
“Blue house,” Finklefoot repeated. He wished he was writing this down.
“Now, all the houses in The Land of Christmas look the same, as you already know, but this one’s blue, and it’s the only blue one down that way.”
“Gotcha.” Blue house, Finklefoot thought. How hard can it be?
“From the blue house, you’re going to want to take a few steps back. I can see you’ve only got little baby feet, so twenty good steps ought to do it.”
A map had formed in Finklefoot’s head, and he thought he knew the place well enough to say, “Hang on. Won’t that put me on in the frozen river?”
“Yes, which is a much better place for you to go than looking for Krampus.”
All three of them laughed. Finklefoot didn’t, at least not at first, not until he remembered he was in the company of three Companions.
“That’s wonderful!” he lied, making his way toward the door. “The way I fell for that…man, I’m an idiot. Okay, well, I guess I’m not going to get anything more than that…ah, what a blast! We really must do this again some time.”
“Sorry I hit you so hard,” Belsnickel said, wiping drool from his beard.
“Oh, that! I’ve forgotten all about that already.” Which might have also been a side-effect of being hit so hard. He turned, reached for the doorknob, and paused… as pauses went, this one was dramatic. The kind of intense pause you get when someone farts in an elevator.
“There is just one more thing,” Finklefoot said, turning back to the room. What he would have given for a half-chewed cigar…
The Companions quietened down and regarded Finklefoot with something akin to interest.
“Can I use your toilet before I go? I’m bosting for a piss.”
19
It was a Civil twilight, which meant that the sun had set only a few degrees below the horizon, and not that it went around being overly nice to everyone. Because of the perpetual brightness, elves could continue their day as if nothing had changed, which was all fine and dandy for most of them, but it played havoc with the lives of the night-watchmen.
“I don’t know why I had to come along,” Mrs Claus said,
pinching her nose between thumb and forefinger. It was cold in the stable, and her nipples had stiffened beneath her red and white brassiere. It was something, Santa thought, to hang his tools on if his arm grew tired. “You’ve never needed my help mucking out the reindeer before.”
Santa straightened up. The shit piled on the end of his shovel slipped off, hitting the stable floor with a meaty thump. “I’m not letting you out of my sight, dear,” he said. “Not until we’ve figured out what’s going on around here.” He scooped up the shit and carried it across the stable, to where a large, black bag sat open on the floor. “I mean, this kidnapper of ours might be a rapist,” he continued, shaking the shit off the shovel. He said the last word as if it burned his tongue. “How would you like that? Huh? Get dragged off to some basement where you’d be fingered, fucked and buggered to within an inch of your life?”
Jessica Claus’s eyes lit up for a moment. But then it struck her that the perpetrator might be of the…tall variety, and any stirrings she felt quickly dissipated.
“No, until we’ve caught this monster, it’s best that you don’t leave my side.” Santa scooped up another mound of deer shit (Blitzen’s – he knew that curvature anywhere) and transported it to the bag.
Mrs Claus shivered. No-one had the bollocks to tell her she would be much warmer if she didn’t walk around the place like a half-naked coquette. “Do you really believe that dumb elf of yours is going to get to the bottom of this mess?”
“Fluglefang isn’t dumb,” Santa reproached. “He’s just a little…what’s the word?”
“Little?” Mrs Claus said.
“No. He’s the right elf for the job,” Santa said. “You’ll see. He’ll figure out what’s happening around here, and then—”
Just then, something thunked into Santa’s neck. He dropped the shit-laden shovel and slapped his hand over the affected area. There was something there – a projectile of some sort – and when he pulled it free, he saw that it was a dart. On its flight was the internationally-recognised symbol for ‘you’re about to have a very bad fucking day’, or the skull and crossbones, as it’s more commonly known.