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March 13, 1883.

London, De-Militarized Zone.

Santa Claus looked at his coal-powered wrist watch. It was just after midnight. A new day was on the horizon, but a grim, sooty future lay ahead. He preemptively nocked an arrow to his bow and let fly a warning shot across his quarry's cheek. The shaft plunged into the brick wall where Karl, the lost Marx brother, was taking a piss. The latter man whirled around, then buttoned up his fly in haste. Both portly figures locked tumultuous eyes as they realized the day had come.

"My brother," Santa said. "We're getting much too old for this."

Karl Marx tried to laugh, but his smile sputtered into another phlegmatic coughing fit. "You've a century or two to go, I suspect."

Santa lowered his bow, pitying Karl with his gaze. "Why have you done this? Do you not see the ramifications of your empty propaganda?"

"Spare me the speech you gave me in Belfast," Karl said. "I don't want to waste these precious few hours being proselytized."

Santa approached. "You want to overthrow one monarchy and replace it with a monarchy without a name. Children will die for no reason by your deeds."

"Not for no reason." Karl mustered a salivating, knobble-toothed grin. "We must punish the imperfect."

"You're mad."

There is a legend told of Santa and his brother, the anti-Claus, the Krampus. You may have read this via research, or by watching something glomming onto the sewage of popular memes, or from being trapped inside a replica of the Titanic. Krampus was the one who brought presents to naughty children. Presents they deserved. But actions beget thoughts, and Krampus turned bitterer and bitterer as the centuries turned. Things got bloody. A dookie in a box here, a severed parent's head there. But Santa had failed to pull the trigger then, so to speak. He couldn't slay his own brother.

Krampus had stopped giving presents except for his very last. This was a gift to the world. Santa had been spreading Christmas joy across the planet, all the while in search of his prodigal brother, to fight international communism. Krampus wasn't as short-sighted as Santa longed to believe. He was Karl Marx, father of communism, ready to build a world super-power built on rage and subversion and emotional immaturity. So what if a few bleeding children or an entire nation's culture got in the way?

But his brother? No. Karl had taken too long thinking up his plan, stewing in the Siberian coal mines, working his way out. It was too late. The seeds were planted, but it was the end of the line for poor Karl.

Santa recognized this. He placed a hand on his twin's shoulder and said, "Goodbye." He then walked off into the snowy night. The next day, Karl Marx passed away. Santa was left alone.

Horfie, the Selective Service Elf

A Christmas Tale by Aleister "I Heart Heroin" Crowley

Dedicated to Lisa McPherson and Bodil Jørgensen

Chapter 1: Snow Day!

T'was a cold New England morning when Andrew Andranagan awoke to the klaxon of boisterous carolers outside. This was in late November of 2006. It was almost as loud as the jets that would often woosh by overhead. Andrew tried to fight it, wrapping his flattened pillow around his head, but a jolt of anxiety sprang him into consciousness.

He fretted that he had overslept. His heart had that stabbing pain shooting through it, all because he knew that if he was even one minute late to school, he would drop a letter grade in each of his classes. Trying to distract himself from this morbid thought, he realized the sound outside was not singing, but screaming. Brushing off fleeting images of his mother somehow trapped under her own car, he got dressed in haste, lamenting how his alarm had not gone off. No time for breakfast; education was so important it started before the crack of dawn! He exited the bungalow and slipped momentarily on the icy walkway to the curb.

Hannah, his mother, was sitting in the driver's seat, flailing her upper body back and forth in agony as she bellowed at the station wagon. "Oh! My! God! Another! Thing is! Broken! My--life--is--a--train--wreck!" Lamentable though it was, the neurotic anger of a working mother would not move the car.

Andrew's mother worked as a hospital harlequin, pleasing patients with humorous pantomimes to permit healing through laughter. It was about all their insurance could afford. Hannah was crying, smearing her makeup in a way that frightened Andrew. "Are you alright?" he stammered.

"Somebody kill me! Andrew, you have a snow day!" Mrs. Andranagan screamed to her son, who was only a few feet away.

Andrew recoiled, but was so relieved by this news. "I can sleep in until morning!" Luckily, his mother hadn't heard that remark, as she was busy straining with the gear shift. Wanting to be helpful, Andrew said, "Your make-up is running."

"The tears of a clown make my lipstick run!" Mrs. Andranagan shook her head wildly. "Unfortunately, I have a job, and jobs don't give snow days!" She tried to compose herself, making heavy nasal exhalations akin to a rampaging boar. "Look, I'm sorry, but I've got to get to my morning-job." She envied her son, but the elderly couldn't collect and empty their bedpans for themselves. She was deathly afraid of getting fired; her morning-job coupled with her afternoon-job at the hot dog factory allowed her to just barely break even with the country's economy if she worked overtime. Things would be especially busy for her afternoon-job, because there was a big need for cocktail wienies with the New Year's Eve festivities on the way.

Andrew slunk back indoors and collapsed on his bed, but it was too late to return to sleep. He knew, being sixteen, he was dangerously putting off plans for his future. He had to think hard about a sane, decent-paying job that would benefit day-by-day from learning about the Magna Carta and reading The Old Man and the Sea.

He listened to the sound of his mother finally speeding away on the typically icy New England roads. Now he was stricken with haunting images and sounds of his mother, frustrated, trying to get the car to go, but being unable. He imagined her collapsing into wailing hysterics, then dejectedly get the car moving, only to weave back and forth on the black ice no matter how she spun the steering wheel to maintain a semblance of control. Andrew heard in his mind the radio announcer's voice saying, "Be careful of those icy roads, don't you know!" shortly before his mother's blood-curdling scream as her station wagon plummeted sideways off of a cliff. He felt her regretting every facet of her life, what it had become, that he had not been a miscarriage, and having little time to mourn the loss of her aspirations as her body became one with the mangled, barely-identifiable hunk of burning A-frame wreckage, lost among the serenity of a snowy cliffside.

Andrew dreaded the prospect of his mother's death, and with his older brother, Thomas, probably dead in Soviet Nam Afghaniraqiran, he would have no one. He'd be all alone by Christmas.

Chapter 2: Big Business

The candy cane steam whistle blew its dissonant note, signifying the start of another work day for the elves at the North Pole. Yukonian elves are workaholics and tend to be very short, so they are often mistaken for dwarves. It may be difficult to comprehend a value system different to one based on the acquisition of capital wealth, but with a strong sense of community, the elves were very happy to survive on Christmas cheer once a year and whatever the Eskimos donated to them. A key part to the success of their manufacturing sweat shop was it was rarely hot enough to sweat at the North Pole, and they loved to sing as they worked.

Snow on the ground;

it's inevitable!

Snow on the roads;

cars can't drive!

We've got to keep

sanity and reason alive!

When you're slidin' along

bumper-to-bumper,

it's a chain reaction!

Tell me: Who is dumber?

The ones who drive,

or the ones who tell them to?

Businesses want you to

live in denial.

You're a hopeless soul,

and you belong to them.

Ice comes from God,

but he's a pup before them!

Horfie was one of hundreds of elves employed by Santa's toy factory. He wasn't the best singer, but he had the heart to sing right along with the others, just as merrily. His pointed elf ears heard a strange sound beneath the song, but now it drowned out the music. A row from the boss's office had escalated to the point where Horfie and his coworkers could hear clearly. Some left their posts to peer through the office window as the Venetian blinds were not properly shut. Horfie's curiosity got the better of him, and he joined his closest friends, Binky and Darone, in spying upon the argument with grave dread in their hearts.

"You just want me out of the way for good, you pompous coat rack!" the old man was shouting. "Son of a bitch!" The alarming cuss elicited an inflating exclamation through the workers. Now all of them were paying attention, save for the few that lapsed into crying fits.

A calm, even voice responded to Santa. "Look, we've tried to put your fears to rest countless times. We don't want you out of the way; we never have. On the contrary, we want you to stay on as our front man, as you've always been. We simply feel obligated to assist you in any way necessary so you'll be capable of performing your duties to their optimum capacity."

"That's penguin ploppies, and you know it, you goddamned ungulate!"

The red-nosed reindeer pinched himself between the eyes and sighed. "Santa, please; the speciesism has got to stop. Here: The other reindeer and myself recommend reading this." He reached into the inside pocket of his classy business suit jacket and handed Jolly Old Saint Nick a pamphlet.

Santa wanted to smack it away, but thought better of it. "The hell is this?" He flipped through the flier, all the while eyeing the bipedal reindeer defensively.

"It's a spa resort getaway in Hawaii. Nice and warm to help rejuvinate you just in time for your live appearance in the Thanksgiving Day parade." Rudolph smiled from behind his shades, folding his hooves in front of himself.

"For my what!?" Santa's face was red as Rudolph's nose.

"Mr. Kringle, our public relations guys have done some surveying, and things are grim. As it turns out, most of our target audience doesn't realize you're alive. You haven't made a public appearance in over fifty years, when you only visited a small street in New York City."

"You followed me? I don't make public appearances anymore. I'm through with that sort of thing!" Santa's fists clenched, but he restrained himself from decking the reindeer one.

"And that's a sentiment which the reindeer and I share with you." Rudolph reached his arm to pat Saint Nick on the back, but it was slapped away. Instead, he straightened his suit. "The resort will do a world of good for you."

"Yeah, it'd be a great vacation for me and the wife. Oh, wait, my wife left me for your bastard grandfather, you overgrown hat hanger!"

Rudolph raised both arms, realizing Santa had triggered another temper tantrum again. He fixed his shades and backed toward the door. "Sir, you have my condolences, but I've nothing to do with that. What goes on between my grandfather and Ms. Kringle is irrelevant."

Santa threw a glass ornament at the reindeer who ducked out of the office door just in time. It smashed into a zillion pieces on the ground. "Yeah, you'd better run before I give you a pair of red sleigh bells to match your nose!"

Rudolph straightened his tie, smiling at the elves, then hurried from the building. Binky, Horfie, and Darone returned to work. "Think the big guy's in over his head?" Binky asked. He had a very high-pitched, stereotypical elf voice, like someone who's chugged too much helium.

"Puh-lease. Old Man Kringle's gonna be 'round even after we all dead and gone," Darone said.

"Things'll calm back down soon enough," Horfie said. "We got Christmas to worry about, and that always takes priority!"

Binky shook his head. "I got a bad feeling this year. I've heard soft talking about layoffs!"

"No you dih-un't! Don't be spreadin' no gossip an' slander in the workplace, Binky!" Darone wobbled his head. He was one of those impressionable people you see in every job who watches too much reality television.

The door to Santa's office slammed open. The old man had removed his jacket, exposing his suspenders and patterned cashmere sweater. "Hey you! Get back to work!" He stuck on his hat and lumbered testily from the factory. Binky, Horfie, and Darone felt on edge the whole rest of the day.

Chapter 3: Film at the Pentagon

The Secretary of Defense of the United States of the America shut off the projector and turned the lights back on in the Oval Office. Mr. President blinked and grimaced in his seat as his eyes adjusted to the light. All during the film, he had been pestering his advisors and his vice president to cut up his pretzels and mash up his bananas, and the V. P. was at his limit. Still, he remained sitting there like a cantankerous boulder puffing on a Freudian cigar as the Sec. of Def. spoke.

"So, Mr. President, what did you think of the film?" he asked, handing him a promised banana.

Mr. President continued to mope and girn and hem and haw. "I had a hard time understanding it. That is to say, I didn't really get it. I don't think it was something that I got."

The Sec. of Def. clenched his teeth as he struggled to maintain his grin. "What didn't you get?"

Mr. President pointed at the blank screen. "Well, how come that there little E. T. turtle fellow wasn't lettin' the Goonies kid throw his wedding ring into that lava doohickey at the end there?"

"Sir, that wasn't really the point of the film--"

"Then what was the point of it? You made me sit through three hours of boring stuff for no reason. It was boring. You're boring!"

The vice president rolled his eyes and groaned like a bear stroking out. "The point, Mr. President, is something to do with our war to rescue your oil."

"Uh, it's not a war, it's a police action," the Sec. of Def. said. "Please check your privilege. But yes, we're running out of dropouts and gun-owning nut jobs who aren't trying to overthrow the government."

Mr. President was on the verge of tears. "But what does the boring movie have to do with our war?"

"Police action. See, nerd culture has all the hallmarks of virginal anger and violent ineptitude that we usually have to browbeat into our marines. Every time we enact the draft, Canada gets an influx of new immigrants."

"Curse those health care-loving socialists!" said the V. P. "Maybe we could annex the Yukon or something. But I agree with what you're saying. These Doom-playing, anti-social geeks are exactly the fighting force we need for this war."

"It's a police action! Check your privilege!"

"Goddammit, I have the highest privilege in the country! Get to the propaganda."

Mr. President butted in. "Is that the thing where the rabbit goes around the tree, through the hole, then around the bush?"

"No, sir. That's how you tie your shoes," said the Sec. of Def. Mr. President let out a shrill shriek at the word "shoes". "We can tell the men they're shooting Iraqi orcs, and tell the women they can sex up Orlando Bloom!"

"Elves!" blurted Mr. President. "I have an idea. An idea that just came to me. I just came up with an idea. Elves have magic. They can fly and shoot arrows! Let it be known that in my time I desegregated the army! These knife-ears are gonna win this war."

"Police action!" both the Sec. of Def. and V. P. said in unison.

"Enough of this," the V. P. said, struggling to his feet. "Come with me, secretary." He beckoned with a finger, leading them both out of the Oval Office. Mr. President tried to follow, so the V. P. pushed him gently back into the room. When they were safely out of earshot, "I cannot stand that nincompoop. Get him to sign off and you'll have free reign on hiring."

"And I'll be able to blow up stuff like I wanted to do in the first place! But what will _you_do, sir?"

"Geh heh heh heh heh. I have a little hunting trip to go on. But exercise judiciousness! Mr. President must never know that he is the Humanzee project!"

Interlude: Thomas's Electronic Letter

Dear Mom and Andy,

In a way, the sand reminds me of snow. I've gotten used to sandy Christmases all these years in Soviet Nam Afghaniraqiran. We tried to build sandmen and throw sandballs at each other, but it wasn't the same. At first I thought, "Everything's changed," and that I'd never get used to it. All I'd ask each Christmas was to come home, but I've stopped being greedy and instead I've set realistic goals. So this Christmas, if you could send me some Wings DVDs instead, that'd be great. And maybe some spicy buffalo wings. The guys in my platoon have this bet.

What did you do today? I managed to shoot eight people dead yesterday. Most of them were neck shots, and one sorta doesn't count because I missed and the ricochet caught him in the spine.

It's too hard remembering everyone who got shot or blown up. Sarge says we oughta write them down in case they build another shiny hippie wall, but it's not like this is Korea or anything. After all, that was in Asia, and there were hippies then. The only guy I remember was the first we lost: Casey Sheehan. The rest just fade with the sandstorms. Sometimes I wonder if the desert's just swallowing up these men. It can't hold us up forever, and drains like time in a bottle. Maybe nothing I write means anything 'cause I'm just some nobody from some podunk town and I don't understand what's going on.

Oh well. Also, could you send some taco kits? We're having a taco-eating contest in the army brothel in a couple weeks.

Love, Thomas

Andrew finished reading the correspondence and said nothing. There was nobody to say it to. He printed out the electronic mail from the computer and pinned it to the fridge so his mother would see when she got home that night. If she made it home.

Andrew lapsed into the doldrums of television, with nothing and nobody else around to occupy his time with meaning. Episodes passed. Hours passed. Nothing happened. The world got darker. Andrew's mother would be in her afternoon-job by now, toiling away in the hot dog factory. She'd be stifling her emotions in order to perform her duties as productively as possible. He wondered whether she'd be sectioning and packing full hot dogs, or inserting tiny hot dogs into miniature croissant rolls for parties.

Andrew slumped over onto his side and pressed his face into the back of the couch to keep from crying like a little baby. His brother had shot eight people in one day. Those people were now dead. Thomas had been in Soviet Nam Afghaniraqiran for, what, three or four years now? He couldn't remember. How many people had his brother had to kill to stop them from killing him? To stop them coming here and killing Andrew and their mother? He tried multiplying eight by each day in a year for three years, and then four years, and then stopped when he remembered he was forgetting to count the leap year(s).

Night fell, and still Andrew's mother did not come home.

Chapter 4: Santa's Psyche

Although it was much too hot for his liking, Santa Claus had to admit that sitting on the beach before the roaring waves with his palm tree sunshades, wearing his Christmas tree swim trunks and sipping fruity cocktails with miniature umbrellas in them was relaxing as fuck. Still, the only thing which would drown out the pestering thoughts of the horrible recent years behind him was singing along to Nirvana blaring on the coconut radio beside his lounge chair. "Rape me! Rape me!" Santa Claus sang. Cunt Cocaine was his favorite musician. Santa once gifted him a shotgun for Christmas for being so good at everything. Singing his tunes helped Santa to not think of the messy breakup between himself and Ms. Claus, nor the reindeer telling him how to improve upon what his sainthood had started so long ago.

"Oh, thank you, Mercedes." Santa grinned as he was brought another fluorescent-colored tropical margarita. He raised his shades to watch the waitress leave, his belly shaking like a bowl full of jelly. He then sighed, asking himself what such a young woman could possibly hope to offer a man in a crisis. Even if she was his age, Santa suspected she wouldn't be much for intellectual conversation anyhow. "Oh me, oh my, oh me, oh," Santa moaned.

At least those blasted reindeer didn't seem to be around anyplace. He didn't like the idea that he was being followed at all times. He turned up the volume as the refrain started, nodding his head in time with the music.

Then a woman sitting a small distance away spoke up. "Some sun, the surf, and music. It's all pretty relaxing, isn't it?"

Santa raised a brow from behind his sunshades and nodded. "It sure is." He picked up his head to look over at the woman to be sure she wasn't a reindeer, but no, she was human alright. She was a smiling, older blonde with long hair, attractive in a silver fox kind of way, and yet she had a suspiciously professional demeanor about her. The fact she was wearing a business casual suit at the beach made Santa particularly suspicious.

"How relaxing is it for you?" the woman asked.

"Oh, it's very relaxing," Santa replied as he turned his head away from this strange woman. If she was after something, he didn't want to show too much interest. She might be a plant set by the reindeer.

"What exactly makes it so relaxing?" she asked.

"Like you said: Sun, surf, and music." He hoped this recursion would trap her in case she asked another question.

No such luck. "You don't have that ordinarily?"

"It's sunny more than half the year 'round at the North Pole, and the ice caps are melting so there's plenty of surf. I can play music any time I like. So yeah, I have that ordinarily, and I'm feeling very relaxed!" Santa worried this was too smart aleck-y a response. Why was it so difficult to grasp that leaving him alone for two minutes would help him calm his nerves? He turned the radio up louder to mask her persistent questions.

"My name is Dr. Sbaitso," she shouted just above the music, "and do you think turning down the music would help us to have a nice, long talk?"

Santa turned the radio even louder.

"Your friends and coworkers tell me there've been some issues concerning them about you. Would you care to discuss them?" It was tricky, shouting in a manner that resembled talking. She couldn't show weakness in front of her patient. She needed him to want to be helped before she could do anything useful. Still, she needed to be firm. She walked over and turned off the radio with a terminable click. Kris Kringle stopped singing and pulled off his shades to glare at Dr. Sbaitso.

"I'm Dr. Sbaitso," she said again. "Your coworkers mandated you to speak with a psychiatrist. I'm on the company payroll, so don't worry. Shall we talk?"

Santa slyly jerked his margarita upwards, splashing the alcohol all over Dr. Sbaitso's face, eliciting a furious exclamation from her. He rolled out of the beach chair and took off barefoot across the sand to a nearby luau. He stopped for a second to catch his breath. When he looked over his shoulder, he saw Dr. Sbaitso and a reindeer in a suit trailing after him. He pushed his way through the luau, but there were so many people closing in around him. He had to act fast and according to the rules of the foot chase, so he inserted himself between two bronzed dancers and shimmied in time to their own motions, all while singing along to the music. When an opening became apparent, the old saint dashed through and into a large dining hut.

Father Christmas ran with all the gusto his aged body could allow, aided by his supernatural sainthood. Halfway across the dining room, stared at by confused patrons and waitrons, Santa looked back again. The reindeer was pointing at him! Santa ducked behind a dividing wall, crouching as he scurried toward the stage at the head of the room.

On stage was an Elvis impersonator dressed up in a decidedly Santa-esque motif to the typical shiny polyester suit. He'd been singing Christmas carols in classic rock-and-roll fashion.

Backstage, Santa was rooting through a costume trunk for a disguise he was assembling on the fly when somebody tapped his shoulder. It was a stagehand. "There's two of you? You're supposed to be on already! Go!" Santa was pushed onstage into the spotlight, and he looked like a reindeer in headlights. Somehow his pursuers hadn't seen him yet, but if they noticed the show stopping...

Santa Claus joined Santa Elvis in a rousing musical duo. Sadly, all was for naught; the performance was so well-received Dr. Sbaitso and the reindeer spotted him easily. As Santa and Elvis finished the line, "Goodness gracious, great shades of Elvis!", Santa was hooked off stage, kicking and screaming, by the reindeer and Dr. Sbaitso. "No, goddammit! Leave me go!" He flailed, but was carried out from the establishment.

He had to relent. Soon, Dr. Sbaitso and the reindeer had him sitting in his hotel room. "Now, if it's not the reindeer, what's bothering you? Impotence? Your prostate?" Dr. Sbaitso asked.

"Life? Everything? It's not the reindeer so much." Santa sighed, twiddling his thumbs. "So many people in the world still don't get it. Wars and other shit going on they're not supposed to be doing. It's been millennia, and they never get a clue. It's not easy being the only supernatural saint left on Earth! I remember old Bethlehem, dropping coins down people's chimneys so they could pay their taxes. Robin Hood stole that bit from me! 'Course he was more into outfoxing the rich. But it's not that I want control at the North Pole. I just want to be the best damn Santa I can be! I'm the only one left."

"Why did your wife leave you?"

Santa again sighed. "My obesity and smoking and alcoholism caught up with me. The intervention didn't take. She needed distance. Said she couldn't handle my 'codependence'! You don't think she's even a little bit wrong, do you?"

"No," Dr. Sbaitso said, "but the real question is do you think she's wrong?"

"Nah," Santa mumbled, unconvinced. "I'm ready to change, though! I've lived ages. I've wisdom, I know, and with wisdom and intelligence, you can overcome any problem with composure and integrity! I can go back to jolly old Saint Nick again!" He hopped from the chair with this startling revelation.

"Will you?"

"I'm gonna try! Do or do not, all you have is trying!" He walked to the door, ready to embark on his journey of self-improvement. Sticking a finger inside of his nose, Santa was off, lickety-split. "Look out, world! Here comes Santa!"

Chapter 5: Binky Goes Away

Meanwhile, back at the North Pole, news of Santa's treatment led to murmurs of dissent among the workers. "Does this look like it's 'blowing over', genius?" Binky asked Horfie. The throng of squeaking conversation died down as Ms. Claus herself arrived at the podium.

"Good morning, everyone," she said in her cheery, rosy-cheeked voice. She was always so friendly to everyone and everything. The real charm was the heart she put into her brave face. She was not amiable to gain respect or flaunt moral superiority; she was sincere. "What I ahve to say may be, well, a bit distressing to some of you all. My ex-husband, on a sabbatical in Hawaii, lost his temper at a luau and has been rejecting his psychiatric care, so I'm told." Evidently Dr. Sbaitso was not convinced of Santa's "breakthrough", or she might have reported it to Ms. Claus.

Hushed conversation overtook the elves. The debacle of Santa's franchise handing over to the reindeer weighed heavily on Saint Nick; that was no secret, but what had it culminated into? They also hadn't heard Ms. Claus refer to her ex-husband since the break-up.

Ms. Claus patiently waited for the chattering to ebb, then continued. "We'd like you all to know we shall be continuing our schedule as we always have done for the past century. If Santa Claus is unable to attend the Thanksgiving Day parade, rest assured I shall personally take his place."

This controversial news was met with another rush of conversation, one even Ms. Claus could not easily stifle. Instead, silence broke out from the factory door slamming open and several men in black descending on ropes from the ceiling windows. Screams were heard. These men were from the United States CIA, and they promptly swarmed the podium.

"Can I help you gentlemen?" asked Ms. Claus.

"No, you can't." One agent, looking much like the rest wearing dark shades and slicked-back black hair, pressed a gloved hand onto Ms. Claus's face and shoved her aside. He then addressed the elves, speaking always through clenched teeth and with the strange but impressive mannerism of stressing every syllable. "Alright, listen up, you little pukes. My name is Mr. Pseudonym. I hold in my hand an official notarized governmental document requiring your workers to sign up for selective service. You all will henceforth be required to submit forms signing up for selective service for the United States of North America army."

"But we're not American citizens!" Darone called out.

The agent's head rotated oddly as he zeroed in on Darone's location. "You are now. Effective immediately, the North Pole is hereby annexed by the United States government. You will adopt United States legislature and obey United States law. Without signing up, you will not be allowed to vote, raise your credit score, seek jobs, hold property, attend jury duty, or various other fun rights. When you sign up, be sure to present your social security number and--"

"We haven't got those!" Binky cried.

"What." The agent again twisted his head in a peculiar fashion to look Binky dead-on.

"We don't have social security numbers," Binky repeated in his high-pitched voice.

There was a long pause until the agent said, "You don't need to worry about collecting social security anyway. Getting back to jury duty, you will be held in contempt of court if you do not come when selected."

"How can somethin' be a privilege if we're bein' extorted into doin' it?" Darone asked.

"Jury duty and selective service are both an honor and a privilege. The worst kind of coward in the world is a draft-dodger," said Mr. Pseudonym.

"If we get punished for not doing something, that's hardly a privilege," said Binky. "We can get licenses to drive a sleigh, but we don't get thrown in jail for not driving a sleigh."

"And what does 'contempt of court' mean?" asked Darone. "How can you tell what I'm thinking to decide if I feel contempt?"

Mr. Pseudonym had had enough. With a snap of his gloved fingers, four agents sifted through the crowd of elves towards Darone and Binky, and hoisted the pair in the air. Their struggles and protests were futile, and they were effortlessly carried out of the factory to no certain place.

"There's your precious socialism at work, you commies," said Mr. Pseudonym.

Chapter 6: Get Behind the Elfies

The desert was a roasting wasteland by day, but by night it was a freezing wasteland, particularly if you only wear boxer shorts. Thomas, the last original member of his platoon, stood in line alongside a slew of diverse new recruits with pointed ears. He paid them no mind. He knew no thought; only coded procedure. He had spent months in training and the years since maintaining peak physical fitness to make Sargent Steeple so proud of him.

"Your face is ugly! Get down and give me infinity push-ups!" Sargent Steeple bellowed into Thomas's eyeball.

"Siryessir!" Thomas's body crumpled to the sand like a sack of potatoes, rendered mentally incapable of holding itself upright. He saw the sand moving near and away and back again before his eyes, the world itself moving up and down as his body pushed and lowered obediently.

"The rest of you!" Steeple barked, barely coherent. "This may be the army, but we'll show those namby-pamby air force weenies! Today we practice flying maneuvers!"

"Sarge, elves can't fly!" whimpered Horfie. His body twitched horribly, one of his eyes wincing every few seconds. He had been unable to rid himself of this nervous tic since he'd undergone the tear gas training.

"What did you say!?" screamed Steeple. "Now you listen to me you tights-clad pansies! You're gonna fly because I said you can, you pointy-eared, triangle-stealing, fairy-huffing Momma's boys!"

"Uh, sir, elves do not huff fairies," interrupted an obese man wearing a false pair of elf's ears. "If you knew anything about video games, you would realize that."

Steeple was too dumbstruck to retort.

"Also, I'm not an elf. I'm a Vulcan. Can't you tell?" said another man with a hairy neck.

Steeple's face turned blood red. "Shut up! Have you never heard the phrase 'dishonorable discharge'? Or better yet, 'court martial'! Get down and give me googolplex!"

"Sarge, if we get down, I guarantee you we won't be able to get up again," said the first obese soldier.

"When do we get guns? I wanna shoot people already! This is gonna be the greatest LARP ever!" whined the man with the hairy neck.

"What's a larp?" asked a pale, scrawny soldier wearing a pair of felt cat's ears.

"Sarge, this guy's not an elf either. He's just a dirty furry," protested the obese man.

"Sarge" looked like he was witnessing the most amazing magical trick in creation. The novelty of all this impudence boggled his tiny mind.

"Hey now, don't be like that," said the scrawny soldier, who then pulled out a folk guitar and sang. "C'mon, people now. Smile on your brother, everybody get together, c'mon and love one another right now!" There was a prolonged silence as everyone glared at him.

"God damn pot-smoking hippies!" yelled Steeple, who now had to smoke two Cuban cigars at once to quell his rapidly bubbling tension. He pulled the pin and thrust a live grenade down the scrawny soldier's shirt. "Get down and give me Avogadro's number until you stop being a filthy hippie!"

"Then will you diffuse the grenade, sir?"

"As for the rest of you, this isn't your grandma's Elton John tupperware party for ballet dancers with your precious 'aesthetics' and your friggin' 'empathy'! This is real life: Getting shot at and exploded on an hourly basis!" Sargent Steeple had adopted a decidedly snide tone of voice now. "This is the man's army! You're not gonna be bespectacled, girdle-wearin', lactose-intolerant, virginity-havin', gluten-hatin', insulin-takin', heart-murmurin', bespectacled, keyboard-tappin', calculator-usin', pocket-protectin' panty-waists any longer! I'm gonna turn y'all into big, sweaty, musky, perspirin' men with big, deadly guns! Is that clear!?"

Nobody spoke up this time. They were all too afraid from watching him chew and swallow his cigars. After a moment, Horfie asked, "Are we at war with Eurasia or Eastasia?"

Chapter 7: Pilgrimage to Thanksgiving

Andrew awoke the next day on the couch, a puddle of drool leaking from his open mouth. Had his mother been home and he had missed her? Or had she been gone for over twenty-four hours? The panic struck him straightaway, granting him no momentary respite in the staggering haze of waking. He checked the house for signs that his mother had been home, but he could see none.

He couldn't imagine a scenario in which someone was gone from where they lived and slept for over a day, unless they were visiting relatives or on vacation. Was she on vacation? No. Maybe she was visiting a relative and Andrew had merely forgotten she'd told him. Maybe all the snow had melted to slush and she was perfectly safe, having started another work day.

Slush was what Andrew's brain had melted into from watching television all night. He couldn't recall falling asleep. He couldn't do anything; he was powerless. It didn't help that Simon of the Desert had been playing at three in the morning, with its jarring surrealness.

"That's right; you could win...a new car!"

Andrew shut off the television. He remembered he didn't have school today because it was already Thanksgiving, a long-held tradition which wasn't as important as packing a few more hot dogs. Still, he felt inclined to dial emergency services. He stopped himself, not knowing for certain his mother wasn't okay. If she was fine, he might be fined or thrown in jail for calling the emergency services. He remembered once that a classmate's father had gotten in big trouble for dialing the emergency services to report some threatening graffiti, but he'd been fined because the emergency services decided it wasn't an appropriate situation to call them.

Andrew forced himself to turn on the household computer and check the electronic mail again. It hadn't been long at all since Thomas had written them, so Andrew's expectations were low, but lo and behold, there was indeed a new correspondence.

Dear Mom and Andy,

Surprised to hear from me so soon? I've had a bit of a rough day. I almost got castrated by some terrorists, which would've ruined taco night at the army brothel. It's not really an "army brothel" because the government doesn't compete with private enterprise in that area; they just have private contractors for that sort of thing. Ordinarily we'd peruse local businesses, but somebody parked a car there, and it took all happy hour to determine it was rigged to explode.

So as I was saying, we got kidnapped, almost emasculated, nearly decollated, but when they got to me, their webcam battery died out so they couldn't upload to YouTube. I guess I can understand their point of view: Someone made a poo on a copy of their favorite book. Lucky for me a rescue platoon came and wiped the bastards out. I'm back with my own platoon, and it feels great to write you again. I can't wait to come home and type to you in person.

We got a few new members in our platoon. My new bunk mate says he doesn't have anyone he can write to, so I'll let him type something! His name is "Horfie", and he comes from the North Pole, so he says.

HELLO??? OH MY GOD HELP ME!!!! FUCKING HELP ME!!! OH MY GOD SOMEBODY GET ME OUT OF HERE GO TO THE THANKSGIVING PARADE TELL SANTA WHERE I AM OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD I'M GOING TO DIE I'M GOING TO

Love, Thomas

P. S. Sorry, he doesn't seem to type so good. He's kinda short, and his ears are weird and pointed. See you eventually!

Andrew much preferred the electronic mails his brother sent when Thomas was attending art college. Sometimes he'd send scanned images of his latest work to Andrew, and links to online retailers who'd purchase his work for upwards of thousands of dollars, even though he was only a student.

Something stuck out as odd to Andrew from this latest correspondence. The capitalized text sounded somewhat urgent. Convincing, even. He flipped the television back on and surfed over to the news channel. The parade had just started. Maybe, somehow, he could find a way to get to New York City in time. Santa Claus would be the very last feature of the parade, and the parade moved very slowly. Sometimes it would stop to show elaborate dance performances on the floats and such. Maybe a giant mascot balloon could burst, further gaining Andrew some time.

Perhaps Andrew wasn't being entirely rational, but he felt he should heed the words of the mysterious "Horfie". His brain was so melted from late night movies and generalized anxiety that he would go and find Santa, and tell Santa what Horfie had said. Horfie didn't seem particularly happy where he was. So Andrew threw on his winter things quickly and departed into the whirling New England blizzard. His scarf flapped in the wind as if to wave goodbye.

The roads were a sheet of white, and pretty little flakes fell silently down to Earth in a heavy, listless cascade. Tree branches were encased in silver outlining so they shone like precious sculptures against the gray-white sky. When he was younger, Andrew would lay in the snow with his cat and stare at the sky. He and his brother would do all the usual things then: Make snow angels and build igloos into which they could hide.

Quite a ways down the road which would take Andrew to the highway leading to New York, a bus of children stopped. The driver was a gaunt, bearded man with a lazy eye and a dirty baseball cap. "Need a ride?" he asked.

"Does this bus go to New York City?"

"Of course not!"

"Just drop me off at the closest truck stop, I guess." Andrew boarded the bus and sat down in the first seat.

"Did the banks foreclose on your orphanage too?" asked a red-faced kid already in the seat.

Andrew stared at his shoes. "I need to get to the Thanksgiving Day parade."

"Why?"

"I gotta tell Santa Claus that Horfie wants to go home."

"Santy Claus isn't real," said a curly-haired girl hanging onto the back of Andrew's seat.

Andrew decided if he didn't believe, he should give up, and it was too late for that now! "Sure he is!"

The children peppered Andrew with questions, such as "What the heck's his deal with giving out free stuff?" and "Is he licensed to fly internationally?" Andrew's doubts kept metastasizing. He didn't want to answer questions nor think. He wanted to get where he was going and succeed in his task. This singular goal stood its ground against the demonic hordes of nightmarish imagery hovering around his wounded soul like ravenous, bloodthirsty, pot-smoking cannibals. With a twinkle in his eye and a twitch of a smile, Andrew stood up and sang along to the song on the radio.

You may all have your doubts,

but I'm telling you the truth.

You can say just what you like,

but Santa Claus is real!

Santa Claus is really real!

He's as real as you or me!

He's both flesh and blood,

as you will see!

Because Santa Claus is real,

he's a living human being!

Think of how he would feel

if someone told you you weren't real.

If you have a doubt,

just keep saying to yourself,

"Even hallucination

is a known phenomenon.

"Since when do you need proof?

Since when do you need logic?

Don't listen to the otherwise,

and just ignore those other guys!

It's okay if it's not true!

It's true 'cause you believe!

Santa Claus is really real!

He's as real as you or me!

Santa Claus is really real!

He's as real as you or me!

Andrew sang with the kids. He sang at the truck stop. He sang with the convoy on the ham radio, and he would sing to the crowded streets of New York City.

Chapter 8: Mecha-Claus

Ms. Claus refused to let the Thanksgiving parade start. She was busy fretting aboard the final float. One of the directors below was growing more impatient than always. "Ma'am, I don't know where your husband is, but we need a Santa Claus. It's in the contract. If we don't honor all contracts, no matter the circumstances impeding their completion, then all of democracy will come tumbling down."

"He'll be here soon, young man! Here, have a cookie!"

In the restroom nearby, Santa was listening to Rudolph confer with him. "Mr. Kringle, as reward for your recuperation, we've got you a brand new Santa suit!" Rudolph handed Santa the brand new red suit, which Santa entered the stall to put on.

When he emerged, Santa was dressed in a form-fitting, studded shiny red suit, complete with elbow-length black patent leather finger-less gloves, knee-length combat boots with stiletto heels, ass-less chaps with a banana hammock, a thick helmet with whirring propellers and revolving lights, and a utility belt with so many buttons and compartments he couldn't keep track of them all let alone guess what they did. With a barbed grappling hook. The back of his coat read: "Hell's Santas" in blinking green LEDs.

"What in the hell is this!?" Santa asked.

Rudolph was beaming. His nose even glowed a little. "A modern, updated 'you' look for the new millennium! You've kept your basic look longer than you may have realized it. Our costume designers have worked all year on this. They had a lot of great ideas, but this was the best one they finally agreed upon."

Santa stared at him with a pained, incredulous look upon his rosy-cheeked face. Not one to rock the boat at the eleventh hour, he said, "I certainly hope it keeps me warm! Ho ho ow ow ow." He hobbled away as quick as he could given all the chafing, and clumsily boarded the sleigh-shaped float in the firehouse.

"Ready now, dear?" Ms. Claus asked.

"Oh, God," said Santa, still not accustomed to his ex-wife being there.

"Honey bumpkins, it's wonderful you're back to your traditional jolly self!"

"Yeah." Santa's helmet propellers whizzed audibly.

The garage door opened, allowing brilliant light to shine upon the float. He felt the cold, crisp air billow over him, excitement filling his lungs. He missed the smiles of happy, hopeful children still filled with the innocent delusions of youth. As the float took off, a compressed Christmas carol played:

Deck the halls with boughs of holly,

in a one-horse open sleigh,

Rudolph with your nose so bright,

won't you guide my sleigh tonight?

but Grandma got run over by a reindeer!

'Cause I'm dreaming of a white Christmas

And I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus

He knows if you've been bad or good,

Up on the rooftop, quick, quick, quick!

That's the Jingle Bell

That's the Jingle Bell Rock!

Santa turned and asked, "Did everyone make a potty?" He shrieked like a little girl when the float got going, because it was loaded with sparklers and whirlers and firecrackers all issuing forth with loud report. Pyrotechnics shot flames almost two stories high. Ms. Claus was hurling fistfuls of hard candy at the masses below.

Santa reached into his magical bag of gifts and flung out just the right presents. There was a flea collar for Clay Maven, a tub of body grease for Zeke Pulanski, and a sock full of coal hit Jamie LeBrau in the eye.

But the right present for Andrew Andranagan wasn't something you could put in a box. Not easily, at any rate. Andrew only needed Santa Claus to listen to his desperate pleas. Andrew's ears ached from the blaring music as he struggled to keep up with the float. The crowds were fenced in like sardines, but Andrew found a break in the fence he could shove open and twist his body through. He jogged to keep up, slipped, sprained his ankle, scraped his hands on the pavement, then got back up again. "Santa! Horfie needs your help! Horfie's in Soviet Nam Afghaniraqiran!"

His neck bruised when a short police officer seized the hood of his winter coat. "What the hell you think you're doing, screwing up the parade, you little pissant jackanape!?" the cop asked. Andrew's response was to cry, which disgusted the cop down to his core. His face grimaced in revulsion, but his umbrage remained adamant. "Why are you fucking crying!?" he screamed.

"Please don't shoot me, please!" Andrew feared he'd come this close to having his brains smeared across 42nd Street.

The cop rolled Andrew over with the heel of his boot. "Your mother's been told where you are! You've given her one hell of a scare, and if you don't get your life straightened out, you're gonna end up rotting in prison, being fed every day, given a place to sleep, exercising and playing basketball in the yard, getting transparent radios and televisions and games consoles, receiving free health care and anal sex! The list goes on! So grow the hell up!"

The noise and the crowds were getting to Santa. He was starting to teeter back and forth. Before he knew what he was doing, he was seizing the controls of the sleigh float and picking up speed despite its weight. Pretty soon he was ramming it into the other floats and the fencing.

"Alright, you bitches! See how we do things at the North Pole! You've made an abomination of Christmas, and you're all on my naughty list! Rotten bastards!"

"Mercy me!" Ms. Claus whooped in unhelpful fear, trying to keep her balance.

Santa smashed into the Icecapades float, then careened into the "Have a Very Ghetto Christmas" float sponsored by the "Where you at?" cellular phone ad campaign. He then scrunched into the floats celebrating the fifty-millionth iteration of procedural crime shows, forcing it to tip over and burst into flame.

Santa was ranting and raving. "Here's an idea: Don't melt your mind with drugs! Don't_do gang warfare! _Don't rape people! And learn the difference between cult and religion! Here's a hint: You can't copyright a legitimate religion!"

By now, another Christmas carol was playing:

He's making a list!

He's checking it thrice!

Having O. C. D. is never nice!

Santa Claus is losing his mind!

He's watching as you shower,

he needs to know you're there.

He spends no less than thirteen times

a day counting reindeer.

Oh, he's checking the stove

and the door hinge,

tryin' to find a word that

rhymes with orange!

Santa Claus is going...

Santa Claus is going...

Santa Claus is going...

insane!

Santa's float broke away from the parade and onto a dividing bridge. A guard flipped a switch to raise the bridge, but even when it wasn't frozen over, the rusted machinery struggled. The parade float just barely managed to jump the gap, but stalled on the opposite side of the bridge. Because the bridge had to keep rising, however, the float began to roll forward, picking up speed again, careening faster as Santa steered the massive vehicle onto the on-ramp of a major highway.

"Santa, dear, please don't do this!" Ms. Claus begged.

"Forget it, Jessica Mary Carol Claus! We're goin' to rescue Horfie! I ain't stoppin' 'til those blasted reindeer get the picture once and for all!"

The float's blaring stereo gave Santa an adrenaline boost. Rude, aggressive motorists typical of the region careened out of the way and flipped Santa the bird as they tried to cut him off. He ignored the platoon of cop cars, sirens blaring, that were edging up behind him.

"Alright Santa, we know you're up there! Release the hostage and surrender yourself, and we'll be less inclined to accidentally shoot you!" a cop said through a megaphone. Helicopters dangling SWAT members loomed into view up ahead. Santa had to think fast, but he was sweating too much and his heart was pounding and his arms were going numb.

Epilogue

On Christmas Eve, the Andranagan residence received a knock at the door from a smiling army official. "Mrs. Andranagan? Is your husband at home?" he asked when Heather Andranagan answered the door.

"My husband passed on twelve years ago today from smoking," Heather said.

"I am so sorry for your loss. Welp!" The army man slapped his hands together and welcomed himself into their home, pushing them aside with elation. "Let's get down to brass tacks!"

"I don't really like jazz," Heather said. "Too many notes."

"I have some news you've been waiting to hear about your son Thomas!" The army man mustered his very best serious frown. Heather and Andrew smiled at each other, and listened with bated breath.

"Your son's dead." The army man mimed feeling sad, the way a preschool teacher does to teach very small children. "Yep. Seems he landed on a mine! After he got hit by a missile. After his head was crushed by one of our own tanks. After being emasculated and having his esophagus cut with a Bowie knife. Real shame. But that's not the real reason I came down here! Now for the good news!"

Heather and Andrew felt their souls die. The light stopped gleaming in their eyes. "What?" Heather managed to croak.

"I'm here to see if your son has signed up for selective service yet, or if he'd like to volunteer!"

"I'm only sixteen!" Andrew said, his voice breaking.

"Late start, huh? Well just sign this paperwork here so we can get the ball rolling and put you on the list for jury duty. You folks have a happy Hannukah now! Buh-bye."

And just as he entered, he left, but not before nabbing one of their Christmas cookies. Heather's and Andrew's jaws were left hanging open. Without changing her expression, Heather slammed the front door shut.

Meanwhile, in the Port Charles general hospital in New York, whose parking lot had been designed by Terri Schiavo, Santa Claus lay in bed recuperating next to a machine that went "Ping!". Ms. Claus and Rudolph stood over his bed.

Santa's eyes finally opened.

"Mr. Claus, you're awake!" Rudolph said.

Santa let out a weak groan. "Looks like you win."

"No, no, Mr. Claus. You were right all along. I'm sorry." Rudolph hung his head in shame. "We reindeer just wanted to take the load off you. You worked so hard for your altruism, your philanthropy. We just wanted to give something back. We thought trying to be as efficient as humans would work, but it seems like the road to Hell is paved with good intentions like they say."

"If you believe that, then what hope have you got?" Santa asked slowly. He could barely turn his head, and his eyes were dark and bloodshot. "Do you really believe bad intentions are better than good ones? Good intentions are just the start. You just made poor decisions. Your actions and intentions are two completely different things and shouldn't be confused."

"Please, Santa, save your strength."

"Rudolph, I want you to drive my sleigh tonight. I want you to deliver all the presents. You know how. I believe you can make things right. It's never too late 'til you're dead." With that, Santa gave a heavy sigh and shut his eyes from the painful light.

"Alright, Santa. I will. I promise." Rudolph stood up straight and nodded to the doctor. "Go ahead," he said quietly as Ms. Claus turned to sob into his shoulder. He gently led her from the room.

"Wait, what?" said Santa. But it was too late. The doctor was pulling the plug on the machines. The pinging went silent, and Santa went very, very still.

STORY ABANDONED DUE TO WRITER'S STRIKE.