The north pole looks nothing like it does in the various children’s fairytale stories. A factory here, a warehouse there, and smokestacks everywhere. Every building being run 24 hours-a-day by the elves.
The elves themselves are strange little creatures. Not the long bearded nice old men of some stories, or the sparkling children of others, they are gruff, wrinkly chain smokers with a bad cussing habit. Most don’t live past 45 due to the harsh labor conditions that Santa has forced them to work under. The few that do make it longer are usually euthanized once they can no longer meet quota.
The women are few, and far between. They have become such a precious commodity that Santa has them kept in special breeding quarters under the watchful eyes of Mrs. Clause. They are kept constantly pregnant. The best workers from among the men are selected as the breeding stock. Starting from six weeks after her last child birth, the female elf is forced to have sex with the breeding men daily until she becomes pregnant again. If she is unable to become pregnant within 12 weeks, she is euthanized. Most only live to 35 years of age.
As Suzanne watched from her perch on the outskirts of the Workshop Complex through high powered binoculars, the big red man himself was touring the facility. His face was ruddy and smooth, with a jolly smile. The only thing around here that looked like the fairytales. Suzanne wondered if Oscar Wilde hadn’t meant The Picture of Dorian Grey to be a metaphor for Santa. She couldn’t help but believe that somewhere in this complex was a closely guarded portrait of Santa that looked like a hideous monster with fangs, sunken eyes, and pale flesh pulled tightly over narrow bones. The picture was so strong in Suzanne’s mind that she felt a chill run up her spine at the thought of seeing something so hideous.
“The B-2s are in place,” said John, “we’re just waiting on your order to strike.”
“Let’s do it then. Radio the bomb raid.”
The B-2s were silent and deadly. The steady clamor of the North Pole erupted in flames. The bombers targeted Santa’s house and the breeding facility. Mrs. Clause was almost certainly dead, as she rarely left her breeders, but Santa was touring the factories. Several of the warehouses were hit as well; there would be no toys for Christmas this year.
“Alpha and Bravo teams move out. Charlie team follow my lead.”
The factories had come to a stop. There were still resounding explosions as the fires worked there way through the gas pipelines. Amid the clamor, gunfire erupted from all around the complex. Alpha and Bravo teams made quick work of the remaining elves. The elves packed guns, but they were handguns. They were no match for the P-90s carried by the Squad.
Charlie team had one mission: kill the fat man in red pajamas. They headed straight for the factory where he was last spotted touring. Inside was a maze of machinery and half-built toys laying in racks. Suzanne was not looking at the toys and decor, but she caught out of the corner of her eye that they looked like the latest video game system. At first, she started to think that Santa had disappeared. They had been wandering the factory for about 30 minutes when Alpha and Bravo teams radioed “all clear.” She was amazed at the speed in which they cleared the other factories. They were lost in this one, but then it was about the only one not on fire.
“Ho Ho Ho mother fuckers!”
Suzanne spun on her heal to face Santa. She raised her gun to aim, but her arm didn’t want to work. She looked to see why and saw the blood dripping from her shoulder. Thuds on her chest, she looked there and saw yet more blood. Gunshots rang out around her. She saw now that Santa’s chest was a little redder than usual as well. But he kept shooting. She saw nothing else after that.
