He stared at his snowman. Something was missing.
      Amongst the rubble that was once the Yuleville manger display, a red glint caught his eye. The Giftless One smiled, revealing a grin a shark would envy.
      The snowman was finished with the authentic, blood-stained hat of Santa Claus.
      “Perfect.”
      The Giftless One and his creation were the only things left intact in Yuleville. Sure, there were a few survivors crawling around in the tinsel-covered rubble. But the ruination of the most wonderful time of year had left them psychologically broken. They were closer to beasts than men now. At night, tribal, blood-crazed packs of carolers could be heard singing the songs of the damned.
      He smiled. Yuleville had finally started to feel a bit like home. Still, all good things had to come to an end.
      The Shadow strode through the empty streets. The snow fall was heavy, but he moved with the energy of a bright summer day. He knew he had the initiative. Santa’s explosive death was only the beginning.
      Eventually, he came across a lightly charred teddy bear, left behind in the snow during the chaos. He swiftly punted it into the sewer.
      The next encounter was a short, frozen skeleton. It wore the tattered remains of the standard multi-colored uniform of an elf soldier. On the remaining bits of flesh, bite marks were evident. The Giftless One figured the carolers must have gotten to him. Most of the stragglers had been picked apart by the rabid packs since the event.
      He briefly wondered what elf tasted like, then brushed the thought away. The line had to be drawn somewhere.
      His walk took him to the now-abandoned Dreadsleigh. He was sorry to see it go; it was truly a magnificent machine. Enough horsepower to traverse the world, and enough firepower to level it twice. Unfortunately, one man could never operate it. And after the results of the Tinsel Riots, he knew he had to work alone.
      The shark smile returned as he cut his way into the aircraft. The morbid scene on the inside was his ideal picture of hilarity. In his plan, he’d expected to have to fight his way through a score of enraged elf troopers in order to reach the core of the aircraft. For once, he’d failed to account for something: the extreme despair caused by watching the murder of your personal god. The mass suicides aboard the Dreadsleigh after his execution of Santa had been instantaneous.
      As his steps echoed through the maze-like halls, he wondered where they’d found the time to cover the entire interior of the Dreadsleigh in wrapping paper. It must have been quite the endeavor.
      The information from the elf he’d interrogated prior to beginning the whole operation proved accurate. He made two lefts and a right, and reached the core.
      No mundane engine could have powered the Dreadsleigh. In the old era, before the Second Christmas Crusade had brought the holiday to the entire world, Santa had been able to rely solely on the power of the late reindeer generals. Now, burdened with reaching every (rich) household of believers, it required the use of the most advanced nuclear power source on the planet. The fusion core was decades ahead of its time.
      The Giftless One hung the last of the explosive ornaments. A half hour would have to be enough.
      It took five minutes to reach the Dreadsleigh’s hangar. It was filled with soldier’s toys. Rows of red and green helicopters, fighters, and bombers waited, ripe for the picking. But the single spy plane was more to his liking.
      Ten more minutes were needed to break into the jet. The Giftless One groaned. The password was ‘12345’.
      He indulged in one last look at Yuleville. From atop the Dreadsleigh, one could get a pristine, picturesque view of the dilapidated wreckage.
      Another man might have wondered if it was worth it to destroy Christmas. If human life was a fair cost to stop a harmless torrent of ads and bad music. If anything human would remain inside after all the smoke had cleared.
      The Giftless One simply wondered what he’d do after he was done. Maybe he’d take up an instrument.
      As he entered the cockpit, he tossed the green mace over his shoulder. He’d planned on keeping the fat man’s weapon as a trophy, but had thought the better of it. His plans would be better off if every remnant of Saint Nick was blasted from the face of the Earth.
      He pulled the throttle, and took off. For the next fifteen minutes he flew like a bat out of hell, streaking through the sky at speeds known only to the reckless and those that slept through the lesson on basic safety procedure in flight school. The Giftless One joined the small group of pilots that had raced with nuclear annihilation.
      As the ball of flame expanded behind him, the plane shook as if it would plummet like a stone at any moment. But his smirk never faded and his hand remained steady.

     Gumdrop was the happiest elf in the entire North Pole.
      In Claus’s empire, every elf had a role. The majority slaved away in the workshop, kept smiling by a constant haze of drugged candy. The sly became magistrates, an occupation that seemed to consist entirely of drinking expensive syrup and kissing Mrs. Claus’s feet. The strong joined the Cheer Enforcement Extermination Regiment (CHEER), and kept holiday spirits high by the tips of their candy cane bayonets. The sadistic became Executioners, tasked with hanging renegades with barbed Christmas lights.
      Gumdrop was the smartest, and so had the greatest duty of all: defying the will of God.
      The others had always kept their distance from Gumdrop. He always seemed to smell of something that couldn’t be identified, and had a mad look in his eyes that could wilt mistletoe. They always called him names, and never let him play in their games.
      Then Mrs. Claus had found him, and everything had changed.
      “Bring in the next one.” said Gumdrop. If a normal elven voice was merely sweet, Gumdrop’s caused diabetes.
      As always, he double-checked his notes before repeating the experiment. Snowflake Calculus was powerful, but prone to errors. Namely, melting.
      The next subject was brought in by Gumdrop’s flunkies: Mary Flunky and Marvin Flunky. The subject kicked and screamed until a morphine-laced candy cane was shoved into his mouth. “Put the headphones on him.”
      The subject’s eyes pleaded, but the flunkies ignored him. Gumdrop had surgically removed the parts of their brain responsible for sympathy years ago. With Mrs. Claus’s permission, he’d genetically engineered the pair to be stronger and larger than any other elf alive, creating monstrosities the size and strength of the average middle school student. The headphones were attached, and then sealed in with plastic screws.
      Gumdrop pressed a button on his console. It was decorated with a little smiley face, his personal symbol. It was a poor choice: his subjects certainly never smiled. The mistress had given him simple orders. If he succeeded, he would live like a King under Ms Claus (there was no Mr Claus in her vision of the future). If he failed, he wouldn’t live to see another Christmas.
      Sound poured through the headphones. At first, the subject writhed in agony. Gumdrop began to wonder if he was going to be fed to the reindeer. But after several minutes of impotent thrashing and blaspheming the day of wonderful corporate gifts, the subject grew silent. Then, an unnaturally wide smile spread across his face.
      “Oh gee jolly joy!” said the test subject with enthusiasm.
      Gumdrop dropped his notes and filled the room with insane laughter. In his mind, lighting flashed.
      He had done it. It had taken years of research and countless ‘disappearances’, but he’d finally completed his research. He had engineered the perfect Christmas song. A sonic metavirus that overwrote the brain with blind devotion for the most magical time of the year.
      It was titled “All I Want For Christmas Is Your Credit Card”.
      The song contained every radio-whoring trope Gumdrop could imagine. Saccharine lyrics, repetitive choruses any eggnog drunk could follow, an instrumental progression that never went beyond three chords, and references to every element of popular Christmas mythology. The use of Christian themes had never crossed his mind.
      ‘All I Want For Christmas Is Your Credit Card’ would hit the airwaves like an atom bomb. Gumdrop had already put several pop and country musicians in place to release cover versions. A hip-hop remix was on his to-do list. If possible, he wanted to record a metal version. It would have to be recorded and performed ‘ironically’ of course.
      And the ironic listeners would pledge their ironic loyalty to Mrs. Claus for the rest of their ironic lives.

     The Council of Five convened.
      Of course, there were only four of them since Jacques Frost died of a cocaine overdose after failing to meet Black Friday quotas. And Roland wasn’t really a full member as much as he was a stenographer. But they convened nonetheless.
      Each member of the four-man Council of Five, save Roland, represented the most powerful mortal figures in the world of Christmas. Politics. Industry. Media. They shared a tenuous balance of power with the North Pole: a balance Santa had always dominated.
      It was time to renegotiate.
      The four men sat in a dimly lit room. It was hard to find circular chrome conference tables, but Roland managed to find one on an online auction. He had also taken the time to paint a menacing logo upon the top of the table. It was handy to have someone he had actually worked a day in his life in the group.
      As the largest and most imposing, Senator Coal sat at the center of the group, opposite the camera. He hoped the meeting would end quickly, he was risking missing a key vote on diverting federal funds to hire go-go dancers for the entire legislative branch. It could be a government Christmas miracle.
      The high-definition video connection activated. The three shadowy figures, plus stenographer, sat facing the holiday mistress herself.
      The elderly matron sat in a gingerbread rocking chair, armrests adorned with the candy-coated skulls of long-forgotten rivals. Her wrinkled hands were blurs of motion, knitting an elaborate quilt. Cursive letters spelled “R.I.P. Dead Weight”.
      “Good evening, little boys. I trust you’ve been good?”
      Senator Cole chuckled. The others followed suite, half out of solidarity and half out of a lack of creativity.
      “Whether we are naughty or nice is immaterial now, Mrs. Claus.” said the politician. A year ago he would have twirled his mustache, but his wife had made him shave it off.
      “Now, now. Why be rude to a little old lady like me?”
      Senator Coal slammed his fist onto the table. He’d seen it in a movie once.
      “Bah! The North Pole’s half of the power rested on Santa’s ability to instantaneously distribute product worldwide. Without him, you’re a glorified sweatshop. Christmas is ours.”
      “Oh you silly, silly little boys.”
      As Yuleville burned, Mrs. Claus felt a piercing pain in her side. For the first time in a thousand years, she dropped her knitting. Her hands clutched her heart, and she gasped for breath.
      The moment passed, and she regained her composure. Mrs. Claus left the glasses on the floor where they fell, and threw her needles aside. Without the glare of her signature spectacles, a faint red glow could be seen behind her eyes.
      The Council members all shifted uncomfortably. They could tell something imperceptible had changed.
      “Oh you stupid, stupid little boys.” said Mrs. Claus with a snakelike hiss.
      “How dare you-”
      “Be silent, before I feed you your tongue in front of your spoiled children!” said Mrs. Claus, her voice amplified to unnatural levels. The skull adorning her right armrest shattered into dust under the force of her grasp.
      There was silence.
      Mrs. Claus inhaled, and her voice regained its earlier gentle tone. “It’s silly, really. Tee-hee! Your whole world’s about to change, and you don’t even know it. That silly old goat’s traditionalism was the only thing holding me back! Tee-hee! I thought I could use you, but you’ll have to become my mindless slaves like everyone else. Merry Christmas!”
      The feed was abruptly cut off, leaving the room in shock. For several tense minutes, the four Councilmen of Five said nothing.
      Roland adjusted his glasses. “That’s probably not good.”
     

     Lieutenant F. R. Cake scratched his nose, sending man sized icicles crashing to the floor. How long had he been on sentry duty? Days? Minutes? Centuries? He remembered a cackling Mrs. Claus sending him to the border, and the rest was a grey blur. Time always seemed fluid to him.
      He was a frost elemental, the second of his kind. The first was a snowman named Frosty. The Lieutenant heard that CHEER troopers had gotten some children to trade their icy friend in exchange for a guaranteed spot on the nice list. After that, the snowman had been sent to Gumdrop. All the magic in that old hat had been removed via syringe, and replicated in the Lieutenant.
      Eventually, there would be an army of seven-story tall behemoths in the North Pole. Which would finally give F.R. Cake someone to talk to during Sentry Duty.
      The Lieutenant heard a small buzzing noise in his ear. He tried to remember what the little device was called. Worcom? Interpol? He finally settled on “intercom” and gently pressed the button that would open the connection.
      “Yes?”
      “Lieutenant, This is CHEER command. Our Jolly-sonar is picking up an S-Level Scrooge Cluster approaching your position at top speed. Be alert.”
      “Understood.”
      F.R. yawned. He always got a pointless message from command whenever a commercial plane full of grumpy businessmen headed for ungrateful families flew overhead. It was best to ignore them and return to his thoughts (or what at least passed for thoughts). He closed his eyes, phased out the chattering voice, and began to daydream about supermodels made of ice. Elven woman always gave him the cold shoulder (puns were beyond his comprehension), and were a tad too small for him anyway.
      At the end of this thought the spy plane impaled his sternum.
      The last thing he saw before his vision faded was a black silhouette floating gently downward on a stolen parachute, waving and smiling in a parody of good will. Then came the laughter.
      The Lieutenant fought the pain for a moment, and reached for his com-bead. The cheap device almost broke upon the giant’s now-heavy touch.
      “He approaches.”
      Lieutenant F.R. Cake then melted into a puddle.

     Commander Darrius ‘Missile’ Toe’s face darkened. “Lieutenant?! Come in, Lieutenant! Cake? Cake?! CAKE!” shouted the rapidly despairing commander.
     “Sir! Should we send a CHEER Squad?”
     “You know what happened to the last squad we sent after him.”
     The orderly shuddered. He would never forget finding seven elf troopers force fed their own candy-cane bayonets.
     “Then what, Sir?”
     “Put out a general call for the Executioners.”
     “Sir…that hasn’t been done since the War of Three Santas.”
     “We haven’t faced a threat like this since the war!” snapped the commander. He considered drawing his sidearm, then calmed down. An elf, even a military one, had to remain cheerful. Even in the face of the Giftless One.
     “Then…inform the madame.”
     “But..She’ll kill me. She kills all her messengers.”
     “We all have to go some time Private Chestnut. You can die at her hands, or his. At least this way you’ll be a martyr for Christmas.”
     “Y-yes sir.” said Private Chestnut, a lone tear rolling down his cheek. Followed by a flood of unrelated lone tears as he pressed the three red buttons on his console that signaled the Executioners. No additional orders would be needed: they could smell heretics like bloodhounds.
     What followed would be more difficult. Private Chestnut, dressed only in his woolen CHEER uniform, walked toward the Workshop through the sub-zero weather of the north pole. His stubby extremities soon lost all feeling, and his pointy hat was knocked off in an abrupt burst of winter wind. When he reached the warm interior, he was grateful to be alive. A state of affairs that would soon change.
     He made his way to the throne room. There, he found a crowd of elves standing in a tense, awed silence. Their Queen was giving an address, in a rocking chair somehow more imposing than any throne.
     She looked into the crowd’s eyes, and knew what was in their hearts. Literally, rather than figureatively. Her psychic talents had always been essential to the formation of the nice list.
     As her gaze travelled from elf to elf, faces brightened. She telepathically told each vertically stunted slave all he needed to know: Gumdrop had developed a sonic superweapon with a nice beat. At midnight, there would be a Christmas morning memorial for the Yuleville tragedy. Broadcast directly from the throne room, to the tune of “All I Want For Christmas Is Your Credit Card”. The elves would never have to work another day in their lives. Soon, little girls and boys would spend every waking moment making toy trucks for them.
     When the knowing eyes reached Chestnut, the jovial face hardened. She spoke directly to an underling for the first time in centuries.
     “Sonny, do you know where I get these knitting needles?”
     “N-No ma’am.”
     “They are the bones of failed elves. Are you a failed elf?”
     “Yes. No! Maybe?”
     “What a silly willy. Of course you’re a failed elf. You found out the Giftless One was in my domain, and have done nothing.”
     “No Madam! I have come to you! Please, let me live!” sobbed Private Chestnut.
     “Contradicting me? What silly insolence.”
     Her hand moved quickly and elegantly. When the Private looked down, he found a bone knitting implement sticking out of his heart.

     “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”
     The Executioners, elite bounty hunters of the elven forces, circled their black-suited prey on green snowmobiles. The vehicles were not resized for their diminutive stature, forcing them to adopt an awkward standing position.
     Each elf wore the marks of battle experience. Missing pointed ears, tattoos marking old victories, and muscles capable of outmatching a tired 11 year old.
     Once he finally stopped laughing, the Giftless One wondered if this was the stiffest resistance he’d encounter in the North Pole. He was starting to miss General Blitzen.
     Then they took out the barbed Christmas lights. The Executioners swung green lassos overhead, chanting in incomprehensible ancient elvish. He couldn’t help but reminded of a bad Western.
     “Ah. That’s better.”
     The noose of razor-covered decorations slowly tightened. The Executioners made their throws with striking synergy: each dodge seemed to herd him towards the next attack. A less sporting terrorist might have drawn the sword in his sack. Instead, the Giftless One rolled a snowball.
     As he narrowly ducked under a lethal line, he tossed the sphere forward with a light underhand toss. The lead Executioner drove directly into it, sending the miniature hunter careening off his vehicle at speeds his neck did not agree with upon landing. The late bounty elf’s lasso laid limply in the snow.
     The Giftless One smiled and rolled a second snowball. He thought he would miss the exploding ornaments, but nature seemed to be providing just as well.
     He never got the chance to throw it. He blinked, and there was a twelve snowmobile pile-up.
     In the second he had looked down, the rider behind his victim had crashed his snowmobile avoiding his comrade’s still form. The Exectioner was sent flying to a similar fate, leaving his vehicle stalled in place for the man behind him to crash into. This pattern continued until twelve adorable mercenaries lied deathly still in the snow.

     The stolen snowmobile handled well. Within minutes, his target was in sight.
     For years, he’d dreamed of storming the workshop. Wading through waves of diminutive defenders, breaching the main gate, and burning the gingerbread walls to the ground.
     Now that he was actually there, he found it far easier to cut a hole in the wall and slip inside. Making one’s fortress out of food comes with its drawbacks.
     There was no need for a map. Mrs. Claus had a presence. He could follow the cheer like blood in the water.
     The interior of the workshop was a surprise. He’d expected the elf workers to attack him on sight, but each simply looked up at him with a blank stare, then returned to work. If he had the base empathy to speak with any of them, the Giftless One would have learned their wills had long ago been sapped by a combination of drugged Candy and Mrs. Claus’s psychic influence.
     The hunt took him to the long dining hall that separated the main workshop and throne room. He silently applauded the cleverness of the design: the elves ate every meal in the shadow of their masters.
     One elf waited for him. Gumdrop stood on top of a table to be on eye-contact level with the invader. Where most elves kept a neat conical hat, Gumdrop freely displayed a wild mass of hair. When the Giftless One squinted, he could see little flecks of blood on his fingers. The elf stood next to an outdated cassette player that matched his height.
     “Can I help you?”
     “You’re too late to stop her.”
     “Too late to stop what?”
     “Don’t play dumb. We saw events at Yuleville unfold. You must know of the Mistress’ plan to brainwash the viewers of the world.”
     “That seems a tad…stupid.”
     “Less than trying to annihilate Christmas, heretic.”
     “Hey, that’s attainable. As Santa’s decaying corpse can tell you.”
     “You mean…you didn’t know?”
     “If you don’t cut back on the dramatics, I’m going to disembowel you.”
     “But why would you do all this if you didn’t know about our plans? Why spill so much elf blood after killing Santa? Didn’t you believe you’d won? Have you just come after his wife on a whim?”
     The Giftless One smiled. “I don’t believe in leaving a job half done.”
     Gumdrop was rendered speechless. Clearly, there was no point in trying to reason with a non-believer. Luckily he’d prepared a surprise. He pressed a button fingers, and the speakers came to life.
     A chorus of children erupted in song, led by this week’s teen sensation Saccharine Sandy.
     The Giftless one clawed at his ears. He could feel the lyrics of “All I Want For Christmas is Your Credit Card” pulling against everything he considered natural. That, and the synth-drum in the background was terribly cheesy.
     If he’d waited another second, he would have been enslaved. But fast hands were the edge that allowed him to best Kris Kringle. The black sword bisected the boom box in one moment, and was back inside of the sack the next.
     The Giftless One looked down at Gumdrop. Gumdrop looked up at him.
     He straightened his tie, punted Gumdrop out of the way, and continued walking.

     Mrs. Claus calmly rocked back and forth in the throne room. It wouldn’t be long now. The cameramen (was cameraelf a word? She’d have to look it up once she was Overlord of Earth) were in place. All she had to do was deliver a stump speech and let the music do its work.
     It was a quality speech. She’d made sure to insert the word “terrorism” as many times as possible, and there was. She had at least ten minutes of distracting material before the speech devolved into maniacal laughter and tyrannical proclamations. Until then, the viewers wouldn’t suspect a thing.
     Director Nog pressed a button and gave her the signal to begin speaking. She considered killing him for daring to give her an order, but thought the better of it. It was Christmas, after all.
     “Season’s greetings, children.” she said with a motherly grin. “Have your parents bought you plenty of nice gifts, or do they not love you?”
     An arrogant voice cut into her screentime. “It’s time to follow your husband.”
     “Keep rolling.” said Mrs. Claus. “I want the world to see this.”
     “Santa? That jolly old weakling only held me back. You sought to destroy the holiday season. Now, because of you, I can create one that shall never end.”
     “Really now.” said the Giftless One with a sneer.
     “Laugh while you can. Soon, you too will serve the Christmas Spirit.”
     “Really now.”
     “Is that all you can say?
     “Really n-”
     “You have mocked me for the last time!” she screamed, dropping all maternal illusions. “Gumdrop, unleash the music! I want to see this fool and the Council worshipping the ground I walk upon!”
     As she waited for her minion to appear, the Giftless One pulled the string on his mock bag of toys. The blade slid from the sack to his open left hand.
     “If Gumdrop is the flamboyant elf with a god complex, he’s a bit indisposed. By which I mean beaten half to death.”
     Mrs. Claus’s red cloak flew open as she leapt forward, revealing multiple bandoliers of elf-bone needles. The Giftless One squinted. He’d murdered his share of old ladies in his time. Very few of them jumped like acrobats and carried dozens of throwing knives.
     “You’ve ruined everything! Even my breakfast! I was going to eat Gumdrop, but now the tender meat is bruised!”
     The Giftless One wasn’t put off by the content of her statement. Rather, he was disturbed by the fact that he’d heard it inside of his mind.

     The world watched the pair circle each other with tense focus, hushed voices, and more than a little confusion. The networks struggled to find an appropriate lie. One network claimed it was a fully Others passed it off as an avant-garde professional wrestling event. The conflicting reports all but confirmed the reality of the situation
     Out of all the world’s viewers, only the Council of Five fully understood what was unfolding onscreen. Everything rested on this yuletide duel. If Claus won, they would be killed brutally. On the other hand, if the Giftless One triumphed, they would be brutally killed.
     At first, the pair seemed to be in step with each other. They reached a steady five beat allegro rhythm of ‘slash-turn-slash-impossible geriatric acrobatics-throw’. Soon, however, a gap became apparent. Mrs. Claus seemed to be ahead of her opponent at every step, guessing the source of every dodge and feint with impossible precision. The Giftless One was starting to resemble a misanthropic pincushion.
     Mrs. Claus cackled, then turned to the camera in the midst of her fifth back flip. “Little boys and girls of the world: if you want me to butcher this Scrooge like a pig, clap your hands and believe!”

     Understanding hit the Giftless One like a drunken snowmobile driver. She knew his every move because she was a telepath. The Christmas Spirit wasn’t just a vague slogan for selling overpriced toys. It was a malevolent psychic force, which Mrs. Claus controlled. Or, perhaps, controlled her.
     Unfortunately, her wide eyes and rosy cheeks were already beginning to glow with psychic energy. With the faith and wonder of children fueling her dark powers, she no longer needed to restrict herself to surface thoughts. She could cut directly to cracking his mind open like an egg.
     “Last words?”
     “Bah. Humbug.”
     Before the Giftless One had finished his sentence, she was rushing inside his mind. The psychic transition took a nanosecond to complete, but always felt like an eternity. Mrs. Claus wondered if she should first eradicate his childhood or obfuscate his gender identity. Perhaps both.
     Then she reached the other side.
     “The darkness! Oh dear Christmas, the darkness!” screeched Mrs. Claus, as she clawed at her hair and eyes. “I see it! The infinite black that blackens stars and rapes time! There is no cheer! How can there be a mind with no cheer?!”
     The Giftless one winced, shrugged, and then walked towards the camera. He considered finishing her off, but her current state was far too amusing.
     He stared into the camera and smiled. There was a bit too much blood on his suit for his first appearance on the global stage, but it would have to do.
     “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Your bread and circus has been interrupted by a bit of real news: Christmas is cancelled.”
     The shark’s grin widened. He’d waited years to say those words.
     “Ah, I almost forgot. For the Council, I have a prepared statement. Those of you unaware of the vast conspiracies that govern your lives may feel free to change the channel.
     He took a piece of paper out his pocket, and cleared his voice. The delivery was everything.
     “The battle was a rout, but gentlemen have no fear. Without a doubt, I’ll be coming after you next year.”

12/2009