Kringle's Retirement

The short old man ran a pudgy finger up his captive's arm and plunged the needle into David's skin. After a few minutes the younger man opened his eyes.

“Hello, my friend,” the bearded man said. He watched the younger man fight against his bonds. “Don't struggle. All it will accomplish is fatigue, and I need you awake and alert.”

David's eyes widened. “Where am I? What have you done with my family?”

“Please relax, Mr Osborn,” the fat man said. “I assure you that they are fine. You had a little accident and went wandering into the snowstorm for help. The authorities are looking for you, but your wife and son are safe. I couldn't hurt them. They are too good. That's why I chose you.”

“Chose me for what? Who the hell are you?”

A tiny person wearing a red pointy hat and green tunic entered the room. “Excuse me, Mr Kringle, I hate to intrude.”

“What is it, Percy?” the man said, “I'm kind of busy.”

“As leader of the Mythical Elf and Toymaker Union, North Pole, I am presenting you with a list of demands. As it is five weeks before Christmas we feel it gives you ample time to adjust the schedules of payment and time off. It has come to my attention that several of your employees have not had a vacation in several decades. This continue.”

Santa's face was red with rage. “Time off?” he roared. “We're only in production from June to December. How much time off do they want? You tell your little friends to bite my ass and get to work!”

The elf didn't flinch. “Very well, however, I feel it is my duty to inform you that any action other than compliance will result in a world-wide strike.”

The old man calmly retrieved an assault rifle from a growing stack of packages and erased the elf guild leader's face.

He turned to his terrified visitor and said, “I'm sorry. My name is Kris Kringle, but most call me Santa Claus or Father Christmas. I have recruited you to be my successor. Excuse me while I negotiate.”

Santa stepped through the spreading blood and onto the production floor, singing through the spitting gun fire and his giddy laughter, “Jingle bells, go to hell.”

His mirthless grin chilled those hapless employees who once believed that maybe, just maybe, they really were immortal, yet where the gun aimed a pointy hatted worker dropped in a crimson pool.

A fearful elf ran across the aisle and dove for cover, losing his cap. “Out of uniform again, Gimlet!” Santa yelled as he got off another short burst.

The rebellious worker huddled in a small alcove between a brake press and a table saw, trembling as his boss' footfall approached.

Kringle poked his weapon into the tiny space. “You're a bad boy, Gimlet,” he said. “A naughty boy. What do you think I should do with naughty boys like you? Hmm?” He pressed the saw's power button and lifted the elf by his tunic.

Mrs Kringle wheeled in a hand truck laden with cookies of every kind. On her heels was a female elf hefting a keg of milk.

Kringle kissed his wife. "See you in a day or two. I'm going to cut my list a bit while you fatten him up.”

David began to scream.


The window slid open without a sound. The man's black clothes were wet with dew and fresh blood. He chuckled as he wrote “NAUGHTY” on a note card and pierced it with a sharpened candy cane, plunging the peppermint stick into his victim's tender belly. Next he made his way to the master bedroom.

Back in his sleigh he checked his Blackberry for the next name and address as his team lifted from the roof. “Jolly old elf, my ass,” he muttered.




Word Count: 664