The Elves were a tall, blonde race of creatures skilled in archery. They were the wisest and fairest of all beings and immortal. They had a completely developed language of their own. Despite all these unnatural blessings, they inexplicably decided to sit up in the freezing cold working for a fat guy named Santa Claus and making toys.

 

At the moment the story begins, which it will soon, I promise, Santa busted in the door. He was chewing a turkey sandwich with his mouth open, dribbling pieces down his shirt. "Listen up, boys!" he yelled. "Our popularity is decreasing. The statistics have come in: less than one percent of adults now believe that we are still up here working. This means that the vast majority of families are now buying their Christmas gifts from alternate manufacturers, rather than paying us for our work as has happened tradtionally for centuries. This means I want you all to start increasing the quality of your work! You're clearly just not doing well enough for their standards! You hear me?"

 

"But sir!" a small wussy-looking elf called out. "You already told us to increase the quality of our work yesterday! We can't do it anymore! It's just too hard!"

 

Santa slowly turned, looking remarkably like a cross between the grim reaper and a walrus. He stared at his interrupter. "What is your name?" he asked incriminatingly.

 

"Orlando, sir," the elf said.

 

Santa's face lit up as if his brain cells had started a bonfire. "Ah yes!" he chuckled. "Orlando Bloom! That puny excuse of an elf that no one can ever seem to get out of a skirt!"

 

What happened next was hideous. It was not a matter of opinion. Santa began to walk toward Orlando. He had a creepy, dictating rhythm to his walk, so much so that the elves expected someone to begin singing Battle Hymn of the Republic behind him, which would only have increased the terrifying effect. Santa arrived at the conveyor belt where Orlando was stationed, a teddy bear, a dress-up doll, and a jack-in-the-box sitting on top of it. Then Santa Claus reached down and picked up Orlando Bloom with just his thumb and index finger, marched all the way to the back of the room where the furnace was located, and tossed him in. He left the flue open, so that the entire workshop could hear the elf's screams of agony and see his skin burn away from his body. It was not long before there were several charred internal organs mixed in with the water that was now on the ground because most of the icicles had melted due to the increased heat. Just when Orlando's heart began to fizzle away into smoke and death appeared to be upon him, Santa grabbed the poker and rammed it into the frying elf's rib cage. It was a moment that would one day be recorded in medical history, for the fireplace poker acted as a connection between the arteries and veins, and soon Orlando's nerve's were telling him he had had a heart transplant, and blood continued to be pumped throughout his body, buying him several more minutes of absolute Hell. Santa Claus laughed the entire time, and when it was over he blew the fire out like a child making a birthday wish over his cake.

 

He turned toward his audience. "Well?" he shouted. "Any questions?"

 

There was a hesitation in the room. Most of the elves went back to their toy-making without another look at their boss, but after a time one raised his hand.

 

Santa rolled his eyes. "Yes, what is it?"

 

"Well, I was wondering," said the elf. "You know the word 'ruthless'? It means having no mercy or pity, right? Well, what is 'ruth'? Can you be 'ruthful'?"

 

Santa stared at the elf for a long time. He lit the fire back up.

 

Miles away in the small town of Lipton, Alaska, there was a four-year-old girl named Sarah Scott. Sarah lived with her mother, Marylin, and her father, Thompson. On this particular morning, Sarah was eating a bowl of Frosted Flakes and watching the news. She was the only one in her family who watched the news.

 

Perhaps this had something to do with the fact that Sarah's mother, Marylin, was a drunken idiot most of the time.  She came from a long line of drug addicts; her name was actually supposed to be "Marilyn," but her parents had spelled it wrong on the birth certificate because they had been involved in a chemical romance at the time. It might have also had to do with the fact that Sarah's father, Thompson, was a womanizer and was always beating his wife. Whatever it was, neither of her parents really cared much what was going on in the world.

 

On the news that Christmas Eve, was a large headline that read, "Christmas Illegalized." A man with perfectly gelled hair was on the screen speaking. "Yes folks, the rumors are true! Practicing Christmas has been banned! Pope Benedict XVI had this to say: 'The commercialized, material Christmas, as it is in our society, is teaching the people of the world to worship a fat guy in a funny red suit rather than our savior, Jesus Christ, whose birth is barely recognized on this foolish day! It is a money-making scam of merchandising! It needs to stop! SANTA DOES NOT EXIST! JESUS DOES!' The Supreme Court today rendered the holiday unconstitutional in accordance with the first ammendment:

 

'Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.'

 

The law was passed under the verdict that Catholics and Christians in general cannot practice their religion in the way they would like because of the holiday, which no one really believes in, unlike Jesus."

 

There was one little problem with this broadcast in little Sarah Scott's mind, and that was that she did believe in Santa Claus and the spirit of Christmas.

 

"Mom! Mom! Did you hear? They are cancelling Christmas!" she screeched in desperation, running towards the basement where her mother could usually be found shooting heroin. "This is horrible!"

 

Marylin's head snapped forward. "You snot!" she bellowed. "Who gave you permission to come down here? Get up there and watch your goddamn news!"

 

So Sarah ran back up the stairs towards her father's bedroom. "Dad! Dad! Did you hear? They are cancelling Christmas!" she cried. "It's terrible!" She pried the door open.

 

Her father was sitting on the bed, staring out the window with a dazed look on his face. He turned to meet his daughter's gaze with the same blank look on his face. "A sin," he said.

 

Sarah stepped in front of him, the situation looking more hopeless every moment. "You've got to help, Daddy! The parents in the Christmas specials on TV always do!"

 

Thompson seemed to regain consciousness. He looked around for a moment, his eyes falling on Sarah. "Why you little..." he growled. He slapped her.

 

Sarah Scott was shocked. Her parents had never supported her, they'd never even held her hand to help her cross the street. But they had never hit her before. "That's it. I'm leaving," she stated. "And I'm taking my dog, too," she added in a Wizard of Oz-esque afterthought.

 

She went to the cage where her dog, Snowball, was confined. She opened the padlock and run outside, grabbing her compass along the way. Behind her she could hear Marylin's shrieks of, "Fine! Go save Christmas, you snot! See if I care!"

 

"Free at last," she said to herself, as people in literature often do despite the fact that no one in real life would waste their time on such a thing.

 

Sarah and Snowball marched the remainder of the daylight hours together toward the North Pole, so that when they arrived outside the infamous Santa's Workshop it was late Christmas Eve night, and Santa Claus's voice could be heard over an intercom system across the grounds: "Attention, elves and reindeer! Christmas has indeed been outlawed! Nonetheless, all operations will continue as planned! Check those lists! Make those toys! Pack those sleds! SANTA RIDES TONIGHT, BOYS!"

 

Sarah Scott could've turned back right now, but she was a sweethearted little girl, and she knew that if Santa Claus just went out and did his business as usual, he would be declared a criminal and thrown in jail. She couldn't allow that to happen anymore than she could allow Christmas to stop. There had to be a peaceful resolution.

 

She came to the door of the workshop and saw that there were two large, furry white guards stationed in front of it. "Um... h-hello, I would like to come in to speak to Santa Claus..." she stuttered carefully.

 

"Anyone who would like to enter the great workshop of the all-powerful Santa Claus must first pass us... the BIPOLAR BEARS!" they announced together.

 

"Um... okay... what exactly am I supposed to do?"

 

"Psh, Hell if I know," said one bear.

 

"Gosh... stop it, you're always acting like that..." said the other.

 

"What are you talking about? There's nothing wrong with me! Everything's fine!"

 

"Just... leave me alone, okay? That's all I ask."

 

"Oh, would you cut it out? I spend hours up here with you everyday and all you ever do is whine."

 

"Yeah, well you're not exactly the cream of the crop either, pal."

 

"You know what? I don't think I like you very much anymore! In fact, I think I'll just..."

 

The first polar bear reached in his pocket (yes, polar bears have pockets in their fur) and pulled out a pistol. He shot his partner, who collapsed onto the ice, which began to warm as his blood ran over it.

 

"Oh God... what have I done?" said the murdering bear. "I've killed my only friend... I've got nothing now..."

 

He placed the gun to his head and pulled the trigger, splattering brains all over the workshop door.

 

"Wow," said Sarah. "You guys really didn't have to... it wasn't that bad..."

 

She opened the door to the workshop and saw hundreds of tall, blonde elves making toys. Had Sarah been a little older, she probably would've swooned and wanted posters of them all over her room. Luckily, at the age of four, her hormones were not raging yet. "Excuse me!" she said, her teetch chattering. "I need to speak to Santa Claus!" All the elves stopped working without looking at her and pointed simulataneously towards a throne in the front center of the room where a large fat man was seated. Sarah nervously walked between the aisles of toy-making tables up to Santa. "Hello, Santa Claus, sir." she said nervously.

 

Santa had a look on his face like Homer Simpson looking at a fresh jelly-filled donut. He chuckled. "Oh, why hello, little girl! Come to sit on my lap have you? What do you want for Christmas?" he reached forth and attempted to pick her up.

 

"No, Santa Claus, sir," she said, backing away. "I've come to tell you that you've got to discuss this year's Christmas matters with the United States government! We need to have Christmas, but we don't need to have you go to jail for it!"

 

Santa raised an eyebrow. "Discuss this year's Christmas matters with the United States government? Oh, why, little girl, I simply can't do that! Are you aware of how submissive that would make me look? My organization can't look like a mere puppet of the people! Where's the controversy, the merchandising angle of it?"

 

Sarah was horrorstruck. "You mean... what they said on the news... it's all true?"

 

"What?" Santa said gruffly, taken aback. "About me not existing? Of course not. Don't believe that rubbish." He grabbed a chocolate chip cookie the size of a frisbee from a nearby plate and recklessly shoved it into his mouth. "Mrs. Claus made these," he said, "would you like one?"

 

Sarah Scott's young heart broke and she grew up all in one moment. "All you care about is money, isn't it? I guess I was wrong to think there was anything left in this world for me." She turned to walk away, tears streaming down her face. Snowball looked up at Santa, pleading wordlessly with the old man. Then he too sadly walked away.

 

Just then there was a noise like a gunshot. Sarah's eyes shot upward to the source of the sound, as did Santa's. In numbers that rivaled those of the elves, beautiful winged folk with halos over their heads were swooping down into the room through a hole in the roof. When the crowd of them had cleared to the perimeter of the workshop, none other than Jesus Christ himself was seen descending from the Heavens, floating like someone doing a fantastic leap in a Broadway musical. He landed softly and silently in front of Santa's throne.

 

"Ah, my dear friend, long time no see!" said Santa.

 

"Let's skip the formalities," Jesus snapped back. "Christmas will not commence this year, and I'm here to make sure of it."

 

A dark expression grew on Santa's face. "Really now? What are you gonna do about it, turn my water into wine?" he said, holding his goblet toward Jesus's face as if to splash it on him. "Or perhaps walk on it?"

 

In that instant, Santa pulled a crowbar from behind his back with his other hand, and with surprising agility, leapt out of his chair and brought it smashing toward Jesus's head. The Lord swiftly blocked the blow, catching the weapon and wrenching it out of Santa's hands. "It's war, then," Jesus said, his eyes glinting.

 

"So be it," replied Santa.

 

It was war.