Things were, as usual this time of year, chaotic at Santa's workshop. Elves were surly and overworked, pulling extra shifts and working around the clock. Every now and then one of them would explode in anger and frustration, "Freakin' Zhu Zhu," he'd scream out while others sang ribald, if somewhat bawdy, drinking songs about exactly what they'd like to do with New Moon Barbie.
Aside from the usual stresses of the season, irrational expectations puffed up by marketers pushing the season's hot new toys, reindeer lollygagging about, playing reindeer games while everybody else laboured ceaselessly, this year was different. This year Santa seemed particularly weary. "It's this Land of the Midnight Sun," he'd thunder occasionally. "I fear I'm developing seasonal affective disorder. If I don't feel the sun on my frozen skin soon, I think I shall go stark raving bonkers!"
"Now, now dear," Mrs. Claus would coo. "It'll all be over sooner than you think."
"That's easy for you to say," Santa would snap back, feeling twinges of guilt even as he spoke. But the words, driven by frustration and the overwhelming feeling he'd once again let down children all over the world, kept coming. "Easy for you to say. You don't have to lug this enormous sack of toys all over the world in a single night. You don't have to slide down sooty chimneys, crawl through barely open windows, sneak into homes protected by Dobermans and trigger-happy rednecks who've drunk so much eggnog they've forgotten what night it is and start firing randomly, screaming 'A man's home is his castle,' even though they're living in a mean, little rundown trailer."
"Now, now dear," Mrs. Claus repeated. "Have a cookie and some milk."
"Good grief, woman. I'm 200 pounds overweight, up to my eyeballs in stress, about to embark on an impossible journey where the only food I'll have is room temperature milk and cookies of questionable pedigree... are you trying to kill me off early?"
Mrs. Claus gave Santa "the look." Part understanding, part exasperation, part pull-up-your-socks-and-do-your-job, it was her most effective weapon.
"I don't know why I don't just move this whole operation to Florida... or Paraguay... Belize maybe. Somewhere warm with sandy beaches and beautiful scenery. What in the world made me think the North Pole made any sense as headquarters for Santa Inc.?"
"Don't be silly, Dear. You tried Florida once before. Remember? Those awful men from Barnum & Bailey came down from Sarasota and enticed most of the elves away to the circus. 'Don't be schmucks,' they said. 'Santa's a slavedriver. Come work in the circus. The hours are better, the pay's good and the bearded lady has a soft spot for elves... if you know what I mean.'"
"Ungrateful turncoats. Left me high and dry. Had to break into toy stores all over the world to fill that year's orders."
"And don't forget what happened to the reindeer in all that heat."
"Oh yeah, I'd almost forgotten. Worst gas I've ever smelled. Had to break into the sack and purloin some kid's GI Joe gasmask before I passed out over Norway."
Santa laughed at the memory. Mrs. Claus smiled. "That's more like it," she said. "That's the ho-ho-ho I know and love."
With the tantrum passed for the moment, life continued apace at the workshop. The familiar cacophony of tinkering and hammering, sawing and extruding, the smell of molten plastic and cheap, lead-based paint replacing the commotion of outrage.
Santa was about to ring the bell announcing the elves' 15 minute break - negotiated in the last collective bargaining agreement - when an unexpected knock was heard.
"This better not be another reindeer game," Santa said to no one in particular. One of the favourite reindeer games was to knock at the workshop door and hide. Santa fell for it every time.
But this time it wasn't the reindeer. When Santa opened the door, a familiar apparition. Standing there, tall, furry, thuggish and intimidating - notwithstanding the shallow end of the gene pool look on his face - and carrying a large stick in the most threatening way, was one of this year's hottest toys.
"Can I help you?" Santa asked.
Opening a briefcase the beast was balancing on one knee and looking every bit the deranged, snow-covered sasquatch he was, Quatchi fixed his gaze on Santa and pushed a sheaf of paper into his chest. "This is a Cease and Desist order signed by the International Court of Copyright Infringement," he said, letting fly a light spray of spittle that settled in Santa's beard like so many disgusting raindrops. "You are to immediately cease production on any stuffed toys, hard-surfaced toys, colouring books, puzzles, games, candles, frisbees, toques, pajamas, lunchboxes or any and all other items currently being made at your workshop bearing the likeness of myself, Miga, Mukmuk or Sumi."
"Sumi!" exclaimed a stunned Santa.
"You bet your fat ass we're suing you," shouted Quatchi. "We're going to put your unlicensed, illegal, elf-oppressing sweatshop out of business."
"But what about all the children around the world who've asked for an Olympic mascot for Christmas?" implored Santa.
"They can buy as many as they can afford at official, licensed outlets."
"But they're depending on me to bring them to their houses on Christmas Eve. Over and over again, they've patiently lined up around the world, climbed up on the lap of all my helpers and asked for me to bring them a mascot all their own. Good grief, have you no heart at all?"
Quatchi looked momentarily stunned. "Sorry, what was that?"
"I said, how can you disappoint children all over the world who've asked Santa to bring them, well, you?"
"Look, Pudgy, flattery will get you nowhere. Besides, I happen to know Miga's outselling me four-to-one and even that little simp, that non-mascot Mukmuk is more popular. So stuff the sentimentality, Fat Boy, this is business."
About this time, sensing trouble, the reindeer had begun to close ranks about the troublemaker at Santa's door. Assuming his natural role as leader of the pack, Rudolf cleared his throat and said, "Excuse me, could I be of any help?"
Quatchi turned. Quickly assessing the situation, he dropped his briefcase and tightened his grip on the goalie stick in his hands. "Don't try any of your reindeer tricks on me, you has-been," he huffed.
"Has been?" Rudolf replied. "Look, you dimwit, children all over the world will be singing about me when you're just another bit of fluff in the remainder bin at the Dollar Store. Now if I were you, I'd just slink away back to Vancouver before me and the boys show you one of our favourite reindeer games... trample the ragdoll." With that, Rudolf lit up his nose and snorted a great cloud of steam out both nostrils.
Quatchi, outnumbered, started to leave. "You haven't heard the last of this," he shouted.
"Ho-ho-ho," Santa laughed after him, and went back to work. "Merry Christmas, even to you."
