We’re starting to think our association with this guy is giving us a bad name. But, oh well, here we go. Another instalment of Santa the “jolly” fat man.
After my wife struck me last week for “insensitive behaviour” in the aftermath of the obliteration of many of our employees, I took her to court.
Bribing is a marvellous thing. I’ve got her banged up in the slammer for a month for grievous bodily harm. Good! That’ll keep the daft bint out of the way.
Meanwhile, I charged my head elf, Vincent, to get on with clearing away the destruction following Santa’s recent bulldozer disaster.
He refused and told me I have a duty under the Human Rights Act to treat my, “workforce with respect”!
I had a good belly laugh about that and immediately demoted him to the role of janitor. I bellowed, “Let’s see what your principles are like after a month of unclogging my toilet, you goddamn commie!”
That promoted James the serial killer (my former janitor) to the role of head elf. I appreciate he isn’t an elf, and is also missing an arm after I drunkenly bludgeoned him, but he seems unsuitably suitable for the role.
By which I mean I’m adhering to the Human Rights Act and meeting my diversity quota by having a non-elf as my head elf.
James set to clearing away the disaster with much gusto. I swelled with pride as I watched him ordering elves to remove the debris, kicking any that refused or resorted to pointless sobs of dismay.
James even got stuck in by openly feasting on some of the bodies. That’s commitment!
I retired to my quarters to jeer at Vincent as he went about getting my toilet back into working order.
The reindeer had demolished it last week after I got stuck in the thing, so since then I’ve just been using the corner of the bathroom.
He told me my demolished toilet is beyond repair, which is what James and everyone else said. I went and grabbed a welding kit and some glue from storage and threw them at Vincent in a rage. That boy needs some lessons in initiative!
Unfortunately, I forgot elves are pretty small and fragile. The welding kit landed on his legs, snapping them in bone-crunching fashion. He immediately started the most frightful high-pitched screaming.
As that was irritating, I left him to it and went outside to check on the clean-up operation. There I came across a scene of total pandemonium.
James, my new head elf, was on fire and running about screaming. Several elves were chasing after him trying to pat down the flames.
Realising the game was up, I blasted James with my shotgun—a mercy killing. He hit the ground, gurgled, sang a line from Black Lace’s plague-like hit single Agadoo, then I shot him again to shut him up for good.
The last thing my workforce needs is that goddamn song going through their heads like an addiction.
It immediately affected one elf, splattered with the brains of James, he started, “Agadoo do do, shake pineapple…” and then I did another mercy killing.
I surveyed my remaining elves for signs of further Agadooing, but they all looked a bit sheepish.
One of them, Siegfried, I could see was twitching to do the dance. I gave him my best insane glare and he was able to relent. Good elf.
Anyway, quite how James ended up on fire no one knows. Although Rudolph still has a murderous smirk on his face. I’ve asked him for details but he just ignores me.
The End of Unit One
Sadly, unit one of my factory is done for. The 750 bulldozers created so much weight on the ice below us, massive cracks appeared.
We all had to scarper over to unit two and watch helplessly as the ice broke off and the ocean swallowed up the bulldozers, factory unit one, and around 150 elf corpses (plus James).
In the silence that followed I cracked open a bottle of whiskey and swigged the lot down. Belching exuberantly, I chastised me 50 remaining elves for wasting company time gawping at the yawning hole in the ground where unit one once did sit.
Oh well, shit happens, we’ve got Christmas to do.
The loss of unit one is problematic. But never mind, it’s gone. Nothing we can do about it. Although he was clearly out of it on drugs, I promoted Rudolph to makeshift head elf. He’ll do for now.
It’s about keeping up appearances. The problem was I’d invited a bunch of celeb gossip journalists over for a tour of the factory.
I’ve had a bad rep in the international press the last few years. I’m thought of as a fat cat business tyrant. I want that image to change!
Unfortunately, they all arrived via dogsled in the aftermath of the whole “sinking of unit 1”. A dozen of them turned up. Santa had to put his façade on, so I waddled over beaming happily to embrace them one by one with a hug.
I was pretty blood spattered by that point, stank like a sewer, and was wielding a shotgun.
They looked terrified, but I convinced them to escape the cold for the warmth of the factory. We entered the front and Vincent’s high-pitched screams filled the air.
The journalists asked what the noise was and I explained it away as the reindeer mating. I began the tour with the shrill mewling continuing unabated.
The hacks soon wandered off to investigate the noise. One, Sindy, with bright pink elf hair, insisted. “It sounds like someone’s dying!” the stupid SJW ditzy snowflake opined.
I lost my temper and bellowed, “Shut your stupid, patriarchy bashing, fourth-wave feminism face! No one is dying! It is procreation at work, you silly girl!”
But they pushed on and came across my bathroom with Vincent writhing in agony on the floor, his legs shattered.
Sindy rushed in to help, but immediately threw up due to my aging pile of effluence in one corner. She keeled over on the floor groaning. I didn’t think the smell was that bad, bloody snowflake Millennials.
Meanwhile, the other hacks looked ready to flee. I trained my shotgun on them all and Rudolph pulled out his bazooka (not a euphemism). Regrettably, I’d created another hostage situation.
The other elves rounded them up downstairs in the old cesspit. I’ve been keeping them there since. Better figure out how to handle this…