Toyz On Demand!

CHAPTER 1 — GETTIN’ HOT AT THE TOP

MRS. CLAUS LOOKED OUT the giant wooden doors of the grand castle and squinted. It was a brilliant, sunny day. Melting ice glistened all the way down the long drive carved through softening snow to the ornate iron gate with NORTH POLE wrought in formidable script in its archway. The old lady clasped a blue ceramic jug of warm reindeer milk in her left hand, while the other rested on her troubled hip. She sniffed at the air. Although cold was no friend to her arthritis, this weather was altogether too hot for comfort.

While her eyes adjusted to the light, a gray striped kitten rubbed his fuzzy haunch against Mrs. Claus’s better leg and looked up at her, revealing the little triangle of white fur on his chest. Meeeeow.

Yes, yes, Strüdel. I know, I know. Bending slowly, Mrs. Claus poured some milk into a bowl placed just outside a small, hinged flap cut into the oak panel at the bottom of the enormous castle portal. This was Strüdel’s cat door. The kitten purred loudly.

With considerable effort, Mrs. Claus straightened herself. She heard a distinct plop. Glancing down, she saw Strüdel shake milk from his whiskers. A big drop of water landed in his bowl with an even bigger splash. Then another drop. And another.

Mrs. Claus craned her neck upward. Hanging from the high castle eave directly above was a giant icicle, shimmering as water trickled down its long, sharp spine.

CRACK! A sharp sound whipped the air under the eaves. Strüdel’s fur instantly puffed out.

The icicle broke off from its fastening, hurtling down like frozen lightning within a whisker of Mrs. Claus’ nose.

Strüdel never saw it coming: A single mortifying shriek and he purred no more.

Mrs. Claus gasped. A bloody mess lay at her feet, a pile of crimson stained fur pinned to the ground by a humongous frozen spear. The jug fell from her grip and smashed.

That does it! she screamed. Nicholas Fucking Claus, we’re moving!

THE WORKSHOP BUZZED, thick with mechanical noise. From its rough tiled floor to its ancient wood-beamed ceiling—barely visible through a cocoon of jerry-rigged pipes, wires and ducts—the room was stuffed like a sausage with state-of-the-art machinery. An elfin workforce performed a deft choreography along the assembly line in the little remaining free space. An enormous digital clock hung under a sign reading, in mismatched upper and lower case gold and black adhesive letters, COuNtdown to ChriStmas: 157 Days 12 Hours 8 Minutes and 25 Seconds. Despite the clogged sightlines of the cluttered workshop all elves were aware of the blinking seconds ticking over.

Today, elves were assembling an arsenal of toys along conveyor belts: miniature AK-47s in yellow plastic, rocket-propelled grenade launchers in purple and various tanks and planes in vibrant colors. Items from the great wish list of little boys across the world, who wanted nothing more than to play soldier the second they woke up on the birthday of the Prince of Peace. An irony Santa dismissed long ago. Dressed in  overalls with a hardhat and goggles, he stood just inside the designated safety area of the Plastic Extrusion Zone, keeping an eye on the elves squirting molten plastic into molds from the long color-coded hoses dangling overhead.

Mrs. Claus strode in without any regard to the posted safety requirements and launched into a tirade, loud enough to be heard above the din. Santa maintained his composure in front of his employees, who in turn did their best to look busy—checking laser sights on miniature Day-Glo weapons and putting luminous night vision goggles into colorful boxes—but with pointy ears turned toward the argument.

Look, Hilda, the Pole’s been here for 50 million years. So what if it melts a little? There’ll still be plenty left.

You're in denial like the rest of 'em. Your goddamn livelihood is at stake but it's business as usual.

Santa tried to humor her. Relocate overnight? Come on.

And forget the South Pole. I’m not taking my old Dutch behind anywhere cold. Mrs. Claus was resolute. My arthritis is killing me. I’m tired. I’ve had it.

Behind Santa, the floor under the plastic extrusion area began to bulge upward, creating a little tent of tiles. Cracks radiated outward as a tremendous rumbling and crunching drowned out Mrs. Claus. Overhead lights swung from the rafters and boxes fell from shelves. A siren sounded and the assembly line shuddered to a halt. Suddenly, a submarine periscope broke through the workshop floor, directly beneath Bickles, an elf working a plastics hose. Before Bickles could move, the periscope thrust upward between his legs, punching him full force in the crotch. Bickles screamed as the periscope continued to extend, lifting him clean off the floor, rotating rapidly, winding the plastics hose around him like a boa constrictor.

The periscope stopped. Its eye faced Mrs. Claus. She stared back at the hooded aperture. All motion ceased. For a second, the factory was silent, except for a faint whimpering: Bickles moaning behind a gag of tightly wound tubing.

Then a tinny sounding Russian voice emanated from the periscope: Pogruzheniye! Dive. This was followed instantly by a distant beeping.

The periscope sunk from view as suddenly as it appeared. Bickles rapidly unfurled from the hose, like a window shade with a broken spring, tumbling onto the cracked floor, writhing and holding his groin.

You’re on very thin ice, Nicholas Claus. Mrs. Claus turned and addressed the elves with her hand on her hip. And that goes for the lot of you! As abruptly as an arthritic old woman could, she stormed out. Her rant continued, punctuated by the uneven rhythm of her footstep: Sell this shit for a boatload of money. Ship all our crap to the sunbelt before it’s too late! But who listens to me? Men!

A few hours later, Bickles’ pants were patched from the crotch in front to the seat at the back, but it wasn't the added layer of cloth that gave him a rolling gait. Still sore from the morning’s incident, he was more concerned about the damage to his dignity than his health. Jasper, the head elf, felt that a change of duty and some fresh air might restore some of Bickles' pride. Together they walked, with a bucket of reindeer feed in each hand, along a path in the snow toward the reindeer stable, a small, open-sided building of stone and wood.

What gets me—and y’know, I ain’t askin’ for flowers and a get-well card—is that he doesn’t give a rat’s ass.

Well, he’s a busy guy, Bickles.

Too busy to say, 'Gee, Bickles, you all right? Anything I can do?' Bickles spat. Even if he doesn't actually do jack. I mean, shit. I practically lost my elfhood today!

Jasper weighed up a response.. He could see Bickles' point of view. But he also knew that Mrs. Claus' freak-out overshadowed everything else for the big guy. Jasper was just about to say something when a loud CRACK! stopped both elves dead in their tracks.

A dreaded sound followed, CH-CH-CH-CH-CH... The ice was breaking up. And worse, a large crack was opening up on the path directly ahead. In no time it was upon them, cleaving the path in two.

Jasper crouched low and held his arms out, managing to balance himself like a high wire artist on the wobbly ice. But Bickles, with his sore crotch, wasn't nimble enough. In a split second the ice under Bickles flipped up and he slid into the freezing water and screamed.

Jasper carefully got onto his belly, lowering his center of gravity to stabilize the ice floe. He edged slowly forward and extended his arm. His hand found Bickles flailing at the surface and grasped his wrist. Jasper managed to crawl backwards a little and dug his boot toes into the ice. Using every muscle in his body, he hauled Bickles' torso up onto the floe. The ice tilted, but Jasper's toes held. A final pull and he got the rest of Bickles up without the ice tipping over. Bickles was shivering and blue but still breathing.

The two elves stayed low, lying on the ice, panting. Bickles broke the silence. First my nuts get pulverized. Now they’re frozen off! A sly grin spread across his chattering teeth.

From his horizontal position, it took Jasper a few moments to make sense of his transformed surroundings. The ice had broken in a rough circle. Now, the two elves were perched on an island with the stables at its center. To get Bickles back to the warmth of the castle, they'd have to cross a freezing cold moat.

A few reindeer wandered warily out from the stable, blinking, trying to take in the new reality, too. They quickly spied the reindeer feed that had spilled from the elves' buckets and made their way over to nibble at it.

Jasper crawled away from the ice's edge and sensed that it was once again thicker, capable of supporting his weight. He cautiously stood up. When he was sure of his footing, he popped open the clasp of a small leather pouch attached to his belt. From inside the pouch he pulled out a slender sea shell shaped a little like a miniature cornucopia, spiraling from a narrow hollow tip to a large, fluted end.

As one of the reindeer bent down to eat, lowering its antlers, Jasper grabbed it by the neck and held it in a headlock. While holding the reindeer under his elbow, and tilting its antlers away, he skillfully put the wide end of the shell into his pouch, scooping out a small mound of sparkling white powder. Quickly, he stuck the wide end of the shell with the powder on it up the reindeer’s nostril and blew a hard, sharp puff, sending the powder up the reindeer’s nose in a single burst.

The reindeer blurted out a shocked whinny, pricked up its ears and rolled its eyes backward, its entire body shuddering for a split second. Jasper loosened his hold as the reindeer recovered and began to stamp its hooves. But a curious thing happened. As it kicked, it slowly began to rise, levitating a few inches from the ice.

Jasper took the