Nobody suspects the reindeer. That’s what makes us perfect. The big guy gets all the
attention while me and my crew run our operation right under his rosy cheeks.
Comet cooks the books. Dancer and Prancer work the chimneys. Vixen and Cupid bat their lashes so nobody notices the rest of us. Donner and Blitzen provide muscle. Dasher… well her name says it all.
Me? I’m the brains. This glowing schnoz is packed with sophisticated sensors and enough compute power to hack the NSA. Cost an arm and a leg, too—well, somebody’s, at least. Worth every stolen penny, though.
One big job a year, then we hole up, all rich-like, in Santa’s crib. He never mentions the designer harnesses or our Caribbean trips. Whether he’s clueless or doesn’t want to know—that’s one mystery I don’t care to solve.
Perfect, right? Then one year, this snotty-nosed elfling shows up with an upturned tin drum full of reindeer droppings—Dancer’s by the smell. The little shrimp said she’d found them in front of the rare manuscripts’ door while playing in Santa’s library. Spying, more like. Everyone knows only Santa’s allowed in that part of the library.
Still, Dancer did seem fidgetier than normal that night. Figured she’d just had one too many of those candied gingers we import from Kochi. She and Dasher had nearly finished them off before the rest of us could get any. Said something about the elves sneaking into our stash again and not wanting to leave them any. The little buggers love them way more than we do. Never seen an elf turn one down when offered. Ever!
Anyway, there we were getting ready for our one big night, when up shows this pointy-eared half-pint, all big-eyes and smug cat-ate-the-canary elf smile. Just pranced right in and set the smelly drum on the ground in front of me. Then she said something about not worrying, that she’d cleaned it up. Clean up is Dasher’s job, though the thought didn’t fully register at the time. Besides, the kid’s voice was distracting me. It reminded me a lot of Donner’s on the rare occasion a job goes sideways. Except for its tinkly, high-pitched tone, that is.
Now everyone knows Santa’s elves are born sneaky. Nosy, too. But they’re honest—as long as candied ginger isn’t involved. To a fault. This little girl, though? She was different. When I didn’t say anything, she started wandering around our stalls, fingering silver- and gold-inlaid harnesses, caressing our Vicuña wool blankets, and side-eyeing the not insubstantial collection of priceless trinkets, baubles, and doodads we’d gathered from around the world.
At a loss for words, I asked if she saw anything she liked. Then added ‘Miss…?’ for good measure. She plucked a small jade carving from my stash—Tang Dynasty. I mentally added ‘good taste’ to my list of elfin attributes and told her to keep it. She smiled, set it back down, and introduced herself as Twinkles.
I was like, what gives? This kid waltzes into my stable with evidence of supposed transgressions, evidence she herself tidied up for us like some kind of crime-scene maid, then nonchalantly turns down payment? That’s not normal elf behavior. In fact, that kind of behavior falls into only one of two categories: stupid or dangerous. And Twinkles didn’t strike me as the stupid kind.
So, I asked her point blank if she was working for Old Man Claus? What he’d offered her? Asked her if maybe the fool had finally wised up and sent her down to see what we’d confess to? The kid’s smile changed, then. It lost that innocent canary-eating, candy-cane-sucking quality elves are famous for and took on something darker. Something that belonged in Krampus’s dark kitchen, not a stable for magical reindeer.
Then she started listing things. Fourteen unauthorized rare manuscript vault entries between Halloween and Thanksgiving. Comet’s toy production skimming racket. She’d even found out about our Bermuda storage unit—number, combo, security system, everything.
She had all of it in a little red, snowflake sticker-covered notebook. Our whole operation recorded in flowing elfin script using, if you can believe it, glittery pink gel ink.
Naturally, I asked why she hadn’t snitched. Though I was pretty sure I already knew—you don’t compile that kind of evidence and walk into the suspects’ lair just to make friends.
She told me she was bored. Tired of being cheerful, of being good. Said she didn’t want to spend her life painting stupid smiles on nutcracker faces that will stay boxed away most of the year. Swore she’d go crazy if she had to constantly dress dolls or toy soldiers that would be played with once or twice then forgotten. But mostly she seemed irked that despite making all of those things, and more, elves get nothing for Christmas—except some quiet when the ‘fat guy’ leaves for that one special night.
She spun in a circle, eyeing our stuff again—this time though, with longing. When she finished, she looked at me dead in the eye and said she wanted in. The stable got real quiet. Even Donner stopped chewing.
I asked what made her think we needed a pint-sized elf with a runny nose and a sticker-bedazzled notebook. Turned out she had a whole pitch ready. Of course, she did. I won’t go into details, but it involved being small, being nosy, excellent hearing, reading hundreds of languages, and most importantly… ‘nobody suspects Santa’s elves.’
Hard to argue with a page outta my own playbook. So, I checked with the crew. Comet shrugged. Dancer looked up from sniffing the tin drum and nodded. The rest went about their preparations as if the girl had been part of the team all along.
Nothing for it, I thought and offered her the final piece of our candied ginger to seal the deal. Her saccharine smile as she refused said it all. What had she said? Oh, yeah. Nobody suspects Santa’s elves.
About the auhtor
Ken is a retired civil servant who hasn’t yet figured out what retirement means. In turns, he consults, mopes around, and crafts wildly varying types of fiction—literary, horror, humor, as well as many things undefinable. He often plies Virginia’s backwaters on his kayak, searching for both fish and inspiration.
Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)
No comments:
Post a Comment