The Seed of Spite
“Too lenient, sir, you’re far too lenient with these monsters. Certainly they don’t deserve these wondrous toys!”
“Ho Ho Ho!” His beard shook and his stomach bounced over his belt. “Qwerty, Qwerty, what is Christmas about after all?” Smiling down upon my face, ignoring the disgusted wrinkles, he heaved his boots away to supervise and share other useless commentary.
“But sir, you of all people know what these beasties are like on a daily basis,” I pleaded to his retreating figure, “Why force us into excessive labor when naughty children deserve coal!?! I assure you that I’m not the only worker who feels this way. There’s Wigwam and Lyell and Triffy…” The factory exploded into a wave of distracting activity. Horror-struck elves shook their heads furiously, spewing streams of apologies and denials.
Santa’s glare matched his pursed lips. “And who possesses the final decision as to who is naughty and who is nice?”
“You, sir, but I have a valid point if only you’d…”
The boss was impatient. His voice sank into a deep rumble, snagging the horrified attention of the whole workshop. “Me. I have the final decision. That is my job. It would prove beneficial for you to remember your own duties in this process.” With his meaty finger directing me to the assembly line, Santa was the shocking image of anger. Shaking and grumbling behind the protection of his snowy beard, he stormed into the blazing white tundra.
Under the disguise of harried work, the workshop exploded into gossip.
“Santa isn’t happy,” mingled with twitters of, “Qwerty is at it again!”
Casting poisonous looks on my comrades, I set to work. My fingers shook with rage as I reached for a child sized hammer. Jolly old St. Nick! Bah! A talentless, condescending whale! I thought, as the same poisonous thoughts pervaded my mind.
Whack! My fury appeared in a forceful blow resulting in a fire truck lacking its blinking lights.
Out of sheer elven reflexes, I grabbed the broken bits to hide them from spiteful eyes. Numb with shock, I remained physically stationary. The gates of my mind opened, escorting a million detached thoughts through. Defensiveness, larger and bossier than the rest, sprang into action to relieve my guilt. “Why, those bratty children don’t deserve them anyway!” I thought, clutching the sharpened plastic. Planted by an accidental mishap, the seed of a plot took root. Despise, annoyance, and spite provided ample fertilizer, until it had flourished to a devilish scheme.
“I’ll take of final evaluation, Pommel,” I announced. The relieved elf embraced me thankfully and scurried towards Mrs. Claus’s cookies.
Eyeing my co-workers surreptitiously, I tugged the hammer from my vest. A doll sat before me, glassy eyed and begging for a hug. With a mighty whack, the doll’s eye popped out like a cork. Hastily, I stuffed the defective toy in Santa’s sack. Plastic dinosaurs sported hideous wounds. Bicycles rolled on flattened tires. Hula hoops stretched into lopsided ovals.
With five minutes left on the clock, I reached for a basketball. A stab of my hammer sent air exploding outwards accompanied by an ear-quaking bang. The doors flew open, revealing none other than the fat man himself. Squeezed into the door frame, he seemed even larger and more terrifying than before. His eyes sought me out from behind the shadow of overgrown eyebrows.
“QWERTY!” He yelped, when his voice returned to him. He rushed to the toy sack. The jolly red of his cheeks turned into the unhealthy burgundy of rage. Toys bearing wounds of wrath were saved from the darkness of the sack, guided by his fat, shaking fingers. “Qwerty!” he stumbled furiously, “No cookies and milk for you!”
My problem was: how does he know what children are like? I didn't know they had TV on the North Pole, and, if you've never seen children before, wouldn't you think that the bratty ones were normal?
