Chestnuts roasting on an open fire... Jack Frost nipping at your nose... Yuletide thongs being burnt in a tire... and elk dressed up like dominoes....
Why, hello! I didn't see you there! I do so love Christmas carols, but I can never remember the words. So this time I wrote a few down, from memory. Admittedly, that one isn't one of my favorites. It's a little silly.
But why am I in the Christmas mood, you ask? Well, it has everything to do with Race and Cookie McCloud's latest case. It has been a few eventless nights since they made the decision to leave Percival McCloud, aka Race's brother, aka Cookie's uncle, and aka Green Suit Jacket Man, alone, and they haven't had much time to regret the decision before being visited by a peculiar new client who has offered them a peculiar new case, a mysterious case, but a case that, as you will soon see, would rouse all but the most jaded of us with the festive holiday spirit.
As it turns out, Cookie McCloud IS the most jaded of us. In spite of this new client of McCloud & McCloud she is neither festive nor spirited. Discuss!
Good King William Pence went down, on the beast of Steven... eating grapes and selling figs...
I should probably look some of these lyrics up.
***************************************
Race McCloud held on tightly to the side of the big red sleigh as it hurtled through the night sky. In the cold blue water below ice floes were starting to drift into view, a clear indication that they were heading further and further north. “Are you sure this is safe?” he yelled to their driver for about the eighty-sixth time.
The short little man in the green pointed hat, the one who had introduced himself back in the offices of McCloud & McCloud Investigations as ‘Yule’, looked over his shoulder at Race, keeping his hand on the reins and one eye on the pair of flying reindeer pulling the sleigh through the air. “I told you, detective!” he answered against the wind, his high-pitched voice cutting through to the back seat. “The magic of the sleigh will keep you in your seat!”
The iron runner attached to the bottom of the sleigh brushed against a puffy cloud, one of the few scattered on this otherwise crystalline night, spraying white cumulus in every direction, causing the sleigh to buck up a few feet and bumping Race off of the cushioned bench. “I don’t feel like it’s keeping me in my seat!” he called up front again.
“Would you calm down already, Uncle Race?” Cookie sat beside to him, her legs crossed at the ankles and her feet swinging back and forth underneath the bench, her hands resting casually on the seat next to her. “This is probably the safest and fastest form of travel in the world. Nobody falls out of Santa’s sleigh. Well, almost no one,” she amended. “Strange things happen to the naughty-listers sometimes.” Race nodded and checked his head for his hat. It was still there, which was magical in and of itself considering the speed at which they were traveling. Cookie continued: “You won’t fall out, you won’t feel the cold or the wind, and time slows down. Hey!” The elf up front turned back to them. “How much longer until we hit the Pole?”
“Just a few minutes more!” Yule called back in a voice like tinkling bells.
“A few minutes?” Race asked, almost shouting to be heard. “But we just left! How could it be…” He stopped, though, and looked around. It was snowing now, but this wasn't normal snow. Massive flakes, ranging from one to six inches in diameter, a rare few almost a foot wide, fell slowly around them, twisting and pirouetting gracefully in the wind. Race dared a peek over the edge of the sleigh and saw that they were now zipping over a landscape of snowy peaks and valleys and beautiful frozen lakes and evergreen forests; many of the trees slipping quietly past them were decorated with brightly colored lights and fancy baubles and ornaments. “I don’t understand!” Race said, looking back to Cookie with eyes wide as the snowflakes falling past them. “We just left Westside City!”
Cookie shook her head. “Magic. You can’t explain it, but there it is.” She scowled. “You have no idea how much I hate magic.”
Race nodded. “Yeah, I do. You've said. Besides, I'd totally I’d peg you for a magic hater. But it’s keeping us in the air right now, so…”
“… so I won’t say it too loudly. I got it, Don’t worry.”
“North Pole City, dead ahead!” the elf called back to them. “Might want to hold on. This could get a little bumpy.”
The sleigh was descending quickly as the pair of reindeer up front dove through the swirling snow. Race squinted into the wind and whipping white flakes: the trees of the forest (he had never heard of any trees growing in the arctic north, not even hearty evergreens like these) were opening up for them and the reindeer were leading the sleigh down to a long straight expanse of snowy white. As they drew closer to the ground, bright colored lights arranged in two long parallel lines burst to life, lining the narrow snowy strip in brilliant Technicolor, and Race realized that the big red sleigh was going to touch down on what was likely the world's most festive runway.
Race and Cookie both gripped tightly to the bench, but to no avail; they were still jolted up and out of their seats as the sleigh smacked tarmac (Narrator's note: “Or perhaps it's called snowmac up here. Get it? Snow? Tar? Get it? … I'm sorry, that was terrible. I'm not feeling well today. A bit of a cold. I'll shake it. Let's go on!”) “So sorry, so sorry,” the elf cried out as he pulled back hard on the reins, slowing the reindeer down to a trot. “I’m not very good at this, I'm afraid. Santa does most of the flying.”
The sleigh glided smoothly to a stop and two elves wearing big aviator goggles and bulky leather gloves rushed out towards them, coming from a single-level wood building at the far end of the runway that had big gold-lined doors situated alongside a smaller stable entrance. “That's where the reindeer sleep,” Yule told them, pointing to the stable, “and it's where we keep the sleigh. They mostly roam free during the day, though. Er... the reindeer do, I mean. Thanks, Jangle, Silver.”
This last was to the two handlers who had grasped hold of the reindeer bridles and were now guiding the sleigh slowly towards the stable. Race peered at them, trying hard not to look like he was staring. Like Yule they were clad entirely in green and red with trimming of brown leather and gold and silver doo-dads. They wore big brown boots with pointed toes, and big heavy coats with white stuffing sticking out of the sleeves and colors. Race could see close-up that, again like Yule, all the clothes appeared to be hand-stitched, artfully but obviously done, with the stitching always in red on the green fabric and always in green on the red fabric.
The sleigh pulled to a halt and its passengers hopped out; Race and Cookie were immediately ankle-deep in pristine snow but Yule was stepped right over the surface of it, the pristine newness remaining unbroken by his stride. “You could have told us to bring boots, you know,” Cookie said to their guide.
Yule gasped when he looked down and saw Race and Cookie knee-deep in the snow. “So sorry, so sorry, detectives. But quickly, quickly! Santa's waiting!” He hustled Cookie along to a cleaner path that led off of the runway, winding towards a road lying alongside the airstrip. Race was left to wade through the show for himself. “Quickly, quickly, down the path and to the cart. I wouldn’t want you to catch a chill.”
It wasn’t until he said this that Race noticed his teeth chattering violently together. He looked at Cookie quizzically. “We’re out of the sleigh,” she reminded through her own chatter. “It is the arctic north, after all.”
They hurried down the path after Yule and through the gateway in the fence that defined the boundaries of the air strip. A carved wooden sign arching over their heads as they passed through the gate read ‘Reindeer Runway’ in ornate burnt-in script.
Yule guided them to another sleigh on the road, this one much smaller, about the size of a compact car. “Inside, quickly!” he said, ushering them into the rear two seats of the vehicle.
As soon as Race and Cookie stepped into the open-air sleigh the overwhelming warmth provided by the same spell used in the big sleigh washed over them. “Nice bit of magic,” Cookie said, but Yule wasn’t listening. He hurried to the front of the sleigh, where there were no reindeer or horses but instead a large, golden key sticking out of a grille. Yule had to stretch his arms wide to grasp the bow of the key in two hands, and then began turning it in big grinding circles. After ten or twelve turns he stopped, and beneath their seats they felt a mechanism tick to life like clockwork as the whole sleigh began sputtering in place.
Yule jumped into the front seat of the sleigh and grasped hold of a tiny golden steering wheel. As soon as he did the sleigh zipped off, puttering down the snowy wooded road at a brisk pace, leaving the Reindeer Runway far behind them.
Cookie leaned forward to talk into Yule’s ear. “You want to tell us what’s going on yet?”
The elf shook his head but didn’t look back at them. “Not until we get to the workshop! I can’t, sorry, sorry!”
“Great,” Cookie muttered as she sat back in her seat.
“Hey, c’mon, don’t be a Grinch!” Race said cheerfully. He knew his niece and knew how she was, but even she couldn’t be grumpy in a place like this. Could she? “We’re going to Santa’s Workshop! How ridiculously awesome is that?”
But Cookie just gave an off-handed wave, as was so often her wont. “Been there, done that. They bring all the first years at Perfect Academy here. Supposed to impress us or something. It’s the only safe hotspot we can be brought to. What a snoozefest.”
Race shook his head. “And a ‘ho, ho, ho’ to you, too.”
They fell back into silence, Cookie glaring off into the trees zipping past them and Race going over the events of the last hour in his mind. He and Cookie had just been about to shut down the office for the night when this little man came rushing in, breathing heavy and mopping the sweat off of his brow. “So sorry, so sorry, but it’s awfully hot down this far south!” he had said as he plastered his curly brown hair back down, the tips of his pointed ears glowing bright red.
Race was thoroughly stupefied to come face-to-face with someone claiming to be one of Santa’s elves, but Cookie, as usual, had been fairly nonplussed by it. “Project: Perfect has a long-standing arrangement to run interference for Santa each year on Christmas Eve,” she had explained to Race as they hurried up the stairs of their Westside City office building on the corner of Williams and Jake. “They’ve been covertly keeping the path clear for him ever since the near-tragic blimp fiasco of 1973.”
“What happened with a blimp in 1973?”
“Don’t ask,” Cookie and Yule had both said to him.
The jittery little elf had insisted they both hop into the magical sleigh he had parked on the roof of their building, but refused to tell them why he needed them to come along. “Top secret!” he had squeaked when Cookie pressed him for details. “Top secret! Santa needs your help! Quickly, quickly!” So they had piled into the sleigh and taken off, the two reindeer leaping up into the sky and carrying them here to the North Pole far more quickly than Race had ever imagined possible.
“Here we are!” Yule chirped from the front of the their wind-up snowmobile. He cut around a corner and underneath an ornate bronze gate into a holiday wonderland of color and cheer that dropped Race’s jaw to the floor. There were gumdrop colored buildings of all shapes and sizes, each festooned with twinkling colored lights and topped with glittering snow, and sidewalks of what seemed to be gingerbread lined the white powdery roadway they glided along. Garland was strung from house to house and wreaths hung upon each door brightly colored door, while candy canes big and small stood planted in the snowy ground as light posts, sign posts, and decorative accents. Happy music chimed all around and the smell of baked treats and sugar plums filled the air. Elf mothers and fathers and their elf children filled the streets, happily waving to them as they passed, playing games and shopping and dancing and tra-la-la-ing as they went. The snow still fell around them, gentler now than it had in the woods, and smaller, and everyone wore big colorful jackets that looked comfortably warm enough to melt right into.
Race’s eyes grew bigger and his smile grew wider as he craned his neck trying to look every which way at once. “Cookie, look!” he said. “This place is amazing! Look at these shops!” Each building was a wonder of design and color, bursting with activity and magic, the functional parts of each shop and factory practically exploding out of their structures. He began reading off the ones that most caught his eye as they passed them, trying to keep up with the multi-colored scenery as it whipped past them. “Elsie’s Gingerbread Shop! The Peanut Brittle Factory! Cocoa Chocolate Works! Artificial Tree Factory! Yummy Gummy Gumdrop Factory! Reindeer Flight School!” He looked to Yule. “Reindeer need to learn how to fly?”
Yule steered them past a place called ‘Starlight Dance Hall’, from which boisterous and lively music was emanating. “Well, you haven't ever seen a flying reindeer outside of the North Pole, have you?”
“Fair enough. Oooo, look, Candy Cane Corner! I love Candy Canes, don’t you, Cook?”
“Bah,” said Cookie, glancing disinterestedly in the direction her uncle was pointing. “Humbug.”
Race rolled his eyes. “Oh, look, there’s the North Pole Cookie Exchange. Think we can trade you in?”
“You and puns, such a horrid combination.” Cookie pointed in front of them. “We’re here.”
The snowmobile was pulling up to a large gated mansion, painted red and green with golden windows and doors. Race didn’t need a sign to tell him what this was. “Santa’s Workshop?” he asked in a hushed whisper as Yule the Elf slowed their ride down to a halt.
“Workshop and residence,” the elf said, hopping out of the car.
“Just like us!” Race squealed excitedly to Cookie. “An office-slash-apartment!”
“You know I hate you, right?”
“Quickly, quickly!” Yule squeaked, practically hopping up and down where he stood. “Inside!”
He hurried off, and Race and Cookie jumped out of the clockwork sled and hurried after him, heading towards the main gate of the workshop. As they approached, Race saw the first sign of anything un-jolly he had encountered here in Santa Land: the compound was blocked off with red and green barrier tape. Yule, though, ducked right under the tape and kept on towards the workshop. As Race and Cookie followed suit, Race noticed the writing on the tape: “DO NOT CROSS - DEPT. 56 CRIME SCENE - MERRY CHRISTMAS!”
How festive.
They hurried after Yule towards the stone and wood building when…
“HEEEEEYAH!”
A tiny tornado in dark green plowed into Race from the side, knocking him down into the show. “Don’t move!” came a high-pitched voice as the barrel of a gun was pressed against Race’s head. “Don’t move or I’ll UGGGH!”
“Don’t move or you’ll UGGH?” Race asked, lifting his head. “That doesn’t make any sen-- Oh, I see you’ve met Cookie.” Race watched as his niece held his assailant face-down on the ground, the elf’s tiny arm trapped in an arm bar as his legs kicked wildly, Cookie's knee buried in his back and his semi-automatic weapon a few feet away and half-buried in the snow.
“Ms. McCloud, please, no!” Yule cried, hurrying forward to shoo Cookie off of the struggling elf trapped under her knee. “Not the commander! So sorry, commander, so sorry!”
Cookie got to her feet, still eying the little solider suspiciously even as Yule helped him up. The commander was wearing green, as were just about all the other elves in Santa's employ they had met so far, but his was of a much darker hue and was not interspersed with stitching or patches of red. Just dark, solid green, from his boots to his gloves to his… bowler hat? Yes, that’s what he was picking up out of the snow, dusting if off as he grumbled. A bowler hat. “These the humans, Log?” he said to Yule, though why he called their ever-more-nervous guide ‘Log’ was beyond Race. “I told you we didn’t need ‘em. They’re already causing trouble.”
“So sorry, commander,” Yule quickly repeated. “So sorry.” He turned to Race and Cookie. “Detectives, I’d like to introduce you to Commander Tinsel of Department 56, the security force of the North Pole. Commander, Detectives Race and Cookie McCloud, formerly of Project: Perfect. They can help,” Yule added eagerly, almost pleadingly. “Honest they can!”
Commander Tinsel took several steps closer to Race and Cookie. Race tried very hard not to giggle at the contrast of his stubbly face and clenched jaw cast against his bright red cheeks and the playful twinkle in his eyes. He was almost successful. “What are you laughing at, detective?” chirped the commander.
“Nothing, nothing. Just thought of a funny joke.”
“Oh, really?”
“Nah, that’s a lie. I can never think of funny jokes.”
“Could someone tell us why we’re here?” Cookie demanded. “We’re about to turn around and go home.”
“Go then,” Commander Tinsel said stiffly. “Have a good walk back.”
But Yule tugged on the commander’s sleeve. “Please, commander. They’ve come all this way. And Santa needs their help.”
The commander grunted; clearly he didn’t much care if Race and Cookie had come from Mars, but he acquiesced with a shrug. “Santa. Right. Follow me.” He turned and headed for the big wooden double doors at the front of Santa’s Workshop. Race, Cookie, and Yule had to hurry to keep up; for a man with tiny, tiny legs, the commander moved remarkably quickly. “I suppose Log here brought you up to speed about our little dilemma.”
“No, actually, he hasn’t,” Cookie replied.
The commander nodded approvingly, though under the brim of his bowler his face kept right on scowling. “Good, Log, good. Finally followed some procedure.”
“Why do you keep calling him ‘Log’?” Race asked as they climbed up a short stone staircase to the front door. “Isn’t his name Yule?”
The commander stopped in front of the doorway, turning to a blushing Yule. “Didn’t tell them, huh? Can’t say I much blame you. Every elf is named something Christmasy,” the commander explained to Race and Cookie. “But no two elves are allowed to have the same name. Since we tend to live a long time that sometimes leads to some unfortunate handles popping up.”
“What’s wrong with ‘Yule’ as a name?” Cookie asked.
The commander shook his head. “Nah, there’s already a ‘Yule’. Works in the coal mines. This boy’s full name is ‘Yule Log’. See? Unfortunate.”
Race and Cookie turned to their guide, who looked very much like he’d like to disappear straight into the ground. “Yule Log?” asked Race. “That thing they show on TV every Christmas, where they play holiday music over the looping image of a single log burning in a fireplace?” Yule Log nodded miserably. Race grinned. “Dude… that’s awesome! No, seriously!”
“I think you and I are going to have to have a conversation about what the word ‘awesome’ means, because clearly you have no idea,” Cookie said to Race. “Can we go inside now?”
“Follow me.”
Commander Tinsel pushed open the door and marched in, Yule (Log) and Race and Cookie following. Race and Cookie came to a dead stop in the middle of the main foyer. “This,” Race said, eyes alight with wonder and a severe case of the cozies marching up and down his body, “just may be the most warmy fuzzy place I've ever been in my whole entire life.”
“That's not English,” Cookie said, but she was as awestruck as Race, “still, though... neat.”
Their eyes went first to a roaring fireplace of red brick situated in the far wall, at least twenty feet across and eight feet high, being stoked and stroked by no fewer than eight-hundred elves, but probably more like five. (Narrator's note: Race has mathematical dyslexia. Not so good with the counting and things.) The rest of the room was done up in finished oak: oak ceilings and walls, oak furniture, oak everything, two oak staircases wrapping along either side of the two-story octagonal room design that both led to landing upon which sat a pair of oaken doors in a frame of carved wooden snowflakes and candy canes, the former swirling and whirling around the latter in everlasting relief. The room was carpeted in knee-deep shag of a thick, lush red, the furniture was all upholstered in a soft green velvet, and were three smaller doors at the back of and on either side of the room. The smells of roasted food goodness filled the air, and upon closer inspection Race saw that several of the elves tending to the fireplace were actually roasting chestnuts over the flames in wire frame cages. “Hey, chestnuts roasting!” said Race. “They actually DO that?!”
“You've never had them, maggot?” barked Commander Tinsel. “They're SCRUMPTIOUS!”
“I think 'maggot' is a bit harsh...”
“Th-this is the main foyer,” Yule Log explained. “Through here is the Claus residence. East wing, west wing, south wing.” He pointed to the three other ground-floor doors in turn. “No north wing because, well, this IS the North Pole. Santa always says a 'North' wing would be redundant. One of the little jokes he likes to make.”
“I think he should stick to making toys,” said Cookie. She pointed to the ornate door at the top of the twin staircases. “What's through there?”
“The scene of the crime,” said Commander Tinsel, starting up the stairs on the left. “Let's go.”
“It's actually where the workshop is,” Yule Log whispered to Race and Cookie as they climbed after the Commander. “Commander Tinsel sometimes enjoys talking as though he were one of those police dramas that are so popular on the television.”
“I love television,” said Race. “Should I tell him that? Maybe he and I would get along better.”
“Television?” asked Cookie. “Is that where you got your training?”
“Only the vast majority of it. Movies, too.”
“Ah.”
They reached the top of the steps. Tinsel had gotten there several steps before them and had already pulled open the two double doors to the workshop. “Good news, Log,” the Commander said with a grin. “The maintenance elves switched the hallway again. Mine cars, your favorite.”
“Oh, no,” Yule Log moaned miserably. Race and Cookie looked through the open doors. Sure enough, pulling right up to a platform alongside the other side was an old iron mine car, just big enough for the four of them, running on a shiny silver track that disappeared into the darkness.
“You have to ride a mine car to get to Santa's Workshop?” Cookie asked, leaning forward on the platform to look as far down the extension of the track as she could.
Commander Tinsel chuckled. “Nah, the elves that work maintenance like to keep things interesting. They switch up the hallway leading to the workshop all the time. Sometimes its white-water rapids, sometimes it's a rock climbing wall, sometimes a nice gentle ski lift over snowy peaks, sometimes it's a gauntlet of soft-foam projectiles.” Tinsel shrugged. “Sometimes it's just a plain old hallway. Not often though. And sometimes it's mine cars.” Yule Log moaned again. “Yuley back there gets motion sickness. Don't you, Yuley?”
“Please!” moaned Yule Log, his hand already covering his mouth. “Stop saying the word 'motion'!”
Tinsel chuckled again, and hopped over the edge of the mine car, seating himself in the front. Cookie joined him and Race climbed into the backseat, Yule Log easing himself down next to Race. “Dude, if you're gonna hurl,” Race said, “try and do it over the side, okay?” Yule Log nodded miserably.
The commander pulled a lever and the mine car began to slowly roll away from the platform and the door to the foyer. It rolled down a gently sloping track before hanging a sharp right and beginning up a very high hill, CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK... Race hopped up and down in anticipation, Yule Log whimpered miserably, Cookie looked unimpressed (naturally), and the commander let loose another boisterous laugh. “The only way to travel, humans! The only way to travel!”
The mine car reached the top of the hill, hung there just long enough for Race to remember how mean gravity could be sometimes, and then they went screaming down into the darkness on the other side, streaking into a hard left turn at the bottom of their descent, the mine car flipping over into a loop and then careening hard into a long series of corkscrews as the track ran itself into tighter and ever-tighter circles. Race whooped loud with his hands in the air. Yule Log had sunk himself as low in his seat as he could. The commander continued his boisterous laughter, hanging onto his bowler hat with one hand. Cookie still had her arms folded in the front seat. She wasn't smiling and she wasn't frowning; she looked bored, if anything.
Their way was illuminated only by a scant few fluorescent lamps attached to side of track the not unlike street lamps, and as they whizzed by Race could see no floor, ceiling, or walls as the mine car rumbled its way roughshod through a vast, empty space. The car flung itself through two more loops and then they were bullet-training down a long, straight stretch of track, Race screaming and yelling his lungs out the entire way.
Until...
“Where'd the track go?” Cookie asked, pointing ahead. Race looked up in front of them, and saw what she was seeing: fifty yards away and closing fast the track ended, hanging out over a deep black nothingness. “Seriously, where is it?” Cookie asked again, her voice tensing up. The commander just kept laughing.
The fun gone, Race turned to Yule Log to repeat Cookie's question, but the little elf had curled himself up into a ball on his seat and showed no signs of responding. “Cookie?” Race asked.
“Hang on, Uncle Race!” was his niece's reply. She gripped tight onto the steel of the car but the commander knocked her hands loose.
“Don't hang on!” he shouted. “That's the last thing you want to do?”
Before Race or Cookie could ask why, the train hit the end of the track, which curved up into a kind of a ramp and sent the mine car flying into oblivion. Race felt the car falling away from him as he flipped end-over-end through the air. He could hear the commander laughing and his own girlish screams but he had lost track of Cookie and Yule Log. He spun end over end in the darkness, complete disorientation commandeering his sense, when his back smacked into what felt like a giant couch cushion that gave way and let him through and then he continued to fall and then he landed, hard, but on a very soft surface.
He lay where he fell for a few moments, panting to catch his breath, staring up at the ceiling. Ceiling? Yes, there was a ceiling now, a ceiling from which hung garland and tinsel and holly and wreaths, all festooning the pumps and wiring of a well-maintained factory floor.
“C'mere, Uncle Race.” Cookie was standing over him, offering her hand. Race reached out and took it, allowing his niece to pull him onto his feet. He could see now they had landed upon a huge pile of mattresses, in the middle of a large but otherwise empty room, and turning to look behind him Race saw what could have passed as a large swinging foam-rubber pet door cut into the wall back there. “Geez, I thought we were done for,” he said to Cookie.
“Really? I thought that the commander was trying to scare us. Mission failure, huh?”
“I dunno,” Tinsel said with a grin. “He looked pretty scared to me! Didn't you think so, Log?” The commander pulled a shivering Yule Log to his feet; the younger elf did not reply. “Hmmph. Nobody likes a joke anymore. This way, humans!”
Cookie and Race followed the elves down the mattresses and through a pair of swinging double doors. “Wooooow,” Race said as he emerged on the other side. They stood on a raised platform overlooking a hustling and bustling factory floor. Machines and gears cranked and turned on one side of the room as toys of all shapes and sizes moved along conveyor belts and were carried by factory cranes from one site to the next. Elves and elves and more elves were bustling away, hammering and screwdrivering and painting and sewing and soldering and whistling Christmas music. On the other side of the room rows and rows of computer monitors and workstations whirred away as elves tapped on keys, clicked on mice, and swiped screens on touch-sensitive tablet computers. Christmas songs were the music of choice over here, as well, and as Race listened more closely he realized that the elves were all humming the same song.
“Uggh,” said Cookie, holding her ears. “This is grounds for aural disembodiment of the entire area, you know that?”
“What's 'aural disembodiment'?” Race asked, snapping his fingers to the elvish beat.
“You don't want to know.”
“All right, let's get going,” said Commander Tinsel. “Yule Log!”
“This way, this way!” Yule hurried them to a spiral staircase of red and white peppermint that led them down to the factory floor. As they hurried among the workers, the rest of the elves didn't seem to know how best to react to the party: most of them saluted or nodded to the commander with respect, Yule Log they mostly ignored, but they stared openly at Race and Cookie, nervously whispering to each other before quickly hurrying away. “They aren't used to humans being here,” Yule Log explained apologetically. “Please, please don't take their stares personally!”
“People whispering and pointing? Why would we take that personally?” Cookie muttered to Race as the crossed the factory floor. They turned around a large vat of something pink and rubbery that smelled like bubble gum (probably because it WAS bubble gum, as Cookie pointed out to Race), and were headed towards a door set into the far back wall of the factory floor, when...
“Yule Log!” A middle-aged elvish woman in horn-rimmed glasses and neatly pulled-back hair ran. “Yule Log, what on two poles is going on around here? Why is Deptartment 56 puttering all over the factory?”
“Why don't you ask me, Turtledove?” snapped the commander before Yule Log could reply.
“Yes, well, commander, I would have, but --”
“But I already told ya, it's a training exercise, that's all!”
“Some training exercise.” Race looked to his right and saw a short, pot-bellied elf wearing green corduroy overalls and a week's worth of stubble hurrying over. “Santa's office sealed off, and now,” he added with a nod towards Race and Cookie, “ya got HUMANS down here?”
“They're tourists, Wassail!” Yule Log squealed, and not even Race was convinced (and he'd believe ANYthing.) “Only tourists!”
“Nice cover,” said Cookie out of the corner of her mouth.
“Where's Santa?” demanded the elf named Wassail.
Commander Tinsel stepped in before Yule Log had a chance to make things worse. “In the office. You're right, Wassail, this isn't a training exercise. There's been a breach of security. The formula for a new line of molding clay has been stolen and Dept. 56 is putting the whole place on lockdown.”
“Molding clay?” Cookie asked, and there was no hiding the disgust in her voice. “THAT'S why you brought us here? Molding clay?”
Tinsel nodded. “That's why we brought you here.” He turned back to Turtledove and Wassail. “Santa and I are looking over some improvements to the infrastructure so that it won't happen again.”
Turtledove and Wassail shifted their feet uneasily. “Well, all right,” said Turtledove. She turned to Yule Log. “But Santa needs to sign these forms in triplicate or they will not get sent out and they needed to have gone down south yesterday. Or does Santa WANT the children of Norway to go present-less this year?!”
“And we've got a jam on the bear stuffer,” said Wassil. “Someone threw in some fifty-fifty cotton-poly blend instead of the seventy-thirty. It's like no one don't care nothin' about quality anymore. The big man has gotta magic it back to work.”
“Petty concerns,” piped a haughty voice. Race and Cookie turned to see a tall (for an elf) thin man with a pencil mustache briskly walking over. “Santa has not given one glance to my new marketing plan for the Slink-Master 5000 Stairway Assault Vehicle, complete with foam missile launching action.” He waved a tablet computer in the air and Race could see it displayed the image of a six-wheeled spring-activated vehicle, action-figure sized, part of the 'Robo-Ninja-Saurus' line of toys and TV commercials.
“Wow!” said Race, craning his neck for a better view. “That looks awesome!”
“So sorry, Wenceslas, so sorry,” stammered Yule Log, the other two elves forgotten under Wenceslas' withering stare. “I'll... I'll have Santa look it over immediately, look over everything.”
“See that he does,” said Wenceslas, fingering his mustache and turning his gaze to the other two elves. “Turtledove knows full well that YOU can sign off on those Norwegian export papers, and Wassail and his workers might find the bear-stuffer would be quickly un-stuffed if they'd only put their own backs into it.”
Both Turtledove and Wassail looked affronted. “Who the figgy-pudding do you think you are?” Wassail barked at Wenceslas as Turtledove glowered, turning red.
“The head of marketing for S.Claus, Inc., that's who,” sniped back Wenceslas, looking down his pencil-thin nose at them. “And as we all know, it's not about what you're selling, it's about how you sell it, making my job and, by extension, me, far more valuable then either of your contributions. Now, hurry off,” he said, waving his hand. “I must see Santa.”
“Don't worry, don't worry,” muttered Yule Log as Turtledove and Wassail stomped away. “I'll make sure he gets to both of you.”
“That would be a waste of Santa's valuable time,” said Wenceslas, waving his tablet around again. “This marketing plan can wait no longer if we hope to move enough units this Christmas to make a profit on these. Besides which, it's brilliant and groundbreaking, two things that haven't been seen around this pole in years. Just look at it!” he said, pushing the screen into Yule Log's face.
VWWWWWWUUUUUMPH!
“It's... it's... it's a picture of a cat wearing a melon on his head,” Yule Log said tentatively. “It's... it's... very cute, but I don't... I don't...”
“What?” cried Wenceslas, turning the tablet back to look at it himself. Sure enough, his marketing plan was gone and instead staring back at him was a picture of a housecat wearing a carved-out helmet of melon. “I don't understand.” Race looked at Cookie. She had her arms folded and wore a smug little smile. Race grinned. He THOUGHT he had heard the Cookie Effect. “I must have transferred the wrong file from my desktop. I'll be right back!” Wenceslas scurried off, punching at his tablet's touchscreen, but it seemed as though the cat was there to stay, at least for the time being.
“All right, enough dilly-dallying,” muttered Commander Tinsel. “All clear, let's get inside.” The Commander opened the door, clearly labeled 'S.CLAUSE: PROPRIETER', and entered Santa's office, Yule Log hurrying behind him.
Race looked at Cookie. “Did you replace that guy's sales pitch with an LOL Cat?”
Cookie smiled, a little pleased-with-herself grin. “I'm not saying I did, and I'm not saying I didn't. I will say, though, that the picture that popped up on that jerk's tablet just happened to be a picture of my favorite LOL Cat ever. Now let's help them find their stupid modeling clay and get home, huh?”
Race grinned and they headed into the office. The first detail that popped out at Race's keen deductive mind was the giant, eight-foot wide hole behind the blasted-out wall in the back of the office, right behind Santa's big wooden desk, which was covered in gingerbread and peppermint bark and cheese platters and sausage and paperwork and other accoutrements of holiday festivity. Beyond the hole in the back of the wall lay a tunnel carved out of solid rock, taped off with more Dept. 56 crime-scene tape. There were six more elves dressed in the dark green of Commander Tinsel at work in the office, but rather than his dark green bowler hat they all wore dark green berets perched upon their heads. They were all busily scurrying around the hole, taking pictures and measurements.
Race also couldn't help but notice the complete lack of Santa Claus anywhere in the office.
“All right,” Commander Tinsel said, turning to them. The other elves stopped what they were doing to listen in. Yule Log had grown very pale and was desperately wringing his hands. “I lied about the modeling clay. We didn't want a full-blown riot of elves on our hands. Santa Claus is missing. We need you two to help find hm.”
Race's just stared at the little man in a bug-eyed display of disbelief. He turned to Cookie who, just as he had expected, could not have looked more pleased. “Modeling clay,” she said with a grin. “I knew you were lying. This is more like it.”
