’Twas the night before Christmas, and Wally the elf was working overtime again, for the eighty-sixth goddam year. His fingers were aching from all the wrapping of presents and tying of bows. All around him, thousands of his co-workers went about their business with ghastly cheerfulness, humming and singing Yuletide melodies that Wally had grown sick of eight decades ago. Only a few more hours to go, and then it would finally be over for yet another year.
Wally pushed his way through the elvish hordes in the enormous toy factory, quickly finding a side door where he could escape for a quick smoke — and a wee tipple from his flask. Outside, a blizzard was brewing. Wally shivered in his grass-green overcoat and curly-toed red boots as he sucked greedily on his cigarette. He took a generous swig of brandy. The warmth of it surged through him like a succubus. He didn’t know how many more years of this shit he could take. This Christmas work was exploitative and demeaning, and his employer was an ornery bastard — not the kindly old man as portrayed by seasonal propaganda.
A gust of freezing wind suddenly whipped off Wally’s pointy hat. He swore as he chased it into the snowy gale. If he lost his hat, the boss would take it out of his paycheque — again. As if working all this lousy unpaid overtime didn’t qualify him for a free replacement hat, for fuck’s sake. But where in the world would he be able to find another job? There wasn’t exactly a huge demand in the global workforce for hundred-year-old elves who needed a boost to reach the optimal piss point of a man-sized urinal. He took another swig from his flask, dulling the pain of his fucked-up reality.
The blizzard intensified and he could barely see the lights of the factory — fucking sweatshop — behind him. His hat was nowhere to be seen. Another goddam hat lost on another goddam Christmas Eve. He’d lost track of how much headwear he had misplaced over the years. And Santa had docked the expense from his paycheque each time. The fat old fuck was a money-grubbing tyrant surrounded by sycophants.
Wally began trudging dejectedly back to the factory. He was at least grateful that the howling of the storm was obscuring the singing of his co-workers.
Suddenly there was a bright flash of light to his left. Wally stopped and stared into the snowy night. The light rapidly faded, but before it vanished he thought he saw a silhouetted figure. And had he heard a voice above the wind?
“Hello?” Wally called out. “Anybody out there?”
He thought it might be one of his colleagues taking a piss break. But what lunatic would try to urinate into such a fierce wind? Wally cupped a hand to his ear and thought he heard the same voice. He made his way towards where he guessed the light had been. Perhaps one of his co-workers was drunk and lost in the snow. It had happened before, with fatal consequences — the boss didn’t talk about those incidents and nobody dared to ask.
“Hello!” a voice called out.
Wally squinted and watched as a figure emerged from the darkness and walked toward him. He blinked in disbelief. It was an armoured warrior. At the North Pole. On Christmas Eve. The warrior carried a longbow and stood as tall as a man. Wally was too astonished to be frightened. He drained the rest of his flask. It burned through him like dragon’s fire.
The warrior towered over Wally, at least three times his height. He stared at Wally with sapphire eyes that blazed in the Arctic darkness. “Is this Mordor?”
“Uh . . . you’re at the North Pole. Or at least really close to it.”
“Pole?” The warrior regarded Wally with deep interest, seeming to pay particular attention to his pointy ears. “Most curious. What manner of creature are you? Your face is Elvish but you are as wee as a Hobbit.”
“Hey man, I just work here. If you want to talk to the man in charge —”
The warrior swiftly notched an arrow and aimed it at Wally’s throat. “Are you a servant of the Dark Lord Sauron?” he shouted.
“Who? No! I work for Santa. As in Claus. Heard of him?”
“I know nothing of this As-in-Claus. Does he serve Sauron?”
“I don’t think so. But he can be pretty mean sometimes. Calling him a dark lord isn’t much of a stretch. He likes to act all cheerful on the surface. But it’s fake. I can tell. He’s a power-mad drunk and a senile fool.”
The warrior lowered his bow and removed his helmet. A cascade of fine silver hair tumbled down like a gossamer waterfall. Wally had never seen such a radiant sight. The figure standing before him was tall and slender but strong. His pale face had fine features and a regal bearing — along with pointy ears.
“I am Legolas Greenleaf, son of Thranduil, of the Elves of the Woodland Realm,” the warrior announced. “Are you an Elvish brother, or an enemy of the peaceful peoples of Middle-earth?”
“Brother?” Wally thought fleetingly of Danny DeVito and Arnold Schwarzenegger in Twins. “You’re no elf — you’re way too tall! And my name’s Wally.”
“You doubt my Elvishness?” Legolas said, hands tightening on his bow.
“I think you’re lost and disoriented.”
Legolas nodded grimly. “Before I found myself in this frosty realm, I was engaged in savage combat upon the Pelennor Fields, slaughtering orcs and other fell minions of Sauron’s evil. Some dark magic must have flung me here. I must find a way to return at once. The future of Middle-earth hangs in the balance!”
“Sounds exciting,” Wally said enviously.
Legolas shook his head. His hair mesmerized Wally as it twisted in the blizzard. “War is fear, suffering and death. It is a desperate and vicious fight against the dreadful threat of eternal darkness.”
“Shit. Sorry. Sounds like things are pretty rough where you’re from.”
“Everything hinges upon the battle from which I was plucked! We must destroy the Ring. All is lost if we cannot destroy the Ring. I must find a way to return!”
“Hey, don’t give up,” Wally said. “We’ll figure something out and have you back in no time.”
Legolas bowed. “I am grateful for your aid. Accept my apologies: I am proud to call you an Elvish brother. We could use more brave warriors like you, Wally. No sane Elf would ever entirely trust a Dwarf. And the treachery of Men is legendary. This war cannot be won without Elvish valour.”
“I’ve never shot an arrow in my life.”
“Are you able to wield a sword or pike?”
“I’m good at wrapping gifts. And making toys.”
“Those skills, while admirable, may prove to be useless against rabid orcs.”
“But I have a lot of anger in me,” Wally said hopefully. “I would really enjoy kicking the shit out of monsters. Especially if it’s for a good cause.”
“There can be no cause nobler,” Legolas said solemnly.
“I really could use a career change. No more stitching teddy bears fourteen hours a goddam day.”
“Then it is settled. You shall be my squire and under my protection. I sense there is in you a great warrior who has yet to reach his full potential.”
“Who is it that we’re fighting again?”
“Sauron, the Dark Lord of Mordor. The Lord of the Rings. The most malevolent creature you can possibly imagine.”
“You just described my boss.”
A sudden flash of light beside them revealed a luminescent doorway in the middle of the blizzard.
“Ah, it is the magic of my allies!” Legolas proclaimed. “That Gandalf, what a lifesaver. Now shall I return! Elvish brother, will you join me in the fight to free Middle-earth?”
Wally stared at the glowing doorway. What did he have to lose? He looked back at the harsh lights of the factory for a few moments, and then turned to face the portal again. Legolas watched him patiently with those blazing gemstone eyes. “Choose wisely. Should you depart these lands, there may be no way to return.” He stood beside the portal, waiting.
Wally thought back to all those grim years of making shitty toys and taking orders from that misanthropic fat fuck. He hated his boss, his job, the frigid climate, his pointy hat, his curly-toed boots, and more than ninety-nine per cent of his co-workers.
“Will I get to wear armour?” Wally asked tentatively. “Anything’s better than this pathetic get-up.” He looked down at his coat and boots — such humiliatingly childish garb!
Legolas nodded. “A brave warrior such as yourself shall be granted a fine suit of armour.”
Wally turned back towards the factory. “Then to hell with Christmas!” he hollered, jabbing his middle fingers towards the life he once knew. “Up your fat ass, Santa!”
Legolas extended his hand to a madly grinning Wally, who grasped it firmly.
“I like the thought of me in chain mail,” Wally said, and he stepped into the light.
Comments are closed.