[Writing Prompt] Santa’s Elves find out that they’re actually slave workers in Santa’s immense capitalist endeavors.
Abolitionist Elf
“If you’ll follow me into the packing room Mr . . .”
The tour guide paused awkwardly and gave Pweep an abashed smile.
“I’m very sorry, I’m afraid I’ve forgotten . . . your name . . .” the tour guide put his hand on the back of his neck in a nervous sort of way and looked down at Pweep. A faint recognition began to creep into his features, as though he was awakening from a very deep dream.
Pweep, just under two feet tall and wearing the forest green uniform with red accents of the Elf Squad, Santa’s elite toy producers, smiled right back up, craning his neck to look the middle aged human in the eye.
“Oh, no problem at all,” Pweep said in his outlandishly high-pitched voice, at the same time as he reached a hand out and rested it gently on the tour guide’s knee cap, “Pweep’s the name.” Pweep shut his eyes for a few seconds and then opened them, letting go of the tour guide’s knee. “Remember?”
The disagreeable look of approaching realization left the tour guide’s face in an instant. It was replaced by a broad, child-like smile. “Oh of course, Mr. Pweep, forgive me I . . . I don’t know what came over me. Where were we now?”
Pweep adjusted the heavy back pack on his shoulders and his demeanor became serious again. His reproachful frown was entirely incongruous to Pweep’s otherwise cartoonish aesthetic.
“You were just explaining how the company packs it’s toys I believe.”
The tour guide’s eyes flashed with recollection and he nodded. “Right, yes, follow me and I’ll show you around. Through this door is the central packing area, it can be a bit loud.”
The tour guide opened the door and walked through, Pweep close behind. The sound was quite loud in the central packing area, where hundreds of automated machines loaded with spools of plastic, sheets of cardboard, tons of different colored printing inks and even various colored wrapping papers worked tirelessly. Each machine played it’s own specific role, enveloping a doll in clear plastic, placing foam blocks around a computer to save it from damage in shipment, folding cardboard boxes in droves to hold miniature airplanes and naval cruisers.
Even briefly scanning the toys being packaged, Pweep could clearly see his own handiwork among the tens of thousands of objects. Countless hours of sweat and effort, the sweat and effort of Pweep and his elven comrades – the great, huddled proletariat of the North.
“As you can see,” the tour guide chimed loudly, totally oblivious to Pweep’s sudden souring mood, “the machines run 24/7 in this plant. We’re past the holiday season already, but we never shut down this line. After all there are always children out there with birthdays and graduations, confirmations and bar mitzvahs.”
Pweep swallowed his boiling rage. He needed more information first. “And how many gifts are packaged in this . . . facility?”
The tour guide twittered happily. “Oh, Mr. Pweeps, the numbers are gargantuan, really quite large. In a single day, running at maximum capacity, this floor alone can package over 100,000 individual products. During the holiday season all four packing floors are running simultaneously for two full months.” The tour guide seemed quite proud of what he clearly saw as a great technical accomplishment. “It’s the largest consumer products packing facility in the western hemisphere.”
Pweep nodded solemnly and began to take off his backpack. As he did so, he continued to speak. “And, do you know where all the toys come from?”
The tour guide chuckled, “oh you know, all over the world I suspect. I’m not in charge of supply lines, but I know someone who runs one of the supply teams and he says he has countless sources. Although the supply folks are always quite protective of their suppliers,” the tour guide frowned and scratched his head, “I guess it’s mostly China right?”
Pweep had the backpack open now and was reaching inside for something, “Is that a question?” he asked darkly.
Pweep’s voice bore the unmistakable sound of scorn now, and the tour guide, even addled by Pweep’s consoling magic, looked down at him, slightly distressed. “Well, no, of course not, I just – fuck!“
The tour guide’s apology was cut short by the single, muffled report of a small caliber gunshot. The man fell to the ground, gripping his right shin, bright red blood pouring out between his fingers. Pweep stood calmly by his backpack, small custom .38 pistol held firmly in his tiny hand, a small plume of smoke still rising from the barrel.
The tour guide was snapped instantly from Pweep’s spell. He gaped at the tiny elf and screamed. “What the fuck is going on?!”
Pweep paid the man no heed, but began pulling out long gray rectangles of a gray, clay like material from inside his tiny backpack. As he pulled out block after block – an impossible number of blocks – he spoke calmly.
“Your toys, good sir, did not come from China.” Another block, and another. “No, sir, your toys are the product of centuries of oppression, slave labor of the highest order.”
The tour guide was staring wide eyed at his shin, hardly paying any attention to Pweep. “You shot me! You fucking shot me!”
Pweep, now surrounded by a low wall of C4 explosive, upturned his magical bag to get out the remaining contents. About ten more large rectangles fell to the floor, and beside them, three blasting caps and a remote detonator.
“You thought you could ride high forever on the backs of the anonymous few. You thought there would never be retribution.” Pweep calmly placed the blasting caps into three of the rectangles of high explosive, “but you were wrong. This, place,” Pweep paused in his work, raising his eyes to the ceaseless machines with a look of disgusted wonder, “this temple to the God of capitalism, this hallowed ground, will be brought low.” Pweep placed the final blasting cap, picked up the detonator, and turned it on with the twist of a small silver key. “And you, my friend, will be among the first of the slave masters to pay.”
The tour guide had literally no idea what to make of any of this. “Look, I don’t know who you think I am,” he began, panicked, “I just work here!”
Pweep, picked up the small pistol and stuck in into his waistband. With careful, graceful steps, he walked over toward the tour guide, remote detonator in hand, and placed his free tiny hand gently on the tour guide’s cheek.
“Just following orders, hm?”
The tour guide nodded desperately.
Pweep shook his head, “the banality of evil indeed. Farewell my petty friend. May your death help spark a fire that will cleanse the world, from the barren south to Santa’s great hall.” Standing up straight, Pweep the elf gave the tour guide a final, serious look and disappeared.
The tour guide took a deep breath and looked around in amazement. He was about to begin dragging himself toward the emergency phone when the blast caps sparked and both he and the building were consumed in righteous flames.
If You Enjoyed This Story – Or Any Of The Hundreds Of Other Legends From The Multiverse – And Want To Give A Dollar To The Madman Behind The Curtain Who Writes Them All:
Subscribe to the RSS feed or leave a comment anywhere on the r/LFTM subreddit with “!subscribeme” or “subscribeme!”, and you’ll receive a notification whenever a new story or continuation is posted.
READ MORE FLASH FICTION
| ACTION | APOCALYPTIC | DARK | ESTABLISHED UNIVERSE | FANTASY |
| FUNNY MAYBE | HORROR | MISC | WTF IS THIS? | SAD |
| SCIENCE FICTION | SCIENCE FANTASY | TWIST ENDING | RANDOM |
READ LONGER STORIES
| THE DEMON’S CANTOS | INCIDENTAL SUPERHERO |
| BENEATH | THE HUMANITY SAGA |
| THE TRAVELER | I, LYCANTHROPE |