beany tuesday 2020 

This story is a work of ‘outsider art’. Please adjust all criticism accordingly.
 I

December 20th. Newbury Street, Boston Massachusetts. Frenzied masses of people spill over the sidewalk
edge, their arms decorated with grotesquely oversized shopping bags. Inside are boxes filled with some
overpriced designer clothing item or tacky-tacky children’s toy, cobbled together for pennies by some
poor sap in the third world. It’s always an ugly sight. But this time of year, the depravity is in full bloom.

Christmas. The season when people rush to stores like a dog to animal shit, manic, choleric, euphoric,
grateful for the chance to strain their necks and kiss the boot of consumerism, the same one that is
currently mashing their face into a bloodied pulp. Mewling sadomasochists. I almost feel sorry for them.

The whole thing is a sort of dark ritual, the outward facing component of the world’s greatest conspiracy
cover up— one in which every single red-blooded Christian adult is a collaborator. It’s the idea that
some jolly old fuck is willing to slide his fat ass down a chimney each year to bring more worthless chintz
to all the good boys and girls. There’s no such person, of course.

But there used to be.

Santa Claus. Father Christmas. Saint Nick. He was real all right, as real as you or I, and the stories are
all true. Before the madness, before all the orgiastic worship of ​stuff,​ Christmas meant something. A time
for togetherness, for love and for warmth, a day when all the children of the world could take a brief
respite from the cruel realities of life, from toiling in factories and fields, from eating hardtack and flour
soup, to experience a brief glimmer of real joy. Because when you opened up your presents on that cold
winter morning… you knew there was a little bit of magic in each and every one.

But sometime between then and now Kris Kringle bit the dust, taking Christmas along with him and
leaving us to parade around its rotting carcass every December. Which raises the question; how does one
manage to end the life of an ageless demigod— and more importantly, convince the entire world that he
never existed?

I shuffle through the holiday mob as best I can. I have an appointment with a colleague at The Pour
House.

“Vodka soda for me. And ah, what are you drinking, Will?”

Robert Blum. Former partner of mine. Managed to put his death drive on ice when he settled down,
mostly works on tame stuff now. Digging up old family records, that sort of thing. Real waste of talent.
One of few people I’d consider a friend.
“Whiskey. Cheap.”

Robert shook his head, grinning, and gave Will a jovial slap on the back. “Bring him something good. I’m
paying.” The bartender obliged.

“So, what brings you down from Somerville? Getting in some last minute holiday shopping?” Will
inquired.

“Funny joke.”

“Well, you aren’t missing much. Past few years the kids’ll basically just write down what they want, and I
go grab it.” He took out a small pad of paper from his pocket and flipped through a few pages. “I mean, I
don’t even know what half this stuff is. C’mon, ‘Zoobs’? What the fuck is ‘Zoobs’!? Anyway, I make
sure to pick up the wife something expensive n’ shiny on the way out, then call it a day. Heh— or 8 days,
I guess.”

Robert grinned to himself, pleased with his little joke. He turned to Will for secondary acknowledgment.

Will made a noncommittal grunt “Hrm.” He was preoccupied with the small dish of beer nuts in front of
him. “Previous joke was better.”

“Sure.” Robert turned back and made an awkward attempt at changing the tone of the conversation.
“Uh… look man, I know you aren’t the biggest fan of the holidays. But you’re always welcome to spend
Christmas with me and the fam, y’know. Honorary jew for a day. No gaudy ornaments or Michael Buble
songs, just a low-key night out for Thai food and a movie. Offer’s on the table.”

Will polished off the last of the beer nuts, licking his fingers and sliding the empty dish towards the
bartender. “Who is Michael Buble” he asked, monotone.

“He’s— look, it’s not important. Just consider it, okay?”

“Can’t this year. Working.”

Robert crossed his arms and made an exaggerated unconvinced expression. “You can’t take off ​one day
for Christmas?”

“Time sensitive. Reopening a cold case. Why I called you here.”

Robert froze. “Will, you don’t mean…?“

Will reached into his coat and produced a stack of glossy photographs, tossing them onto the counter.
“Located a new lead.”
Robert grabbed the photos and rifled through them, blank-faced, mouth hanging slightly agape. Candid
and blurry like a bigfoot sighting, each one depicted a haggard looking dwarf with receding grey hair and
rosy cheeks wandering through the downtown of some snow-covered city.

“Diaspora elf?” Robert inquired.

“No. North Pole native. Currently residing outside Anchorage. Perry Winkle, human alias George
Meacham. Been trying to track him down for years now. These images emerged online a few weeks ago
and matched the profile.”

Robert looked up from the photos. “Where did you—“

“Hideous Fuckers of Alaska. Spinoff of that ‘People of New York’ web page that was popular a few years
back.”

“C’mon, that’s not real. Wh—“

“Came back out into civilization to work the seasonal ‘Santa’s Workshop’ grift.” Will tapped one of the
photos depicting the figure in green and white overalls, standing beside a man in a Santa suit. “Going to
need you to do some social engineering for me. Reach out the employer— Servant Claus LLC— and find
out his home address.”

Robert sat silent for a moment. His expression turned serious. “Shit, you’re serious?” [funny?]

“All I need is the address. Can’t get it myself— you were always the people person.”

“Alright,” Robert said, tucking one of the photos into his pocket. “But you owe me. No more dodging
holiday invites.”

“I’ll consider it.” Will replied.

Robert shook his head. “How is it that someone can be so obsessed with Santa Claus, but act like such a
total ​Scrooge?”

“Scrooge is fictional. Character made up by Charles Dickens. Santa Claus is real, deceased. Likely
murder. Tell ​that​ to your kids next time they ask for ‘Zoobs’.”

“We’re Jewish, they don’t even— ​Look​, I’m not going to tell my kids that Santa actually ​is​ real but he got
murdered,​ William.”

“Hrm. Fine, keep the masses ignorant. Your choice. Just get me that address.”

Robert sighed. “Merry Christmas to you too, Will.”

 II

December 21st. Alaskan wilderness, several miles outside Anchorage. Flight was serviceable. Watched
fourteen minutes of an in-flight holiday movie where Father Christmas is depicted as a CG cartoon dog.
Disgusting. Had to rent a snowmobile for the trip. Rented a firearm as well— Grizzlies are notoriously
aggressive. Same goes for Alaskans. Unsure about elves. Hrm… this appears to be the place. Looks like
I’m about to find out.

“Mr. Meacham? Hello?” Will knocked on the door a second time. After a moment of dead air, he heard
the clattering of unknown objects and the patter of small feet. He hovered his hand over the weapon at his
side. The door swung open a few inches and jolted to a stop, pulled back by the chain latch. A
double-barreled shotgun stuck out through the crack, brandished by the man in the photograph.
“Whatever yer’ sellin, I ain’t buyin. Got no business with you, so you better just turn around and go back
home.” His voice was amusingly high-pitched, but depressingly gravelly. Doubtlessly a heavy smoker.

Before the man’s speech even began, Will had his .357 Magnum drawn up at the waist, resting at the
perfect height to blow the mini-man’s dinky apple head into smithereens and paint his entire cabin a
lovely Christmas red. “Put away that pea-shooter, Meacham, I’m no salesman or debt collector or
Jehovah’s Witness. I just want to talk. Name’s William White. I’m a private investigator.”

The man narrowed his eyes, gun unmoved. “Well, I’m sorry I can’t help none but I ain’t seen a thing. Got
nothing to say.” He reached to pull the door closed as Will jammed his booted foot into the gap. “Perhaps
Mr. Winkle is available to talk, then.” The man slowly tilted his head up and made contact with Will’s
stoic expression. Will lifted a six-pack of glass bottle Eggnog into view. “Why don’t we speak over a few
drinks, Mr. Winkle?”

Inside of the cabin is much less charming than the rustic exterior. Tiny outdated TV sits like an altar in
the living room, surrounded by offerings of discarded mac and cheese boxes and cigarette butts. Walls
are covered with dollar store Christmas tat; red and white tinsel made from some cancer-causing plastic,
gnarled wreaths of twine and astroturf, and a big cartoon Santa head made of cardboard with eyes
painted on cockeyed. The whole thing makes it look like some kind of Christmas-themed Santeria is about
to be performed. Extremely traditional people, elves; wholly unwilling to abandon the holiday that
abandoned them all countless years ago. Suppose humans aren’t much different.

“Promised myself I’d quit drinking, but… well, shit, it’s Christmastime, ain’t it?” Winkle said, cracking
open an eggnog and drinking straight from the bottle.

Nog addict. Unfortunate.

“Ain’t it?” Will repeated. The two men were sat on cheap stools at a rusty metal folding table that made
up Winkle’s dining room. Behind him is a stout evergreen tree, freshly cut— its natural beauty perverted
by the dollar store ornaments that hang off it. Below it sat a pile of small, perfectly geometric presents,
each wrapped so tightly and perfectly that the wrapping paper looked like a second skin. Winkle polished
off the first bottle in one go and let out an exaggerated “ahhh”, wiping his mouth as droplets of nog
dripped down his chin and stained his white undershirt. He looked even worse up close. “What exactly is
this about, Mr. White?”

I reach into my coat and toss it out onto the table. It collides with the cheap plastic top, and a familiar
soprano chime fills the room. For a brief moment, the world disappears around me.

“Well, shit… haven’t seen one of these in decades. Where the hell did ya find somethin’ like this?”
Winkle picked up the tiny bell and examined it. The brass had faded into a gray-green color, despite
ringing just as loudly as the day it was forged.

“Family heirloom.”

“True believers, eh? Pretty rare sight these days.”

“Just me.”

Winkle looked somewhat miffed, annoyed with having to play 20 questions just to find out the purpose of
this stranger’s visit. “Alright then… so what, you want a picture or something? It’ll cost you.”

“Don’t care about that. Investigating the death of Saint Nicholas.”

“Ah. I see”. He looked off to the side and scratched at the few wiry hairs that lay on his scalp. “Well…
whadd’ya need to know?”

“You worked for him. You tell me.”

Winkle shrugged. “Just kicked the bucket one day, I guess. I was working the assembly line. Didn’t seem
real. Still don’t. Foreman came out n’ announced the news— everyone just sort of went home in a daze.
Whole of The North Pole was in mourning after that. What can you say after that? What can you do?”

Will’s abrasive attitude gave way to an attentive, studious affect. His eyes narrowed as he listened to the
man’s story, taking rapid-fire notes on a small yellow memo pad. “You see the body?”

Winkle shook his head. “Not up close. There were hundreds of thousands of us— couldn’t hold any sort
of a normal funeral. They wrapped the guy up and put him under the biggest tree in the city. Just felt
right.”

“But there ​was​ a body? Any markings? Cause of death?”

“I was just a grunt, man, I didn’t ask questions. He was thousands of years old and ate like shit. It was
probably heart disease or something.”
“Magical being. Ageless. Seems unlikely.”

Winkle furrowed his brow. Will could sense him growing annoyed at this line of questioning and decided
to quickly pivot.

“What year was it?”

“Couldn’t say— time works a little differently up in the NP. We’re so isolated and everyone lives for so
long that you don’t really bother keepin’ track of time— cept’ for days until the next Christmas, of
course.”

“Hrm. Well… alright then, what kind of toys were you working on at the time?”

“Chess sets.”

Fuck.

“When did you move here?”

“Hmm…” Winkle closed his eyes and tried to think. “50 years ago… maybe? It wasn’t right after he died,
though— hung around for a while. Nobody wants to just up’n leave the place they lived all their life. But
without the big man, there were barely any jobs left.”

Timeframe is too foggy and unreliable. Not much better than human records. It’s a unique case— even
though no one believes he ever existed, they insist on collectively pretending he’s real. Makes it
impossible to distinguish genuine historical record from playful mythologizing.

“People still live there?”

“Probably. A few. Hard to give up everything you’ve ever known.”

Investigation is getting nowhere. Time to apply the screws.

Will stared out the window into the white infinite. “I worked a job a few years back for an old couple.
Chinese. First generation immigrants, lived in a dingy Chinatown apartment. Kept a photo of Mao
Zedong on the wall.”

He turned back to Winkle. “Ironic, don’t you think?”

“I— sure? I dunno, is it? What’s your point?”

“He worked you to the bone. He ruled over you. His presence— the greatest cult of personality in human
history— swallowed up everything around him. You were nothing to him but servants of a grander vision.
And yet…” Will motioned to the bootleg Santa face that hung on the wall.
“You better shut the ​fuck​ up, boy! You don’t know what the hell your talkin’ about!” Winkle stood up on
the stool. “He gave us ​everything​! You think I ​like​ being treated like a freak, making a mockery of my
own people every December just to scrape by?

Applying additional screws.

“Yes?”

“​Of course not,​ you dumb shit! He gave us purpose— gave us something to believe in! Do you have any
idea what pre-Kringelian elf society was like?” He wailed. “My grandmother had to eat her own young!”

“You really cared about the man.”

“​Obviously!”​ He spat bits of eggnog onto the table as he yelled.

“Yet you allowed humanity to make a mockery of his death.”

“—Huh?”

“Arrive here fifty years ago, give or take. Saint Nick has been in the ground for some time now. Find out
people still celebrate Christmas, still talk about Santa Claus. Except nobody knows he died. Don’t even
think he was ever real. There’s a huge influx of elf refugees, and none of them say a word? Doesn’t add
up.”

Winkle threw up his hands, exasperated. “You think we want the attention? You think any of us want the
attention? I live in the fucking woods just to stay out of the public eye— and clearly, that don’t even work
anymore. People wanna believe it’s all fake? Fine. I Don’t give a shit anymore.”

Winkle polished off his third eggnog and threw the empty bottle onto the table. Will sat silent, allowing
the clattering to ring through the room.

“Traditional elf drink, eggnog. Dates back hundreds of years. Wouldn’t be surprised if there were a
number of North American elves working in the industry today.”

“Great. Good for them.” Winkle had become surly.

Will gestured to the bottles on the table. “You know who makes this one?”

“I don’t care. Get to the point.”

“Fairlife. Popular milk brand. Subsidiary of the Coca-Cola company.”

“…”
“Coca-Cola. Notorious for popularizing the image of the portly, red-clad Santa Claus in a 1931
advertising campaign. Massive success. Raked in billions of dollars using his likeness.”

“…”

“2001. The Coca-Cola Company uses paramilitary death squads to assassinate several union leaders at
bottling plants in Colombia. Not an isolated incident. Oversaw similar human rights abuses in Mexico and
South America over the past several decades.”

Winkle looked dumbfounded. “You really believe ​Coke​ put out a hit on Santa Claus? You gotta be
kidding me. That’s just about the dumbest shit I ever heard.”

“They had the resources. They had the motive. Doesn’t conflict with anything in your testimony.” Will
narrowed his eyes. “Unless there’s something you aren’t telling me.”

Winkle rolled his eyes. “Christ, give me a break. Yeah, sure. Maybe Coke did it. They walked right up to
him and put a bullet in his head. Maybe it was the Hallmark channel, ever consider that? Maybe it was the
fucking ​Grinch.

I’ve had all I can take of this cretin’s antics. I quickly rise to my feet and shift my weight to the back foot,
spinning 360 degrees clockwise on the heel and delivering my trademark turnaround-backhand slap to
the diminutive lush’s rosy red cheeks. I neglect to adjust my power for his size, and the slap launches him
clean off the stool like a perfect golf drive. He soars through the air, spinning like a football, before
colliding with the decorated holiday shrub and falling onto the presents that lie beneath it, the force of the
slap literally knocking his socks— and shoes— off, his awful curvy-tipped elf slippers sitting pristinely
atop the stool like the last remnants of a wished-to-death genie. He groans as he attempts to remove
himself from the crushed packages below him. Didn’t mean to strike him quite so hard, but no use crying
over it. Such things happen in this line of work.

Will stepped over to the dazed dwarf and lifted him up from the festive mess, holding him aloft by the
collar. “Those sorts of snide retorts don’t work when they’re coming from a real-life ​elf, s​ martass.”
Winkle pawed at Will’s arms, twice as thick as his own, pitifully attempting to free himself. “No more
games. You’re hiding something. Tell me.” Will demanded.

“P-please… please, man, I swear—“

“Dad?”

Will’s and his captive’s eyes shot to the doorway, where a young dwarf in a heavy coat stood petrified,
the few logs he carted in his arms allowed to clatter to the floor. “Oh my God, stop it! Stop hurting him!”

“Don’t, junior! It’s fine! It’s fine, just— just go on and get some more firewood. Daddy’s okay” Winkle
pleaded, attempting to manufacture calm in his voice.
“Put him down, you’re hurting him!” The boy cried, unmoving. Will stood staring at him, unfazed.

The gifts under the tree. Should have known.

“The foreman… you need to talk to the foreman.” Winkle sputtered. Will turned back to face him before
releasing him onto the crushed pile of presents. “Where.”

“He… still lives at the North Pole…” Will procured his notepad. “Not marked on human maps. Need
coordinates.”

Winkle struggled to his feet. “Wait…wait here.” He hobbled out of sight, leaving a brief moment of
awkward solitude between Will and the dwarf boy. They stared at each other.

After a few seconds of silence, Will inquired, monotone, “Do you like videogames?”
Winkle returned to the kitchen.

“Here. Just take this. It’s accurate, I swear.” He handed Will a rolled-up cloth map, thoroughly yellowed
and faded but nonetheless usable. Will briefly examined it, snapped a photo with his phone, then stuck the
item into his coat. He turned to exit, foregoing any goodbyes. As he went to pass by the young boy they
met eyes once more, before Will broke away and stared at the floor. He stopped at the boy’s side,
reaching into his pocket and counting out five twenty-dollar bills. “Hrm… here. Buy yourself some new
presents.” He turned back and looked into the cabin one last time.

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Winkle.”

III

December 23th. Arctic circle. Making my way across the vast white infinite. Uncharted territory. Had to
pull some strings to charter a private plane. Snowmobile. Sidearm. GPS. Satellite phone. Ancient map.

Everything about the environment is hostile to life. Eternal night. Subzero temperatures. Not a single
natural resource in sight. Few animals that can survive here stalk the icy plains hungry for flesh, clad
fully in white like an extension of the region itself. Entire place feels utterly alien, like some eldritch plane
tucked away in the furthest reaches of time and space. The moment you set foot on those ice floes, the
moment you gaze out into that icy waste, you can hear the region’s haunting voice— simply speaking the
words “You shouldn’t be here.”

I think back to what Winkle said about elf society. It all makes perfect sense. If humanity, flawed as it is,
emerged from the heart of Africa, surrounded by all manner of flora and fauna, one shudders to imagine
what manner of people the arctic would beget— their hearts and minds gnarled by the region’s cosmic
solitude and brutality. They are an enigmatic people, and their past remains a mystery— perhaps one
better left unturned.

One has to wonder what a figure so renowned for his warmth and cheer would see in a place like this.
Was it the untapped labor power of an entire race of boreal savages, ripe for civilizing by some jolly
white messiah? Was it some kind of sublimated misanthropy, an escape into seclusion and privacy, away
from the prying eyes of a people he viewed as lesser, where he need only check up on them once a year?
Is it fear? Did he understand humanity’s true nature from the moment he began bestowing gifts, sensing
their predilection for violence against things they don’t understand? Fat lot of good that did him. The
more I think about it, the less I realize we know about the man. His death may be the subject of my
investigation, but his origins remain a greater mystery— again, perhaps better left unturned.

24 hours of total night made navigation difficult— not helped by climate change rendering major parts of
the map useless. (“Sugar Plum Cave” appears to have totally melted away, and I fear that the fairies
endemic to the region, defenseless, have all been savagely eaten alive by Rat Kingdom marauders.

Eventually came to a narrow ice bridge. Much smaller, thinner than indicated. Have to leave the
snowmobile behind and proceed on foot from this point. To say that crossing it would be akin to signing
my own death warrant would imply that the boreal waste is beholden to any sort of law and order— still,
I can see my life begin to flash before my eyes from the moment my boot hits the brittle surface of the ice.
I cut the mental slideshow short, pausing it just as I​ see my 6-year old self unwrapping his first toy gun​.
No time for this sentimental crap. Need to continue moving.

After several more hours of walking, I can start to feel my life getting anxious to leave. It’s odd. During
the years I’ve spent in this line of work I’ve been stabbed, shot, beaten, concussed, poisoned, dragged
behind a car, dragged behind a horse, dragged behind a very fast young man, electrocuted, thrown into a
cement mixer, thrown out of a cement mixer, scalded, concussed, had the bed I was sleeping on exploded
out from under me, hit with paint cans, set on fire, bit by strange creatures, dropped from a helicopter
and, at one point, had two tiny scientists driving a little ship around inside my body and bumping it
against my internal organs. But it’s something entirely different to actually experience yourself dying in
slow motion. My body is trying it’s hardest to sweat profusely— but nothing will come out. I can feel my
skin grow waxy as it starts to take on the same pigment as the surroundings. The arctic is claiming me as
one of it’s own. I muster what little strength I have to crane my head up and glance ahead. Vision is
blurred— can barely make out the horizon, a diminutive pencil stroke across a vast white canvas. Then,
disrupted. Something else— some other random smear of white—is standing between us. I attempt to pull
out my six shooter, and try to quickly decide whether to use it on the boreal carnivore, or on myself. It’s a
moot point. Everything fades from white to black and my body begins to fall forward, careening to the
ground in front of me. I don’t feel the impact.
 IV

Will awoke to the feeling of being smothered under some unknown mass, blanketed by an oppressive
warmth and softness. Fearing he was being held like a pup under the hide of some massive mammalian
beast, he instinctively thrust his arms out and freed himself with ease, using far more force than necessary
on the mass’ unexpected lightness. He quickly assessed what he pushed off. It turned out he was actually
just blanketed by blankets, dozens of them, each one brightly patterned and hand-knit, not much larger
than a pillowcase.

“Well gee— my wife always thought those blankets were a little tacky, but I don’t think they were ​that
bad!” Will sat up, quickly scanning his surroundings for the unknown voice. He was in a quaint wooden
house, laying down on the hardwood floor of what was likely a hybrid living room/dining room area, the
sort you’d see in an apartment. Just from sitting up his eyeline was already higher than most of the
furniture, and if he stood up fully he would almost certainly knock his head against the roof. He finally
located the source of the voice; a hunched, three-foot-tall halfling with an equally long, snow-white beard
that obscured his torso. He stepped out of a cozy kitchen corner carrying a ceramic mug about the size of
his head, the strength of his grip belying his size and age. His clothing looked like it was ripped off of a
vintage Americana-themed teddy bear.

“Sorry they’re so short. Don’t get too many visitors your size ‘round here. Here, drink this.” The old man
thrust the massive mug towards Will, who complied automatically, receiving the drink and taking a quick
sip. It had the color and constancy of tar, and slid down will’s throat with a teasing, near-erotic slowness.
Its chocolate flavor was overpoweringly rich, and so sweet that it was nearly painful. Will completed the
introductory sip and immediately gasped for air, his face flushed red. He could feel its warmth slowly
spreading through his body. After pausing to take in the sensation of the thing, Will went for another sip,
measured and slow. The drink’s intensity was not for the faint of heart, but there was a deep satisfaction
to it’s daunting intensity, like that of an espresso or fine whiskey. The second sip restored color and
feeling to all of Will’s near-frozen appendages (as well as imbuing in him a deep and instantaneous hatred
for the ​Nestle​ corporation and all its contemporaries). By the third sip, Will had gained the strength to
triumphantly spring to his feet, immediately smacking his head against the rafters and sitting back down.
“Good stuff, eh?” The man inquired. This drink was no doubt the fuel behind the unparalleled factorial
efficiency of the elven workforce, Will thought.

“Yes. Thank you.” Will responded, rubbing his head. “I presume you are the one that saved me? You
have my deepest gratitude.” He said, monotone.

The old man waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, you don’t need to do that. Just make sure to be more
careful out there next time; you’re lucky I was out on one of my strolls, otherwise you’d be a dead man.”
He plopped himself onto a cushioned wooden stool. “What brings you all the way out here, anyway?”

“I’m here to seek the truth,” Will responded, stoically.

The old man smiled warmly. “You know, you’re never too old to learn the true meaning of Christmas.”
“What? No. I’m investigating the death of Saint Nicholas.” Will flashed his business card. “William
White, private detective.”

The old man let out a long exhalation. “I see.”

“I’m looking for the old foreman— I understand he might be able to help. Do you know where I might
find him?

“You’re looking at him.”

Hrm. Convenient.

“The name’s Janus Jingle. But you can call me ‘Poppy’. That’s what everyone here calls me.”

“I don’t think so, Mr. Jingle.”

“Well… what is it you want to know, then?”

“Everything. Tell me everything. From the beginning”

Janus smiled weakly and shook his head. “It’s not too often that strangers are so eager to listen to the
stories of a washed-up old man. It’s nice to have a set of ears around. Even for a topic like this.”

There are already thousands of unanswered questions ringing inside my head. Cocoa beans and dairy
cows could never survive in an environment like this; they had to be acquired in trade. Was the altruistic
endowment of gifts just a front, the outward facing segment of an enormous global trade deal? It would
certainly explain why this ancient race of boreal savages speak English instead of some older European
tongue. I keep the questions in my back pocket. If the old man is so willing to talk, better to just let him
run his mouth and see what falls out.

“I’ve been lead foreman here since— well, shit, who knows anymore. Centuries. You lose count after a
while.” Janus looked out the window. The faint yellow glow of artificial lighting seeped into the cabin,
dampened by the all-encompassing eternal darkness of the arctic night. Or was it daytime? Winkle’s lack
of a clear timeframe began to seem more plausible to Will. When you live for hundreds of years in
unbroken darkness, one can imagine you begin to view tidy little notions of date and time as somewhat
less sacrosanct.

“After that, it was Director of Labor Affairs. Foreman-of-the-foremen. More of a paper-pusher, really. I
was always more of a people person, but—“ He looked at the floor, exasperated. “I didn’t want to let
down Nick.”

“I’m not sure I follow,” Will said.

Janus pointed to the window on the far side of the room.”Go on and take a look out there. Tell me what
you see.”

I oblige him. What I see is surreal, but not surprising. An infinite grid of identical concrete factory
buildings, stretching far beyond my line of sight. Each building is dilapidated, chipped paint faded from
what was likely once bright red to pale flesh tone, doors rusted shut, windows smashed, alleyways in
between lit up by flickering wall-mounted lamps. It’s a post-industrial waste on such an utterly urbanized,
imposing scale that it makes the American rust belt look positively quaint by comparison. With every new
detail I notice— piles of gray snow sloughed against the bottom of the factory walls, shimmering as bits
of smashed glass catch the urine-colored light, glimpses inside of torn posters that read “KEEP IT
JOLLY, KEEP IT SAFE” — I can feel a sharp pain in my chest, imagining the symptoms of a society built
around something like this. Industrialization ravages a population. De-industrialization does the same.
One would imagine that the period of time in-between would therefore have to make the whole ordeal
worth it— but after laying eyes on a landscape like this, I just can’t manage to convince myself of that.

“It looks much worse now than it was at the time, but…” Janus trailed off. “Nick… he was a man with a
heart too big for his body.”

Will turned back eagerly from the window like a dog that heard its name. “Cause of death?”

Janus did a sort of awkward half chuckle. “Well, I was speaking figuratively— but I suppose that really
was it, in a way.”

Will retrieved his notepad. “How do you mean?”

“It wasn’t always like this, you know? Things weren’t always quite so cold— again, speaking
figuratively. But… well, the world was changing around us. Population growth, toys getting more and
more complicated… and the last thing Nick wanted to do was disappoint. It wasn’t a reputation thing for
him, never was. He was a pure soul. But this just wasn’t the world he knew anymore.” Janus looked off
into the distance.

“He spent 364 days out of contact with people. Christmas, gift giving— it was all that he knew. He
couldn’t bear to give it up, couldn’t imagine getting left behind. So when the world expanded, so did we.
More factories, more toys… he wanted to make sure every kid was getting something good. But even for
someone like him, it was just too much.”

Will leaned in. “You mean—“

“Worked himself to death. Literally. The manual stuff was all divvied up amongst us, of course… but the
mental stress… the emotional toll... “

“…”
“There isn’t any fancy word to describe it. One day, his body just… quit. Collapsed in his office. It was
the only way it could have ever ended, I suppose. He never would have retired. Never would have
accepted that maybe the world didn’t need him anymore.”

Will looked for something to say. “How did Mrs. Claus take it?”

“She’s been dead for centuries.”

It was extremely hard for Will to imagine an overworked bachelor with power over a cult-like workforce
of underlings not making inappropriate sexual use of his position at least a few times in the past several
centuries— even as someone who respected the man. Given the timeframe, illegitimate children seemed
likely— but could an elf woman bear the child of a human? What about that of a celestial being? For that
matter, why hadn’t his original wife ever given him child? This wasn’t the time to inquire. Will made a
quick note;

SN = asexual? investigate further

then looked back up to Janus.

“Do you have any record of when he passed?”

Janus grunted as he rose to his feet. “Normally we don’t really keep track of stuff like that, but…” he
strolled out into the other room, out of Will’s sight, and could be heard rummaging through some things.
A moment later he returned, clutching a crumpled piece of cardboard decorated with festive designs. He
handed it to Will. The front was covered with a grid of opened-up little flaps and empty containers. The
number of boxes were all wrong, but it was clearly some kind of advent calendar. One solitary box, right
in the middle, remained unopened. At the top of the calendar, in lieu of month or year, was a series of
pictograms depicting the cycles of the moon. It’s possible that the exact year could be translated from the
strange symbology, but Will would have to take it to an elven codebreaker. He knew a guy in Manitoba.

“Mr. Jingle, I… are you familiar with how people view Santa Claus these days?” Will inquired hesitantly.

Janus breathed out another long sigh. This time, it carried a sense of weary assurance. “I know.”

“They think he’s a myth.” Will reiterated. “This isn’t directly related to the case, but… doesn’t that upset
you?”

“It used to, maybe. But there’s another way of looking at it. These people— parents from all over the
world— have collectively taken on his mission. They’ve banded together to keep his spirit alive. There
aren’t many things that people from all walks of life are willing to cooperate on, but this…” he trailed off.

“It’s the best outcome that could have come out of this. Nick should be proud of what he built… but it’s
time to hand over the reigns.”
Janus looked out the window. “It’s a shame what became of this place, you know. I don’t blame people
for leaving. But this is what happens when you attach everything you have onto the ambitions of one
person. Still, it’s my home. I’m too much of a stick in the mud to leave.”

Will pocketed his notepad. “Is that the whole story?”

Janus turned back to face him. He smiled. “That’s all there is, I’m afraid. I’m sorry it didn’t turn out to be
some exciting murder mystery.”

Will rose to his feet, slowly this time. “Don’t be. Best result one can hope for.” He patted down the
various pockets of his winter coat, ensuring he had all his things. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to explore
the town a bit. Interview some of the other locals. Paint a better picture in my head, you understand.”

“No, no, you can’t go back out so soon! You almost died!” Janus rose to his feet. “It’s Christmas Eve,
William! Won’t you stay in and indulge me in a little more conversation? It’s been so long.”

“I’d love to, Mr. Jingle. But I’m afraid there’s more work to be done. I’ll be sure to return before too
long.”

I wouldn’t love to. Not while there are still unanswered questions.

I exit the house. Jingle lives in what can best be described as a rustic wooden trailer, right outside the
concrete factory complex. It’s a little unclear at first what the municipal layout is of The North Pole. After
a bit of wandering, it becomes clear there really isn’t one. Numerous apartment-like living units, all in
serious states of disrepair, are scattered strategically amongst the endless factory compounds; most are
completely abandoned. Occasionally, one might see some haggard looking elvish vagrants of unknown
age lying about stupefied inside, no doubt strung out on whatever twee holiday-themed opiod is endemic
to a place like this. The region is dedicated wholly to manufacturing, with the essentials of food and
shelter for its labor force built around that central goal. (The communal dining areas resemble the
exterior of a fifties diner, albeit wholly concrete. One must imagine that every spare bit of metal and
wood available was dedicated to production— with the exception of the foreman’s house, of course.) The
brutal utilitarianism and streamlined productive vision of it all makes it seem like the wet dream of every
grand communist dictator. Collapse was inevitable.

I’ve been wandering aimlessly for over an hour and I still can’t see it. The accursed concrete buildings
block my view of the horizon, which is already muddled by the darkness of the midnight sky. Midnight the
color, I mean— unsure of the actual time. I pass by a pair of prostitutes, shivering intensely in shapely
clothing under one of the street lamps. One of them beckons to me, making a lewd comment about my
“candy cane”. I tell her that that’s not appropriate, and continue on my aimless march. Feet are
beginning to grow cold. I get fed up and ask the next junkie I see for directions. He wants something in
return, presumably to hawk for dope. My money’s no good here. I flash my .357 and ask him if he takes
lead. He says he does, so I remove a few of the bullets and hand them over. He points me where I need to
go.

I never had any intention of interviewing anyone else. I’m a detective, not an amateur documentarian; the
only account I can trust is my own. At last, I have located it. On the far end of the “town”, looming
ominously over the rows of concrete ziggurats, stands an enormous pine tree. No doubt a transplant, it’s
the only piece of green vegetation I’ve seen in days, and while I’m no botanist, it looks to me rather old.
Like most of the arctic region, there is an unsettling, otherworldly beauty to it— it resembles in its details
a standard evergreen tree, but is bizarrely short and stout— there is about 10 feet of bulbous trunk before
the branches shoot out from all directions overhead, shielding the ground below it with its dense umbrella
of twigs and needles. As such, the soil below has only the lightest powdering of snow on it. The place
would make an ideal hangout for junkies, but none are here— out of unspoken reverence, I imagine. After
all, if Mr. WInkle is to be believed… then I am standing on the the resting place of Santa Claus himself.

I take the shovel I borrowed from behind Jingle’s house and get to work. I wish I could say that I had
some hunch to go off of— some discrepancy in Jingle’s story, some minute facial cue that indicated he
was lying, but I don’t. That’s always been Rob’s strong suit. Mine is that I’m thorough. And I’m not
leaving this godforsaken stretch of ice until I can confirm the truth for myself.

The intensity of the labor puts some warmth back into my body, but not enough to restore dexterity to my
hands. Luckily, moving dirt is not brain surgery. It's been almost another hour, and I have dug a shallow
ring around the base of the tree. Finally, my shovel resounds against something hard. A few more
excavatory scoops reveal a cherry-red casket with solid gold trim— unlike the factory walls, the color has
barely faded. My hands change from shivering to quivering as I reach to open the thing. I pause for a
moment to gather my resolve— the absolute truth is about to be made clear. I pull back the lid of the
casket.

VI

The corpse’s visage is porcelain, messianic; though there are superficial similarities to the cartoon
mascot of the same name, the body before me is unmistakably that of a saint, or perhaps even something
greater. Perfect silken locks of polar-white hair drape down across his bare shoulders and chest, running
parallel with an abundant white beard that it meets at the hips. The body is fully nude— perhaps an elven
burial tradition, perhaps a symbolic eulogy for a man considered ascendant over the material world. His
skin is only a shade darker than his hair, and its taut smoothness contrasts against his long, thorough
beard, making him appear sagely and wizened yet eternally young. His face is long and severe, nose
geometric and commanding, not bulbous and red-flushed like those of his cartoon caricature. He is
plump, to be sure, but also broad-shouldered and barrel chested, in addition to appearing well over 6
feet. One look at the sum of his parts would immediately banish any doubts of the man as something
greater than. Despite his imposing ubermenschian stature, however, he appears placid, pacifistic— the
uglifying signs of avarice and tyranny are nowhere to be found on his face.
Time is running out and my body is growing cold. I began to conduct a simple noninvasive autopsy. I do a
thorough visual scan from head to toe— the body is pristine. No signs of injury or distress. I muster all of
my strength and carefully flip the hulking demigod over. His backside appears to have grown into a bit of
a bony hunch and the soles of his feet are calloused over— not terribly surprising— but he is otherwise
unblemished. Though I’m unable to make a complete medical examination, the findings corroborate
Jingle’s testimony. I grip the corpse by the thigh and neck and prepare to return to it to the way I found it,
respectfully prone, when I notice something strange— a messily crosshatched indentation previously
obscured by the beard.

I produce a magnifying lens and make a closer examination. This type of impression— it couldn’t be. I
palpate the neck region to confirm my theory, performing a status check that has become disturbingly
routine in my line of work. I can feel it. I run my fingers along it. Oh no. Oh no no.

Dear God.

He fucking hanged himself.

VII

The impression? Strangulation marks left by tinsel. The hyoid bone? Intact. It’s unmistakably suicide by
hanging. Quite the detail for Jingle to omit from his “overwork” story— meaning it was never overwork
to begin with.

Will laid the body back inside the coffin and closed the lid. He gazed at the thing, shovel in hand, taking
in the magnitude of it all. Here lay one of the most monumental figures in human history— ascendant,
altruistic, salvationary, an uncompromising prophet of universal joy— who had voluntarily abandoned his
own mission, a Christ figure lain down unceremoniously upon a cross of his own make. He was a creature
of faith— a prophet for mankind whose universality far exceeded that of any religion— who had
abandoned all faith of his own. Will had spent his life seeking out the most heinous crimes of men; those
hidden from the public eye, and those that the public deliberately looked away from. Things the sight of
which would drive any man with more humanity than Will, any man not numb to the horror of it all, into
shock, agony, and for some, even suicide. And yet— even after uncovering all manner of such
unspeakable crimes— it was only this discovery here, with all its magnitude, that managed to totally
smother Will’s psyche. Holding the truth of it in his head, he felt like a man carrying a nuclear bomb—
knowing that it would be his duty to deploy it.

“It was never supposed to be this way.” A familiar voice rang out behind Will. He turned around slowly
to face Janus, clad in a swollen fur parka, stubby feet planted in the snow, brandishing a snub nose
double-barreled shotgun. The gun had been adjusted for the man’s diminutive stature, with a red ribbon
tied around the body in a bow and the grip painted with a tasteful candy-cane stripe. Will stared at him,
silent. Hands gloved and frozen into submission, he knew that he lacked the manual dexterity to quickly
retrieve and fire his own weapon.

“Please, William… its not too late. Things don’t need to turn violent. It’s Christmas day, Will, check your
watch. I’ve got a pie in the oven, hot cider… we can just forget about this whole thing and go back
home.”

“When was it, huh? Industrial revolution?”

“Will…”

“Maybe it was later than that. 1920s. Invention of TV, TV ads.”

“Will, I wasn’t trying to—“

“This is what we get. This is what we deserve. Pigs, hogs, fucking bastards, all of us. It was never enough,
this holiday. More, more, more. Buy, buy, buy. And he saw it all. He saw what we became, what we did
to ourselves, and he couldn’t abide it anymore. Salvation was no longer on the table. We weren’t worth
the fucking effort. So he killed himself, didn’t he? Ran out of reasons to stay on this putrid fucking plane
of existence. Can’t say I blame him.”
“…”

“And its only gotten worse. More depraved, more desecrated. In a way, it’s a blessing that he isn’t around
anymore to see it. I’d almost call it a mercy killing if I wasn’t so sure it was cold-blooded murder.”

“…”

“We did this. Humanity did, all of us. Every pig CEO, every child spoiled rotten, every middle-aged hag
who doesn’t have enough fucking jewelry. We took something pure and made it profane. We have blood
on our hands— and I’m going to ensure that the whole world knows it.”

“Will, you…”

Janus lowered his firearm slightly. “Will, Christmas was never about Santa the man. It’s about what he
stood for. He knew it. We all knew it. These people… they need to keep his spirit alive. They need
something to believe in. Bringing joy to people you care about— that’s the true meaning of Christmas.”

“Bullshit. Christmas died with this man, and we’ve just been desecrating it’s corpse.” Will tromped his
right foot into the ground and began to march forward, undeterred. “The people need to learn the truth.”

“Will, please… you know I can’t let you do that. ” Janus raised his gun again. Will continued walking,
unfazed.

“Will, I’m begging you. Stop. Don’t make me do this.” He began to cry.
“How long have you been covering it up, huh? How many people have died here? Am I the first? Lucky
number one, big winner? If you’re going to put me down like an animal, I want to know how many others
there were.”

“​Will​, “ Janus sobbed “​bleeease”

Step. Step. Step. Will thrust his hand into his coat, reaching for his firearm.

(((( ))))
 VIII

There’s an odd serenity to the extreme cold of the arctic, if you can put yourself in the right headspace for
it. Having your chest blown open is one way, though I wouldn’t recommend it to most people. The
slideshow of my life, which I had put on pause several hours ago, picks up where it left off. Boring. What
a way to rub salt in the wound— I’m about to die, and I can’t even watch something interesting. In the
midst of it all, my mind begins to wander. I think back to Rob and his family. They’re at the theater right
now, watching some dogshit Adam Sandler movie. Afterward, they’ll head on over to some
American-Chinese grease pit— something with a name like “Happy Lucky Wok”, the sort of thing that’s
so stupid that you’d be called a racist if you put it in a movie, even though it’s real. In my vision I can see
myself there, cracking open a fortune cookie and reading the nonsense inside. Rob laughs aloud, slapping
me on the back and pondering what it could mean. His kids both asks for to-go bags, barely touching
their ring-a-ding chicken after they filled up on Red Vines in the theater. Rob’s wife asks me if I’m seeing
anyone. I tell her no. She talks up one of her single friends, coming off as inadvertently patronizing as she
offers to set me up with her. I politely decline, and Rob slaps my back again, harder, chiding me and
insisting I “give it a shot, for once”. Rob begins telling an anecdote about a dame we knew from a case
we worked years ago, cutting himself off when he realizes the story isn’t appropriate for his kids. He
stammers, and insists that his wife and kids “get the idea”. I force an awkward laugh, which eventually
turns into a genuine laugh. He invites me back to his place for a few drinks, flaunting the fancy bourbon
he got as a gift from ‘Mrs. Claus’, which was “especially nice, considering we’re Jewish.” He winks to
his wife. She laughs. We return home in one car. I sit between both children, who ask me about my line of
work. I tell them the tamest story I have available, and lie about if I’ve ever killed anyone. Back at the
house, Rob offers me a glass of the aforementioned liquor in the study while the muffled sound of “All I
Want For Christmas Is You” emanates from the living room radio. I take a sip of it. It’s good.

Suddenly I’m back in the North Pole, lying on my back, bleeding out. I reach a trembling hand into my
coat and pull out the advent calendar I received earlier. I hold it above me and slowly, delicately, reach
my hand out, ungloved, and pry open that single unopened square. A small piece of chocolate in the shape
of a bell drops out and lands on my cheek. I barely manage to lift my hand once more and scrape it into
my mouth. The tiny bit of heat remaining inside me melts the thing onto my tongue. Despite being
countless decades old, it’s sweet and rich, tastier than I could have ever imagined.