Thank you ita!

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The project is not going as well as I had hoped. Perhaps I need to find fresher parts. No matter, this is the holiday season, so I should take a holiday. It's amazing how things have just. . . become decorated around here. I haven't seen anyone doing any work on it; well, not counting the little girl with the star who rode her dog to the East Tower.

According to the The Bloody Hell (I subscribed last month), Santa is granting wishes down by the rink. Surely he can spare some velvet togs for a girl who's been working hard all year. It might be fun. I wonder if they rent skates.

Hans returns back to the Castle walking in while I'm busy tinkering with my new shipment of parts from ACME.

"I'm done setting up the Santaland next to the rink boss. Had to have the robot help me out, that Santa robot is heavy. What's the project all about?"

"It's about giving back to the community Hans. The children will sit on auto-Santa's lap look up into his glowing red eyes..." I sigh and reflect that maybe I should have looked a little harder for more human looking eyeware, also perhaps I should have tweaked the software to 'Ho Ho Ho' instead of 'Bwah Ha Ha' but what are you going to do? "...And tell him what they want for Christmas. Then the factory with the self-replicating elf-robots will manufacture it."

Hans ponders this for a minute. "So, that's the big project you've been working on all this time."

"Yeah, it's been a lot of work, but it will be worth it when the city is singing my praises."

"Hope it works out with all the work you've been putting in."

"Don't worry Hans. What could possibly go wrong?"

It's pretty fricking cold today. The wind is cutting right through my fabulous faux-shearling coat (dark brown and oh, so very soft), chilling my blood, causing gooseflesh to rise and shivers to quake my muscles. I hop up and down briskly, trying to get warm. It doesn't work. I am very far behind in line. I look darkly at all the people in front of me. Dozens of children. Happy, excited, rosy-cheeked cherubs. I think I could take them.

I mean, few of them are higher than my waist. I could push past them no problem. They're well padded, in puffy pants and coats; they wouldn't hardly feel the landing if I tripped them.

It occurs to me that it probably wouldn't be politic to strongarm children whilst waiting in line for Santa. Little snitches would probably tattle to the fat man, and then where would I be?

I have to have this. I have to get my wish.

After an interminable wait it's finally my turn. (And, Jebus, could that gap-toothed little snot directly ahead of me taken any longer? I mean, how long could it take to ask for your two front teeth? Whistling freak. But, no, bastard has to sing the whole fucking song.) Santa's lap is harder than I expected. I look at him suspiciously; want to make sure that the old elf isn't too jolly, if you know what I mean. But his cheeks are glowing with good humour, his belly is shaking with laughter, and while his eyes are shining disturbingly, it's in no way lecherous. Good enough.

"Mwah - ha - ha - ha - ha. Have you been a good little gril?"

"Not particularly - Brian has never attempted to barbeque on me, though he has on occasion eaten off of .. .. Never mind that. Can I tell you what I want for Christmas?"

Santa's red eyes blink rapidly and a small, tinny voice murmurs "Search string 'gift': 'naughty': execute."

"Mwah - ha - ha - ha - ha. What would you like, naughty elf?"

It's my turn to blink a few times. But what the hell? I've done stranger things for toys. I lean close, ignoring the whirring of his heart - poor fellow, carrying all that extra weight must be putting a strain on his pacemaker - and whisper my wish into his ear.

"MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!" Santa's voice shakes the gigantic candy canes that surround his chair; elves tremble; children tumble to the ground, crying in terror. I am well pleased. I think that I'll get my wish. If I hurry home, maybe it will be there already.

Wheee! That was fun. After skating for two hours I'm dizzy, and in desperate need of a blood sugar fix. There's a rather mysterious cafe up the street that looks like it might have decent seafood. Mmmmm.

But before I go there, I have got to check out this most interesting Santa.

The line isn't two bad. Only two children - apparently on their own, two gorgeous wome dressed in bizarre luxury, and a scruffy looking guy carrying a battered doctor's satchel. My turn comes in no time.

I don't worry about sitting in Santa's lap. This guy - if he is a guy - looks like he could sling a pickup over his shoulder. I settle in and hurriedly try to settle my gift priorities.

"Have you been good, little girl," asks Santa, his ruby eyes all a-glitter.

I think a moment. "Well, I've been very good at what I do."

"Excellent! And what would you like for Christmas?" I detect a faint, mechanical hum beneath the booming voice.

"I would love a crushed velvet suit in forest green, a shiny new set of surgical knives, and a state of the art entertainment system, but if all or any of these items are beyond my read, I would cheerfully settle for the collected works of Edward Gorey."

"Every little girl loves Gorey! Merry Christmas!"

That must be my cue to leave. Feeling slightly tipsy, I head towards the cafe.

Oh, it's here! It's here! Oh frabjous day!

I madly tear the paper of the humongous package that is dominating my sitting room, carefully avoiding the WARNING: DO NOT OPEN UNTIL CHRISTMAS. SERIOUSLY, DON'T EVEN TRY TO PEEK. AND FORGET ABOUT TRYING TO SHAKE ME, OR X-RAY ME written large on each side. Because, honestly, how often are those cautions accurate? Only 60-70% of the time, max.

I wad the paper up and jam in the cold hearth, it will hide the evidence make good kindling.

I look at it. Then I look at it again. Then I look at it some more.

It's a thing of absolute beauty.

When I was six, Santa gifted me with a Fuzzy Pumper Barber Shop. You would fill these little, hollow people with Playdoh, sit them in a barber chair, and turn a crank that forced a plastic cylinder up their asses. This caused the Playdoh to rupture like little spaghetti snakes through the follicles drilled into their heads and gave them 'hair' which you would then cut and/or style as you fancied. Looking back, I can see that it's just a massive metaphor for sexual awakening; but at the time I just liked Playdoh, you know?

Anyway, Santa came through for me once more. I am now the proud possessor of a Fuzzy Pumper Orthanc; complete with mud pits, slime, and white paint. Oh, and a miniature forge so I can arm my fighting Uruk-Hai; how cute. At long last I can build an army worthy of Mordor.

I reach for the instructions; I want to make sure that I'm doing this right. Feh. Playdoh not included. Crap. I'll go to the store tomorrow.

Delayed gratification is sweeter, my ass.

Hell. Yes.

Damn it, Elena, PlayDoh was one of my last innocent childhood memories.

Canadian raccoons will eat PlayDoh, if they can't find anything else around the campsite.

Hello??? Play Doh tastes GOOD!