The undead hoard charge unopposed at the walls of Santa's workshop. The battering rams are thrown to the ground as the gates are unbarred. As I ride through the gates in the middle of the hoard, I notice a few shattered mechanical elves. What the hell?

The workshop appears deserted, behind the workshop appears to be a large wooden scaffolding. I also notice various mechanical constructs scattered around the courtyard.

"Take the workshop! Capture any elves and bring them to me!" I yell to the skeletons around me.

Samyaza rides up to me on his skeletal mount. "We have taken everything. There has been no resistance."

"Something is wrong here. Where are the elves? Where is the resistence?" I ask Samyaza.

"I too am disturbed." He replies.

"Have you taken Santa's house?"

Samyaza nods. "He was not there."

Why do plans never go smoothly? "Send out scouts, see if they are holed up somewhere."

"Very well." Samyaza rides off to fulfill my orders.

I spot a couple of Skeletons dragging a curly shoed, pointy hatted figure to me.

"We found this one curled up in a corner with this." Rattles the skeleton while showing me a bottle of eggnog.

"Speak elf, where are the others!" I demand.

The elf hiccups and speaks. "Gone."

"Gone! Gone where?!"

"Laid off...hic...outsourced to...hic...another fandom. Cheaper...hic...labor" rambles the elf.

"What fandom?"

"Harry...hic...Potter fandom. Elves there...hic...work for free. Santa can kiss...hic...my little green...hic...ass." Says the pathetic elf.

"What are these machines for Elf?" I point at the mechanical contraptions.

"Tried...hic...to bring in...hic...business and start Polar...hic...Disney...hic...total bomb...hic...closed down."

"Damn, we've attacked the wrong elves."

"Should we kill him now?" Asks the skeleton holding the pathetic creature.

"No. Let him wallow in his misery. Find Samyaza and have him gather the army, we have to regroup."

A foot of snow had fallen on the city overnight. There was even snow in the portions of the city that were supposed to stay snow free. The nudists were peeved.

By sunrise, though, all the streets and sidewalks were clear and dry. Fearsomely tidy snow hedges lined every walkway.

I paused in the doorway of Moondeer's Coffee to study the eerie neatness.

"Elves," whispered a passer-by. "Prisoners of war from the late unpleasantness. I think there are attack gnomes buried in the snow, waiting for spring to free them. When the weather turns warm, I'm investing in a weed wacker for self-defense."

I nodded but didn't answer. I've always found that a croquet mallet was the most fun for pesky gnome problems.

"What are you doing boss?" Asks Hans as he wanders into the lab with the flux generator I asked him to pick up.

"I'm trying to do six impossible things before breakfast." I reply.

"It's afternoon."

"No, not for today." I say shaking my head. "I'm just trying to make it possible."

Hans sets down the flux generator. "If it's possible to do six impossible things before breakfast, then are they really impossible."

"Look, if a tree falls in the forest it makes a sound. We're doing science here, not philosophy. Hand me that hammer."

Hans hands me a hammer. "What does this thing do?"

I give it a couple of hard whacks and the gauges spring to life with a pleasant hum. "It's a disbelief suspension projector. It makes the impossible and improbably less impossible and improbable."

"Like on TV?" Asks Hans.

"Exactly, I'm downloading everything on IMDB and anything available via bittorrent into it for data to strengthen the field."

"Everything?" Asks Hans disbelievingly. "That's impossible."

"Not if it is working corr..." I start to say, but I'm interrupted by a warning light from the flux generator.

"What is it boss?" Asks Hans, looking at the light.

"The flux generator is overloading." I start to loosen the access panel on the generator.

"Is that bad?"

"An overload will disrupt the fabric of space-time resulting in the formation of a singularity that will destroy the planet." I explain while looking around the inside of the generator.

"Okay so it's bad, how long?"

"15 seconds says so on that panel right there. I've got to disconnect the flux circuit, but I can't find the wire." I try to trace wires looking for the right one to cut. "Hand me that wire cutter, please."

"Sure boss" says Hans, handing me the cutter. "Um...you think you've got it."

"Just a second. Damn is it the green or blue wire?"

"No pressure, but 5 seconds" Says Hans.

I take a breath and cut the blue wire. The display stops at one second.

"Close one." Says Hans.

Inga rushes into the room. "Have you guys heard the news? The biggest winter storm of the century is heading for the city, a comet has been discovered that will the city too, and I think the news guy said Mothra was spotted."

"Why is it always Mothra?" I comment to myself.

"Your suspension field must be working boss." Says Hans. "But maybe we should turn it off. This doesn't sound so good."

"Maybe tomorrow, but after breakfast."

The news guy says Mothra was spotted.

Well, of course Mothra's spotted. If he were striped, he would have to call himself Monarchra, and that would just be weird.

What I need to know is, why am I suddenly dressed in a mini-skirt, bustier and heels to check my P.O. box? More to the point, why are my boobs suddenly perkier than a cheerleader on nitrous oxide in zero-G? Well, at least the heels are on some mighty hot lace-up boots.

Not that I mind the admiring glances from the postal workers. They keep the admiration to a respectful level, as they know what I am. No, that's not what I mind. It's just this snow. Why am I dressed this way in this weather?

There's a letter from some law firm called Dewey, Cheatham, and Howe: It seems not only do I have a rich uncle that I never heard of before, but also I have a dead rich uncle with no one better to make residuary legatee of a sizable estate than me.

As I leave the post office, I note that at least 6 inches more snow has fallen, yet the sidewalks are still brilliantly clear. Rumor has it that there are elves involved, but I wonder if they are invisibly clearing the snow, or if they merely cause it to fall only on the lawns and not on the pavement.

And hey, now I can afford a nice fur coat. If there are elves about, they might be able to put me in touch with a cruelty-free shop, where animals who are ready to shuffle off this mortal coil go to volunteer their skins.

There's a thought tickling the back of my mind, but I can't put my finger on it, and the harder I reach for it, the further away it gets.

cough

<Offers Tom a lozenge>

It was a lovely day in Sang Sacre, no toads or pancakes or suchlike falling from the sky, so I rode my bike to work. It's been quiet in town lately, but that's fine with me. I like the quiet.

As I push the bike in through the side door, I'm surprised to see that we already have a customer. I can only see his back from where I'm standing, but I can see the bottle of Old deNyalle standing on the bar next to him. That's some pretty cheap whiskey for this early in the morning. Actually, it's pretty cheap whiskey for any time of day or night. It's most often ordered by folks keen on regurgitation. Charpe's orcs love the stuff.

I head down the corridor to the back room and stash the bike. Phred's back in the office, so I ask about the guy out front.

"He wandered in just after we opened up," Phred says. "Asked for whiskey, and told the bird to leave the bottle. He said something about losing his job, and that he'd been some kind of general or something. In the artillery, I think he said it was. Blames it all on the media."

"Don't they all. Maybe we should send him over to Charpe. He's always looking for new recruits. Or new practice dummies."

I take a peek around the corner. The guy still has his head down, hunched over his drink. He's already made a pretty serious dent in the bottle, and seems to be spilling his guts to the bird, although it's hard to make out what he's saying because he's slurring his words a bit. The bird seems properly sympathetic, nodding at the proper times and refilling the shot glass as it empties. I have to admit that old herring breath is a good listener.

Finally they seem to come to an agreement of some sorts, and both lift their glasses, one a shot of Old deNile, the other a juice glass full of herring juice (don't ask; the blender has never been the same) in a toast to Casper Weinberger. And then I recognize him.

I duck back into the office. "Phred? Is it possible that the word he used was 'Attorney,' rather than 'Artillery'?"

"Yeah, boss, that was it. How'd you know?"

"Lucky guess. And Phred?"

"Yeah, boss?"

"No tab. He pays cash, or finds another bar."

(Hee!)

Having heard that coming unexpectedly out of cryogenic storage is all the rage these days, the members of Grooveyard have once again defrosted. Except the drummer, who was last seen tooling around sometime in the 1570's, mumbling something about a malfunctioning clock.

A slightly befuddled band meanders, apparently with no memory of anything that happened in the entirety of Sang Sacre since, well, 2005. And they're auditioning drummers. Please report to Dogtown between the hours of 10pm and 2am. Must have own gear and/or levitation device. Ability to rapidly adjust to changing temperaments, skill levels, and sobriety without losing the groove a must.

Oh, and it would be good if he could play drums. Last guy we got was a little despondent, fresh out of a job. We couldn't really use him, so we aimed him at the nearest source for alcohol.

Man, they're always trying to preserve drummers in alcohol. And it never works. When will people learn?