The Hunt for Phil Begins

“You know the Council of Nine isn’t going to go for this, right?” Mr. Claus had mumbled with apathetic caution. He drew a hot cherry of his wooden pipe, the rich tobacco adding a fitting haze to his humid, humble Havana office. The sweet stench of heat, wood and rum still overpowered the smoke.

“My balls are already in a vice with them as it is. It doesn’t help that my work overshadows the bosses’ birthday. That puts me on thin ice already, you know. Now you’re here to put this shit on me? I don’t need this.”

I stared through his steel grey eyes. They had a cold quality; as if they had seen countless lifetimes. Maybe they had. I wasn’t sure. All I knew was I actually was quite fond of this man, but I was desperate. My despair formed rage and it slammed my fist on the thick wood of his desk. It hurt like a motherfucker.

“Now you listen to me- you fat, sorry excuse for a demigod! I don’t give a hot, sweet fuck with Eleanor goddamn Roosevelt that you got issues with the Council of Nine. We all do- they’re dicks. That does not change the fact that one of your miniature servants is out there, making life Hell for me and all mankind! Will you do nothing? Or fight, like a man!?”

Mr. Claus drew again from his oak pipe. His face was cherry red; the sweat from the heat and the anger now almost a vapour. His eyes pierced my soul, smoke now smouldering from his nose. Despite his anger, he knew that I was right. He sighed remorsefully.

“I created all of the Elves with powerful magic borrowed from the Council. I don’t even fully understand it. Phil is no exception. His lust for power and weaponry grow; malevolence in his tiny black heart. The Council isn’t going to like it, but it is true, my creation and my mistake must be destroyed. It is of the Fallen.”

The silence was deafening. I rose from my leather chair with the pace of a Redwood tree’s growth. I picked up a burlap bag from from his floor and a hammer from his workbench. We gave an unspoken nod of agreement as I walked out into the blistering Caribbean heat. We both knew what must be done.

You can’t ask Snap, Crackle or Pop how damn good I am at my job, because I did it well on them. Oprah Winfrey, your TV career, nor a fake doctorate can save you, I’m comin’ for you Phil. Cash me outside.

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A schemer and a dreamer. I'm a #Métis author located in Saskatchewan who writes short stories, poetry, book reviews, and jokes.

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