The Legend of Tiny, A Psychotic Elf

I know most of my posts are short, but I wanted to share a story I wrote that may or may not be offensive. I don’t do this very often so, I hope you can stand it. It’s about four pages long.

It was the month of December, which is also known as almost Christmas, and we all know what happens at almost Christmastime… the North Pole gets swamped with letters from children around the world. St. Nick is a busy fellow and receives so much mail; he can’t possibly read more than a few letters himself. This responsibility rests upon the shoulders of a group of elves, managed by Santa’s right-hand man, an overworked and mentally unstable elf, known around the compound as Tiny.

Tiny had been in this position for years and it was taking its toll. Unfortunately, psychiatric care isn’t available at the Pole. And the elf really became jumpy and short-tempered during the period of almost Christmastime. He had little patience if things didn’t run along smoothly, just like clockwork. Mainly he was worried about keeping Mr. & Mrs. Claus happy. If things were amiss it was Tiny who suffered the consequences.

Tiny was normally high strung, but this time of year he had his moments of sheer insanity which always seemed to stem from the mail department. One year he had received a few new recruits who weren’t getting through the “Dear Santa” letters quick enough, and it was crunch time. One of those elves, poor Poky, still remains missing after Tiny decided to cut his losses and make a big bonfire out of all of the letters from South America. Whenever Tiny is at the end of his rope he has serious trouble thinking things through, and it can get the best of him. It’s rumored that while Tiny had gone around slapping the elves on their backs, muttering things like “Latino bastards!” and, “Why don’t we get letters from the igloo children anymore?”… he may have slapped Poky’s back just a bit too hard as he was fanning the flames. Only Tiny, Santa and a small crew of frightened elves know what really happened that day. Tiny spent six months on the Isle of Giants, and we can only assume it was his punishment for that whole fiasco.

A moment of silence for Poky the elf, please.

One day Tiny came into work after a weekend of partying and elf wrestling, which was a sport near and dear to his heart. He was a champion elf wrestler, but it hadn’t always been that way. It had taken many years of dedication and steroids to eventually climb to the top. Tiny felt out of sorts on this day and thought maybe he had partied a little too hard. He grabbed some coffee and went to his desk to check out the newest midget porn download available from his favorite website. He was out of luck today, nothing new there, and this only contributed to his mood which was growing increasingly more disturbed as each moment passed. He thought about making a liquor run but since it was almost Christmastime he knew Santa would be too stressed to test at this point. Tiny decided to suck it up and proceeded to go on with his day, not knowing it would live on in infamy at the Pole.

Tiny was on a break a few hours later, playing online poker at his desk, when there was a knock at the door.

“Come on in!” Tiny hollered, hoping it was Jiggles, the elf who could open a letter with the twist of a tongue and would occasionally drop one on his lap first. But alas, it wasn’t Jiggles; it was another elf from the mail room known as Whiny Brian. He always showed up whenever there was a problem.

“What the hell is it this time?” Tiny grumbled.

“This has never happened before,” Brain whined. “This is unheard of. I don’t know what to do with this. Read it and tell me what I should do.” He handed a letter to Tiny.

Tiny gazed upon it in confusion, had trouble reading it, and ultimately tried squinting. He hadn’t any kids of his own and the multiple spelling errors were making his head swim. This was already a bad day but it was quickly getting worse. “Can you understand any of this?” he asked Brian.

“I can make out enough of it to see it’s not right. It’s not addressed to Santa. It’s - it’s for the Missus!”

Tiny felt beads of sweat beginning to appear on his forehead. He went to the internet and found a language translator with a ‘Gangster Kid to English’ option. It wasn’t long before he realized the translator was full of bugs. With Brian’s help he was able to decode the letter, eventually.
This is the ‘cleaned up’ version:


Dear Mrs. Claus,

I know you must be shocked because you’re getting a letter. I bet you never got a letter before in your life. But this is why I’m writing you. I wrote to your husband Santa last year and he didn’t get me what I asked for. Why Mrs. Claus, why? I am a good kid most of the time. All I asked for was a Tommy Gun so I can be a bad ass in my school. This gang of kids - Mikey, Jimmy, Donny and Skull - they kick my ass daily and I just want it to stop.

Love,

Gaylord (Little G)


The back of the letter showed the kid’s love for arts and crafts. It seemed that yearbook pictures had been cut out and pasted on. Underneath the pictures - some angry scrawling - it looked like… STOP THESE BASTARDS.

After a momentary feeling of accomplishment at deciphering all of the gibberish, this warm feeling quickly changed to shock and horror. Tiny was shocked, and Brian stood frozen in sheer horror.

“What… will… we… do?” Whiny Brian stammered.

“Well, what can we do? He was doomed from day one.”

“No, no, not that, I mean, what are we going to do about this letter? Do we go to the Missus? Do we go to the Big Guy? Good god! Please don‘t say we take it to him…”

“Brian!” Tiny slapped him across the face. “Snap out of it man. Let me worry about this. I’ll take care of it somehow. Just, shut-up! I’m having a bad enough day as it is. Look at me; I’m getting shaky now. I’m all out of valium and I don’t need this shit!”

Tiny was just as panicked over this as Whiny Brian was. Brian turned toward the door.

“Oh, and Brian? If you don’t keep your mouth shut about this I’ll put you on duty to wax Mrs. Claus. And with your kind of luck, that 600-pound bitch will probably be in heat,” Tiny threatened. “You got that? No one is to know of this.”

Brian shuddered, nodded and then left Tiny alone to deal with the problem at hand.

Now Tiny was already on the verge of insanity, but then, a song he hated with every inch of his soul began to play over the loud speakers.

Chest-nuts… roas-ting… on an open fire…

So let’s recap… almost Christmastime… Monday… psychotic elf… on steroids… hung over… no new porn… no alcohol… no Jiggles… Whiny Brian… first letter ever to Mrs. Claus which would surely throw Santa into the biggest tizzy ever known to hit the Pole… no valium… a song Tiny hates…

Enter tantrum.

“FOCK NOOOOOO!”

My god! the voice in Tiny‘s head screamed. He sat down at his desk for a moment, and pounded his fists. He then stood, walked around and proceeded to kick it so many times… his pc monitor soon hit the floor.

“Oh! So that’s how you want to be? Die, bitch, die!”

He grabbed a hammer from his bottom desk drawer and went to town on the poor monitor until it was nothing but a pile of rubble.

Now what?

He figured since it was all over but the crying, he may as well continue down this path of utter madness. He snuck off out the back way and down the road a short distance to the Claus’s homestead. As he got closer to the house his nose began to wrinkle.

What’s that smell? he wondered. Feces and a dash of bacon?

Mrs. Claus had been eating non-stop since Thanksgiving and was so heavy now that answering the door was a monumental task, so she bid him entry as she sat on the sofa, which was quite sunken in.

“Is Santa here?” Tiny asked, knowing full well the Big Guy wasn’t around. “I need to talk to him and it’s urgent,” he announced.

“Oh, hello there Tiny!” Mrs. Claus was quite jolly with a plate of festive red and green bacon on her lap. “I’m sorry; he’s in the barn giving the reindeer their special shots. They need to be all ready for the big night. Would you like some festive bacon? There’s more in the kitchen, help yourself.”

Although he had always wondered exactly what was in those special shots and could probably find out now if he asked, he was on a mission and had no time for small talk.

“Thanks, that sure sounds yummy,” Tiny said as he headed to the kitchen, leaving Mrs. Claus and her putrid stench behind.

“I’ll be going out the back way - it’s closer to the barn,” he said loudly enough for her to hear.
He grabbed a slice of the pig meat on his way to the den, where Santa kept his guns. Being the avid collector he was, he had close to 200 on display. They covered the walls of the large room. Tiny chuckled wickedly, rubbing his small hands together with glee. It wasn’t long before he spotted Santa’s Thompson Submachine Gun, and with a step ladder it was just within reach. What a beauty it was, and it was even loaded. He made a run for it. Out the back door, off to the side and away from the barn and house, he ran and ran until he reached the dorm where he lived. No one was around - all of the elves were at the compound working - so it was perfect. He grabbed the keys to his magical flying Porsche, which turned invisible upon take-off. It also turned him invisible. I mean, come on, what good is invisible transportation if everyone can see you in it? Ultra dorky!

It wasn’t long before Gaylord - or - Little G’s school came into Tiny’s view. It was in what looked like a really rough neighborhood. He parked on the roof and shimmied down a drain pipe, the gun strap slung over his shoulder and the weight of the gun nearly throwing him off balance. It was kind of heavy, even for a buff elf like Tiny, but his adrenaline was immeasurable at this point. He entered the school. The bell rang just then - school was out now for Winter Break - and Tiny knew he’d better hurry. He looked up toward the sea of pimply faces as they rushed by and grew frustrated. Someone stepped on his foot and he yelped, but no one paid him any attention. Soon the hall where he stood was empty, so he limped on until he reached the end, where the hallway forked. Just then he heard some vulgar language and squeaky voices around the corner from where he stood. It was obviously some boys with bad ‘tudes. Then he heard what sounded like a kid being punched in the gut and kicked. He turned the corner.

Four kids stood around a fifth boy who was down on his side in the fetal position, writhing in pain.

“Which one of you do they call, Skull?” Tiny asked.

“That‘s me,” a greasy kid dressed all in black said menacingly. “What’s it to you, you little freak?!”

Bang-bang-bang.

Skull hit the floor. The others tried to run away, but Tiny recognized them all and took them out, one by one. Then he grabbed Little G’s shoulder. “Get up kid, now! I’ve gotta get outta here.”

Little G stood up and his mouth dropped when he saw the elf and the gun. “Who are you? Are you a real elf? Did Mrs. Claus sent you here to gimme my Tommy Gun?”

Tiny laughed like a madman. “Yep, that’s exactly why I’m here. Take your Tommy Gun kid - be sure to get your prints all over it. Merry Christmas! Oh yeah, and thanks for your letter. Here you go; you can have it back now.”

As Tiny ran off he hollered down the hall, “I hope you like bending over, kid! Ur anus isn’t just a planet!”


The End.


Happy Holidays!