A crisp chill creeps through the air as the Writer picks up the stack of papers he has been writing on.
“A fitting end for the doctor’s night at the carnival has a good ending after all,” says the Writer, rolling the paper up and with a snap of his fingers, the story disappears into thin air, a flash ripples across the sky accompanying the story's disappearance.
“Now that that is off to the ether,” mumbles the Writer to himself, ruffling through the innumerable pages on his desk. The Writer finds a stack of papers and moves them in front of him, along with an impossibly fluffy feather pen, and an inkwell with ink so black, its depth seems never ending. “Ah yes here we are,” says the Writer. His pen once more glides across the pages, cosmic sparks leap from the page.
“Santa Claus must get his naughty list under control, or else the whole world may get destruction for Christmas,” murmurs the Writer, chuckling to himself.
A cold chill whips around the parapets of Claus’ fortress. Snow falls lightly through the air, as the stars twinkle on the deep, dark background of space. It would be the perfect winter night, save for the booming of marshmallow cannons shaking the wall. Flaming marshmallows streak through the sky as a manic cackle shrieks in the air.
“AH HA HA HA HA HA,” comes the cry as a silhouette of a reindeer-less sleigh flies in front of the full moon.
Alarms scream throughout Santa’s complex as the Big Man lumbers out of his study.
“Jingleman, give me a status report!” barks Santa into his microphone.
“Sir,” comes the reply, cutting through the static, “It was like he came out of nowhere. So many…so many… he just slaughtered them. He beat them to a pulp, with bells… He’s a monster. ”
“Who is “he”?” asks Santa, the large man lumbering down the hallways of the Christmas castle, heading towards the command center.
“We’re not sure, we have our intelligence analysts reviewing closed circuit footage now. An initial check through facial recognition software brought back nothing,” says Snazzyflakes, replying on the same radio frequency.
“He took ‘Silent Night,’” reports Candymittens cryptically.
“What is Silent Night?” asks Sugarfoot.
“That is on a strictly need-to-know basis,” says Santa in a tone that discourages further questioning, “Meet me in the command room now.”
“This guy,” Jingleman says slowly, “He’s… he looks like an elf, but he’s twisted. It’s like his Christmas spirit died.”
“His Christmas spirit died?” asks Candymittens facetiously, “Ah golly gee, Jingle, that’s too bad. That totally explains why this freak murdered all our friends.
The elves continue to bicker over the comms, but Santa stands frozen in the hall, frozen by the prospect that one of his most secret assets was now in the hands of one of his former blackest operative, Slay Bells.