Part One of Two: The Yuletide Castle

Once upon a time, a troll lived in a vast and splendorous castle atop a medium sized hill. He wasn't just any ordinary troll, he was King, and not just any king, but King of The Land of Always Christmas.

It was always Christmas in the land, or at least in the Castle, or getting right down to the blue-white halogen glare of stark honesty, it was always Christmas in the very tip-top of the Castle, where the Troll King lived, and from there, Christmas was beamed throughout the Castle on the Royal-Troll-Christmas-Cable-Network, which, since the blue-white halogen glare of stark honesty never shown anywhere near the Castle, was the only light there was. And in that light, it was always Christmas.

Down in the lower parts of the Castle it wasn't always exactly Christmas. One half of the time, it was the mad-scramble credit card plunder of the day before, while the other half of the time, is was the day after, with its mounds of garbage and leavings to box up and haul away for the poor, so perhaps it really was Christmas everywhere, or close enough.

It was close enough for the Troll King, who, being a troll, could seldom leave his palace to tour the land below without inciting anti-Christmas behavior among the naughtier of the realm's children, which was just as well since he had only coal to give them anyway, and that purchased at such a dear military and environmental subsidy, paid to the Coal Witch, that, were the Yuletide Accounting Elves ever permitted to push the Big Red Button on the calculating machine, the floor would split open and a flood of spiders, centipedes, cockroaches, earwigs, maggots, earthworms, goblins, big hungry monsters, and stinkbugs would spew across the earth, drowning everything in a Halloweenish gift-repossessing spirit, and the Accounting Elves themselves would, with economy-rending shrieks, flop about on the floor like napalmed Hobbits, before expiring in tiny smoldering heaps.

So, for the public good and in the name of HoHohocracy and the Christmas Market, the Yuletide Accounting Elves were never permitted, under any circumstances, WHATSOEVER, to push the Big Red Button, and could only push the Bright Green One, the one that flashed a big happy face and made the numbers on the calculating machine add up in a more Christmasy Spirit.

The Troll King, meanwhile, was not just writing letters to Santa Claus (and being king of the Christmas Castle, he was one of the few who Santa wrote back), oh no, the Troll King was on a mission from the Christmas Spirit itself, and he worked night and day to bring Christmas to distant lands where no one had ever known Christmas before. At least, he worked some nights and some days. The Troll King was a great delegator and had an army of Christmas Trollets, who he tasked with spreading the warm light of Holiday Cheer across the whole world.

While his happy elves flew over distant, Christmasless lands, spreading glad tidings and plum puddings from fifty caliber machine guns, the Troll King otherwise tended to his most important task--reminding people of the true meaning of Christmas. He liked to tell them, in his Troll-Kingly way, "Some people say that certain other people aren't capable of having Christmas. I say hummmm-bug on that! The fact that those poor oppressed heathens exchange gifts on January 6, and write their letters to the false Santa called Saint Nick, is no reason to turn our back on them. And, since they want nothing more than to come here to steal our presents, it is our duty to bring the Holiday Spirit to them first."

Not everyone in the realm was in the spirit, or at least not entirely enthused with the Troll. Besides those naughty children who received nothing but coal in their stockings, and were all the more discontented because of the toxic waste problem that it caused, there were others. The bravest among them had once even mounted a movement to oust the Troll. "Anyone but the Troll!" had been their fierce battle cry, but when no one could be found, the movement quietly went back to soul searching, which was really what it was best at, after all.

Those brave souls of the Opposition-Like-Substance, as they called themselves, otherwise known as the Demoralcrat Leadership Carollers, did not like the Troll one little bit. "But don't forget about the Big Red Button," they reminded themselves, "you know where that leads."

Indeed, they all well knew what would happen, should someone, in accident or alarm, press the Big Red Button. They collectively shuddered with revulsion over the swarms of potato bugs and scorpions and larval social movements that would come writhing out of their sinkholes and sunken dreams. "And don't forget," said the Two Headed Senator from Massachusetts, "while the Troll and his party have a lion's share of the spoils, we are in for about 40 percent exposure on all the worst cleanup. And that's about forty-one percent more accountability than I signed up for."

"Me too," all the rest agreed.

"At least," said someone else, "the Troll does have the Christmas Spirit. After all, he isn't like those environmentalist Evergreens with their goofy ideas of a Winter Solstice Economy. The Troll knows better than to monkey with the Big Red Button. Doesn't he?"

"It doesn't matter if he does or not," said The Two Headed Senator, "the fact is, being a troll, he actually eats bugs and spiders, and likes it."

"Then we must eat stinkbugs and spiders too!," they all shouted together. "It's clearly what the people want, and why they have forsaken us."

Meanwhile, down in the depths of depression, young George Bravely was perched high on one of the castle's many towering parapets. He so desperately despised the Troll's reign, and had traveled so far, and struggled so hard, searching for the mythical Anybody But, the "true savior from somewhere out there." But all was failure. George had paused for some brief soul searching before flinging himself over the edge. "It would have been better if I had never been born! And it would have been even better if Old Grinch Nader hadn't stolen Christmas in the first place. And without a doubt, it would have been better if the misfit toys had stayed on their island, at least until the Troll fell asleep."

And then, from the air around him, the sound of "chunglk-kerrklng-bAM!----pshssssshssssssss."

"What the hell was that?" said George to nobody in particular.

"That, my boy," said a chubby middle-aged fellow dressed in black wearing a bowler hat and with a bandanna over his face, is the sound of a monkeywrench, or perhaps a boot, being shoved into the machine works. Every time you hear that sound, an Anarchangel gets her wings, I mean clogs."

"And who are you and why are you here, and what do you know about it anyway?"

"My name is Clarence, and well, let's just say I supported the lesser of two evils once too often, and now I'm trying to get my clogs, and you my boy, are my social engineering project."

(Stay tuned for Part 2; The Sum of All Santas)