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Dec. 17th, 2010 11:08 pmFather Christmas has been starting to dread going downstairs in the morning. It's always full of mail.
This time, as he wades through the letters, one on the top catches his eye. Because it's not written in crayon, instead, it's in a red envelope, with bold black print on top. No address, simply.
'CHRIS AFTERMATHS'
Well that narrows it down. No address, and his other name.* Sure enough, the National Elf Service logo is stamped on the back. He opens it.
'Expect the Elf Inspector at 9.30am, promptly.'
He dashes around tidying up in time for the loud 'Bang', that announced the entrance of the Elf Inspector. Unfortunately, he teleported into the middle of a pile of letters, sending them scattered around.
Father Christmas leaned over and picked the elf out, carefully. Most elves were cheerful little things; inspectors were usually the ones that failed the Elf School's Chirpiness test.
"You're causing us a lot of bother, Chris." the Inspector says, grimly. "You've got a load of people on your list from the wrong part of space and time, some of which are delayed presents that got missed in the past. And you've got one bloke that's right in the middle of the naughty/nice list."
Father Christmas groans. It doesn't happen very often - most of his work is kids, and you have to be pretty naughty when you're that young to end up on the naughty list. But age is not a disqualifier; if he's on the list, he needs assessing and assigning.
He takes the name off the Elf Inspector. Okay, well he'll have to go there himself and try and get the man one side or the other.
[*For use among the public, and from distinguishing himself from other Father Christmases. Sam Friers-Thatch and Master Rich Shaft were two of the others he'd met.]
This time, as he wades through the letters, one on the top catches his eye. Because it's not written in crayon, instead, it's in a red envelope, with bold black print on top. No address, simply.
'CHRIS AFTERMATHS'
Well that narrows it down. No address, and his other name.* Sure enough, the National Elf Service logo is stamped on the back. He opens it.
'Expect the Elf Inspector at 9.30am, promptly.'
He dashes around tidying up in time for the loud 'Bang', that announced the entrance of the Elf Inspector. Unfortunately, he teleported into the middle of a pile of letters, sending them scattered around.
Father Christmas leaned over and picked the elf out, carefully. Most elves were cheerful little things; inspectors were usually the ones that failed the Elf School's Chirpiness test.
"You're causing us a lot of bother, Chris." the Inspector says, grimly. "You've got a load of people on your list from the wrong part of space and time, some of which are delayed presents that got missed in the past. And you've got one bloke that's right in the middle of the naughty/nice list."
Father Christmas groans. It doesn't happen very often - most of his work is kids, and you have to be pretty naughty when you're that young to end up on the naughty list. But age is not a disqualifier; if he's on the list, he needs assessing and assigning.
He takes the name off the Elf Inspector. Okay, well he'll have to go there himself and try and get the man one side or the other.
[*For use among the public, and from distinguishing himself from other Father Christmases. Sam Friers-Thatch and Master Rich Shaft were two of the others he'd met.]