North Pole PD
I hate Christmas.
You’d think that Christmas, at a place like North Pole, would be one big Christmas movie, yeah? Candy and cookies and carolers and shit like that, right? Everyone happy, elves making toys, people drinking eggnog.
North Pole City is just like any other industrial town. Dirty, overcrowded, and dangerous. Throw in the fact that it’s dark here three months of the year, and that it takes the sun a month to rise, and another to set, you get a recipe for something that’s a lot different than what you see in all the Christmas movies.
Oh, yeah we’ve seen’em all. What? You think just cause we’re way up here we don’t get cable? Ever hear of satellite TV? Internet? Just cause we’re way the hell up on top of the planet don’t mean we’re a buncha backward inbred types.
Well, okay, not all of us, anyway.
The last six or eight weeks leading up to Christmas in North Pole City suck. Especially if you’re a cop.
Yeah, we got police. That’s another thing you don’t see in the movies. We’re a city. Where there’s a city, there’s crime. You think we don’t have unemployment problems? What do you think all those damn elves are doing in January, huh? Think old Fat Boy keeps them on his payroll? Not a chance in hell.
So the elves, money heavy thanks to the overtime they’ve put in during November and December, are at loose ends while Fat Boy and the Misses are on their month long vacation. Factory idle, nothing but caretaker staff. Everyone else is laid off, usually until the first of March. Two damn months with a shitload of elves, flush with money. And a town full of booze.
And elves love to drink. You ever see a drunk elf? Ah. . .forget I asked. You’ve probably never seen an elf at all. Let me give you the straight up, then.
First, don’t believe the hype. Elves ain’t midgets, they’re the same size as most people. Bigger than some.
They ain’t friendly, happy go lucky, either. Damn elves are mean. And they get a lot meaner when they’re drunk. And during the ‘break’, there’s not much for them to do except drink away their hard earned money in the taverns and bars that dot the city.
Have you ever had to wrestle a drunken elf to the ground after he’s already. . .no, no you haven’t, have you? Well, take it from me, it’s not the barrel of laughs you might expect. Elves are strong. And it takes a lot to hurt one of them even a little. I wish it was that hard to hurt me.
Oh, I guess I should have said something earlier. My name is Kalef Bonespear. I’m a detective now days, for NPPD. That’s North Pole Police Department. Well, I guess you could figure that out.
Anyway, I’m a homicide detective. I know, I know what you’re thinking. Why would the North Pole need a homicide detective. Well, it’s simple, really.
I solve homicides. What? You think you can throw this many people into this tight a space, from all different races and religions, and not have some bad blood? Please. Nobody’s that nice. This place isn’t any different from the city where you live.
Well, okay, it’s different. I mean, I bet no one else has a place like Kringle Industrial Park. Factory after factory dedicated to churning out ever increasingly hi-tech toys for kids. Kids that live somewhere else, mind you. Fatso don’t deliver toys to our kids, for some reason. I don’t know what it is, exactly, but it’s a dumbass rule, you ask me. Why the hell would you fly all over the world delivering toys, and skip the kids in your own damn town? I mean. . . .
Sorry. Bit of a sore spot, that is. Didn’t mean to get on a soap box on you. Still, it’s wrong. Everyone knows it’s wrong, including the Kringle family. And they just don’t care.
See, the Kringle’s, they own the Pole. They have money, power, and influence over almost every decision made here. No member of the Kringle family is actually in politics, mind you. They don’t have to be. When you’re the richest guy on the block, when almost everyone’s livelihood depends on you, when everything in town is practically centered on you and your activities, you don’t need to be political. You can pay people to do that for you.
Okay, enough of that soapbox. It won’t change anything, anyway. Let’s see, where was I? Oh, yeah.
I hate Christmas.
See, as soon as Fatso is off on his rounds, the elves get their severance and their pink slips. And they get mad. I don’t know why, they know it’s coming. I mean, it happens every year, and yet they still act surprised. Go figure.
So, what does a pissed off elf with a pocket full of money do? Why he heads into town, and gets blind, stinking, commode hanging drunk. And then he starts a fight. Or she. The female elves aren’t any better. Worse, they tend to egg on the males, wanting to see them fight. I guess it’s some kind of mating ritual.
Whatever the case may be, it’s me and the other members of NPPD that pick up the pieces. And sometimes I mean that literally. Did I mention that elves are mean? Oh, and did I happen to add that when they’re drunk, they’re really mean?
Like tonight. I’m on my way to the Lump o’ Coal. Why? Because there are two dead elves there, right now. Killed in a drunken brawl less than an hour ago. Less than five hours since they hit town. They wound up stinking drunk, and picked a fight with a fairy.
Yes, a fairy.
I know what you’re thinking. A fairy? Killing elves? That’s what I said, wasn’t it? If elves are mean, then fairies are down right vicious. Add to that the fact that almost every one of them carries a sword of some kind, and are prone to take offense at even the slightest thing, and that they hate elves, and. . .well, there ya go.
Two dead elves. And no witnesses, of course.
Have I mentioned that I hate Christmas?