Crawling on his elbows and knees Zack peeks out from behind a couch, his bright green eyes shimmering with anticipation from beneath a mop of loose black curls. Under the dim glow of the Christmas tree all remains calm and untouched. He pouts, crossing his arms as he slips his lithe body back to his hiding place.
Irritated, he checks his watch; quarter past midnight, meaning his target is already almost a half hour late. However disgruntled he may be Zack holds his conviction tight. There's no way Santa would skip his house. After all, as far as he knows he's the soul person over fifteen Saint Nick still visits, a title he's held for six years now.
Unlike his peers down at the community college he's damn well sure of Santa's existence. Oh, they can mock him for being old enough to drink yet still abiding by the nice list all they want because this year he's coming back with irrefutable proof. For over the years Zack has studied the Claus first hand. Not unlike a festive Jane Goodall he's watched from afar each year to study Santa in his natural habitat and his research bore fruit.
All those good little boys and girls may leave milk and cookies out on Christmas but Zack's picked up just a bit more on Santa's tastes; there are cookies, yes, but also a glass of scotch (top shelf stuff, no ice. A man's gotta keep warm after all) alongside a hundred-thirty dollar cigar. While it is, to quote his mother, "a bit much" it's a small price to pay for a shot at greatness.
After sitting in the dark for hours on end he's grown antsy, restlessness peeling away the thin fibers of his wits. Patting the pocket of his plaid pajama pants feels for his phone, reassured to find it safe and sound just as it's been the past dozen times. Can't go without his means of gathering evidence, otherwise a year's worth of planning would be flushed down the drain. Not like he'd ever stand for it though, he needs this more than he's needed anything.
He can already see the looks on their faces when he whips complete, photographic evidence of not just Santa, but his workshop, his reindeer, elves, the whole package. Maybe then ol Davey Boy Harlow and Rich Amber will think twice about calling him a "delusional mental degenerate" or get that dickweed Max Bender to shut up about getting "real, professional help". Most of all however, there's the girl with burning red hair who's hips sway when she walks. Regina Ludwig Bathory, who takes each step in a hefty, purposeful, stomping stride, her hands tucked in a damaged leather jacket clutching either her lighter or the handle of her spring-loaded knife. Something about her aura of danger and confidence lingers in Zack's mind, making her irresistible, an obsession.
When she hears the news there's no way Red can ignore him. Perhaps she may even be impressed. Impressed enough to turn her perpetual, penetrative glare to him. Come to think of it, sneaking onto Santa's sled and going across the world is pretty badass. Maybe even badass enough to take him behind the old groundskeeper shed and peg him like she did Max (the lucky bastard), though he hopes she lets him come out of it without a black eye and a broken nose.
Gentle clip-clops from above rouse him from fantasy. Closing his eyes he takes a deep breath in.
It's time.
A faint sound akin to bellowing wind echoes within the fireplace. Within seconds a faint click of leather on hardwood catches his attention. Counting in his head he tracks them; a grand total of six to his right, the exact number he figured when setting everything up. He continues counting to eight on his lips, though silent. Right on cue the distinct snap of a zippo lighter goes off. The boy's so proud he could just kiss himself.
As much as it'd tickle him to wallow in his success he can't sacrifice the time. Santa followed his timing, now it's Zack's turn. Slipping back onto all fours he crawls to his left, counting four steps in the process. A peek around the corner reveals, to his continued glee, a bright red cloth sack six feet all and six feet-seven inches wide. The jackpot.
Taking a hearty shot of scotch Santa sighs, "Ah, it's nice to see some folk around here still know how to celebrate the holidays. Bitter, sweet, and in healthy moderation ho-ho-oh, yeah. Burns good goin' down!"
Zack rolls his eyes. Santa reminds him of an uncle he has up in Utica; an old fashioned, well off bloke, prone to methodical gestures and blunt, yet eloquent speech. A regular suburban aristocrat, some may say, though he'd abhor to hear such a comparison. Liberal men they are, a dying breed who hold their honor high but compare it to themselves and themselves alone. Men such as them, their ears open alongside their hearts to the world around them yet carry themselves in dignity are among the few sorts of folk not many could dislike. However, as with his uncle, over-exposure dulled the sparkling impression, leaving him less majestic and more charming, if often in a hammy sort of way.
Mr. Claus mutters something to himself that Zack can't quite make out but gets a good chuckle out of Father Christmas, a strong indicator that he's in well and zoned out. Seizing the opportunity Zack creeps as fast as one can creep, clearing the space between him and the sack within seconds. To his relief its top is wide open.
It's a tight fit, what with all those presents crammed inside but thanks to Zack's dainty, thin body he manages. As with all things related to him, Santa's bag possesses magical qualities; no matter what is put inside it will always fit. However since he delivers billions of presents each year a few tend to end up lost in the pile, most of those belonging to children who acted naughty on Christmas eve. With this knowledge Zack wriggles down as low as he can fit until a subtle scent of mercury assures him he's reached low enough to hide amid the long forgotten toys.
Gravity gives way; he's being lifted, just as planned. He's holding back laughter. He's done it. He's won. Every step went perfect, now all he needs to do is wait.
***
It's a bumpy ride to say the least. However despite what his advanced physics taught him, traveling over six times the speed of light in nothing but pajama pants doesn't kill Zack. Granted, he could chalk that up to magic doings he makes a note of it anyway, if anything just to get a rise out of Ms.Thornbasin, the smug bitch. She'll regret calling him a "glue huffing dollar store femboy" soon enough.
Letting himself get lost in his continual power fantasy Zack soars through the last few hours unabated. He imagines gasping faces, praises for his ingenuity, jealousy and bewilderment from his peers, all culminating in what can best be described as a sloppy blowjob montage.
As he nears the end of his fictional dick sicking conga line a sudden impact knocks him back to reality. They've stopped. Judging by the impact's force Zack guesses he's been thrown, since most home visits tended to be softer landings. Holding his breath he's drug a good ten feet or so before stopping again. Muffled voices chatter outside, though from whom to whom remains a mystery. Curiosity boils within him, urging his hand upwards. If he can sneak a teeny peak-"no" he whispers recoiling. He can't risk it.
Once more he bides his time. Though not for hours on end, instead he settles for twenty minutes or so, edging his excitement until no sound outside is heard.
The coast is clear.
Glorious purpose rushing through his veins Zack digs his way to the top of the bag. As he nears the opening adrenaline surges, his heart racing. At last his years of planning, watching, studying, they'll all pay off. As his head breaches a drawstring opening he braces himself for the apex of his own existence.
Emerging from his red polyester cocoon he, by a thin veil of light cast forth from under a nearby doorway, lays his eyes upon the first artifact of this mythical land: a mop. Indeed, surrounding him is a selection of cleaning supplies, accompanied by the powerful lemon scent of industrial cleaning solvent.
However odd it may seem he doesn't stick around to ponder further. He's on a mission, after all.
Cracking the door open a sliver Zack peers out. Nothing, for the most part, sans a dim light. On guard he exits, finding himself standing in a long tile hallway with doors darted along either wall at a near random. Snapping photos as he walks a faint sense of disappointment brews within. Here he is, where no mortal man has stood before, and it appears as little less than an abandoned office building.
The workshop is almost surreal in its excessive blandness; there are no decorations, no color, just gray walls, tiled floors, and the occasional locked door. Thus far the closest thing to evidence he catches are a few picture-less signs written in an unfamiliar language resembling a garbled mixture of Dutch and Russian. Elvish, no doubt about it. Though he collects many photos of them it does little to chase away his disappointment. As far as hard evidence goes, a few pictures of linguistic gibberish doesn't quite cut the mustard, so to speak.
A set of twin doors at the end of an otherwise dead end mark the last leg of his journey. With a long, weary sigh he snaps a photo of an emergency exit sign overhead and turns back around. Nothing. He came all this way for nothing. Maybe he should've just snapped a photo of Santa and called it good. Or maybe, just maybe, this whole scheme was stupid.
"Stupid, stupid, stupid," he mumbles, frustration at last getting the better of him.
In a fleeting moment of clarity he pauses, his eyes moving to one of the nearby doors. By now he's passed by at least twenty of them yet he hasn't tried to open a single one. Makes sense, given what a massive industrial complex the workshop is it'd be safe to assume they'd be locked. But there is a chance...Zack shrugs, not like he's got anything to lose.
Yanking on the handle he is met by resistance. Locked. Of course. Rolling his eyes he continues along his path, though he stops several paces as he crosses another door. He mulls over his odds in silence; the other is locked, sure, but what are the chances all of them are? Assuming, as any sane person might, this place is operated with integrity, he figures his chances land at one-hundred percent.
With a nod of self assurance he moves along. That is, to say, for a few steps until he rationalizes the possibility of a non-zero chance, bolting back to the door and tugging on the handle. As predicted, it refuses to budge.
This process plays out in a near perfect step by step recreation for each door he passes. Over and over Zack rehearses his insane little production growing a bit more desperate with every proceeding attempt. By his journey's end he stands, both hands clasped around a handle with a foot pressed against the door as he screams "Open! Open you son of a bitch! You pile of fuck!"
Exhausted in both the physical and spiritual senses he gives up altogether, leaning against the door to catch his breath. To have gone so far, breaching the zenith of modern understanding, achieving his lifelong goal, accomplishing a feat no other before him can claim, just to have it all torn away at the last possible second, it's too much. Far, far too much for Zack. Covering his face with his forearm he weeps.
Gloom washing over him Zack contemplates his life's choices in a delusional (although not meritless) effort to discover where he went wrong. However before he can sink deeper into self pity a light clicks on behind him, shoving him back into reality. Startled he flips himself around; though a frosted glass window of the door across from him a fluorescent light sines, accompanied by voices.
In a panic he dashes back to the broom closet, slipping inside and closing the door behind him. Adrenaline rushes through his body. There's a chance they saw him or heard him. He could be in danger. They may come looking, even if they don't they-they. His muscles tense, who might they be?
A grin sprawls out on his face. Who else would be in Santa's workshop, anyway. Who else but Elves.
His heart leaps in his chest. Elves. Real life, actual elves. Footage of them would be priceless for he knew, with their odd, alien proportions, nobody could question their uniqueness. Coupled with the elvish writings it'd make for yet more convincing evidence. They're his ticket to glory, those jolly little fairies, and they lay just beyond two doors.
Abounding with excitement he spins around, snatching the door handle. He halts, some semblance of caution having returned. Enthusiasm may be a great motivator but it makes fools of men. Not this man, not tonight. With a careful hand he cracks the door open to a mere sliver, just enough to see the other door if he leans close.
At once he's flung back, the door striking him in the eye; yelping he stumbles, landing onto the sack. The room spins as a short figure approaches.
