You wouldn’t start a book halfway through unless a rich guy payed you to, so before reading this ensure you’re caught up unless a rich guy is paying you to read this one in particular.
You’re working the line in a bustling toy factory surrounded by typical Christmas elves. You glimpse up from the conveyor belt and who should be standing in front you but Santa, that motherfucker from yesterday who wouldn’t tell you shit about what’s been going on.
“You’ve been naughty and you’ve been nice but you haven’t worked hard,” Santa muses with a scowl.
You reflect on the past year and realize that yes, you haven’t worked very hard, but working hard also requires rest and since you haven’t got around to replacing the pile of towels with an actual bed in your apartment, hard work simply wasn’t practical this year.
“You can’t force me to work here, can you?” you ask, genuinely interested in what the answer might be.
“I cannot force anyone to do anything, but Phandor can,” says Santa, punctuated with a childish laugh that doesn’t sound anything like the deep grumbles of every other Santa you’ve ever met.
You suddenly feel a sharp poke on your back and naturally turn to find out where it came from. Standing before you is a mean looking little son of a bitch carrying a comically large thumbtack. In the future, when you sell your fantastical tale to the folks at Dark Horse Comics for a cool 1.2 million, you assist an artist in drawing him like so:
“Do your work you fuckin’ jerk,” squeaks the elf man.
“I take it you’re Phandor?” you ask, dwelling on the last syllable while straining to think of something that rhymes with Phandor to show him you’re willing to “play the game”.
“Little boys who don’t make toys will feel the pain when Phandor puts leeches in their brains,” warns Phandor, while licking his lips and making eyes toward his thumbtack.
“I’ve taken dumps bigger than you, speaking of which, where can I poo?” you sing sweetly, hoping Phandor will appreciate the rhyme AND direct you to the washroom.
“If your mind is filled with doubt, look to your left for an easy way out,” Phandor divulges, followed by a maniacal laugh. He then holds the thumbtack over his head, utters some nonsense under his breath and disappears.
Not knowing what to do next, you look back to the production line and amongst the cat toys on the conveyor belt moving toward you is a button that looks like this:
Finally, a way out of here. You’re unsure about the connection between the North Pole and a positive stance on women’s issues, but you’re totally fine to move this adventure along so you shrug it off and examine the button closely. You start to peel back the button’s facade and underneath is another image that looks like this:
Phandor you little fucker! You give the new button the finger and once again, you’re whisked away, hopefully as far away from Santa’s shitty fuckin… slave hive or whatever as possible.