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Ho ho ho.

But things wouldn’t stay jolly for long.

I didn’t know it yet, but someone back at the North Pole was about to start playing reindeer games for keeps, gunning for the Fat Man and all the good things he stood for. It wouldn’t be long before I was given the powder, fired, Old Yeller time. Santa gave me my walking papers and told me that there was a new elf in Kringle Town. He said that my kind of elfing wasn’t needed anymore, that it was old hat. I didn’t even get a fruitcake. It looked like my only friends at the moment were a bar stool at the Blue Christmas and a half-empty bottle of brown nog. Those two chums kept me from clearly seeing the doom-screaming headline:

THE MARSHMALLOW WORLD GAZETTE

Gumdrop Coal Fired from Coal Patrol Santa’s Dark Elf Is Out on His Ear

For a little while, things seemed too foggy even for Rudy’s schnoz and the whole tale was about to get more twisted than a cheap string of lights, but I’m getting ahead of myself. I thought my bad luck started when I was put out to pasture, but now I know I was knee-deep in trouble long before that night.

So was Santa.

So was Christmas.

I didn’t help matters any acting like a damn fool. I slapped some jaws, hurt some friends and broke some hearts, but that wasn’t the worst of it.

The worst was the murder.

CHAPTER 2

I’m Telling You Why

Ishould back up a minute because there are some things you need to know. For instance, even though we work for Santa, an elf’s DNA is not automatically dialed for sugarplums and fa-la-la-la. Not all elves are North Pole Moonies, saluting the flag and drinking the nog-aid. Some of us have been with Santa from the beginning, when St. Nick was strictly mom and pop, a grassroots happy-fest started by a fat kid and some sawed-off toy makers. We shared Santa’s belief that there should be at least one night when children smiled. “A child gave the world so much that night in Bethlehem,” Santa said. “I just want to find a way to spread the spirit of that wonderful gift!” I still choke up at the simple beauty of the Fat Man’s notion. Elves are naturally nostalgic, but Christmas really was better back then. The giving came from the heart, but so did the receiving. The gratitude was genuine and the kids were really, truly thankful. But then the snake eventually brought his bag of apples to the Garden of Christmas, and after a couple of bites into the old McIntosh, the kids demanded more.

And old St. Nick couldn’t—or wouldn’t—say “no.”

That’s when the whole bag went south for some of us at the North Pole. Some elves couldn’t stand to see the Fat Man kill himself trying to fill a black hole of greed. Some of us got dark. Some of us got bitter.

I got revenge.

Gumdrop Coal is my name and I’m a 1,300-year-old elf and the chip on my shoulder will give you tetanus. I’m two-foot-three, but if you think you can crack wise about my height or take me in a fight, you’ll be making the worst mistake of your sorry life. I will jingle your bells up through your giblets hard enough to make your eyes scream.

I’m serious.

Remember that, and you and I will get along swell.

Here’s what else you need to know. I wasn’t always this jaded. I got a heart, but it’s a hard one. My pop was the crabby dwarf from the old Snow White yarn. The old man had a real cob up his hinder and was meaner than the devil with a rash. When the Grimm boys first came around digging up dirt on the dwarfs and Snowy, Pop wasn’t bashful about showing the brothers a fit that would shame a Viking. Pop held a torch for Snow, so when she gave him the old heigh-ho for that tall glass of Prince Charming, Pop added brooding to a bad temper. That Walt guy’s picture of Pop was a pipe dream, and whatever was in the pipe was pretty rooty-tooty.

Mom was one of those stepsisters you heard stories about. For years, she thought she was the cat’s meow until the woodland vermin decided to give her little half sister a makeover. The kid cleaned up pretty well and when she