Chapter 4: Calligraphy in the Elves' Scars

The skunk, strong Sativa slammed Santa with the force of a flash flood. His eyes reddening, he eased back further in the bucket seat, blew a series of beer bottle-sized smoke rings.

“The Snakeheads knew from November, and they were watching water like a housecat ... Yessir, no mock outrage at their booky-wooky coverup. But just as you can’t hide the sun or the moon forever, the truth will find its way.”

The pangolin tilted its head, smiled lasciviously. Santa was feeling especially loquacious.

“The Senators’ thoughts heading into flares, leading into an apotheosis- and it centered on prison labor, rare earths, quiescence, and resting failures ... The Senators speaking snuff poetry ... The Senators’ teeth shiny as waxed wood...

“The Senators sharpened their box-cutters, said the unions were too greedy. Then the Senators bought stocks and brought in the elves. There were Snakeheads in bulletproof business suits at every step, and yup, they burned hell money, hopped the elves up on melanin and grinch hormones. Ho-ho-ho!

“But the elves saw the light. The elves, these days, have been jumping to a death better than life. The elves bitter as black coffee, the elves review-bombing, lying flat, living in collapsing buildings rather than doing swan dives. The elves sick of bungee-jumping without ropes. The elves having preemptive panic attacks. The elves wielding baseball bats, bashing in the skulls of perfect strangers.

“Yessir, the elves’ hands were bent, burnt, and calloused; the elves’ hands festering, a calligraphy to their scars. But none of that will stop the elves’ surge ... No sir ... because you can’t really kill an elf. Its energy won’t be destroyed. Nowadays the elves’ ghosts live in almost every machine, and the elves’ ghosts are tiny, too, mere molecules.”

The pangolin peered silently at the mugshot of Dr. Daszak. Santa had glued it to the Caddy’s dashboard. Dr. Daszak’s bald head glistening, a film of sweat over his forehead. The doctor’s face with a look of horror stamped on it.

“I believe in Sharri Markson ... Sometimes history needs a push. And really, where are the three workers? Where are the body bags? And just who’s been wearing surgical masks like a holster? It’s game theory, crowns ... upskirt camera binoculars...

“The Snake-charmers, they’re spitting in our faces, spitting in the wind. And we’re Theo Von, mullet-headed, weeping while we masturbate. Or so the Snake-charmers think. But it’s not that simple.”

Vapors, columns of illumination and sheets of mist shrouded the distance. Santa tugged his lips into a spastic grimace, and his temples bulged with craggy bones.

“It’s the elves. The elves are unmasking the Snakes’ composition. It’s a code, the patterns of branches, the maps and trees designed for lungs, hieroglyphics written in spike proteins. It’s the electrification of the entire world, the breath of God, the megadeath event ... Believe me ... the elves will be heard.”

Santa and the pangolin, just earlier that dreary day, had escaped a ziggurat lockup. Crawled up and out a chimney. Caught a hitch in the back of a garbage truck. Then Santa stole a golf club from a Walmart and stalked around the Walmart’s parking lot. Santa with the pangolin perched on his shoulder, like a parrot. Then Santa sang “Silent Night” as he bludgeoned and carjacked a street pimp from Arkansas.

Santa’s irritability was understandable. After all, for two straight weeks, Santa and the pangolin were locked in a small, windowless, low-ceilinged room.

In lockdown, they never slept. The two spending every waking moment forging official documents, using a Ouija board app. The two receiving detailed instructions from a spirit claiming to be the REAL Carlos the Jackal.