Twenty minutes later, Santa and Dingle were dancing around the office to the Ramone's Rocket to Russia. The door swung open. The head of the Tech Division, a pale elf named Spangle, rushed in with an arm full of blueprints.
"I've done it!" he shouted.
Santa staggered to the CD player and switched it off. "You've done what?" he slurred, sitting down behind his desk.
Spangle said, "I've been doing some independent research into cybernetics, and I think I've come up with a solution to all of our problems."
Dingle snorted derisively. "Cybernetics? You want us to switch to robots? That's a laugh."
Santa agreed. "I already looked into it. If we made just ten or twenty kinds of toys, then robots might be feasible, but with the hundreds of thousands of different toys... it'd take thirty specialized 'bots to replace just one elf." He burped.
Spangle waved his hands impatiently. "No, no. Not robots. We go with biomechanics!"
"I don't understand," said Santa.
"Look," said Spangle. "We all know that only elves have the complex set of skills needed to get the job done. But the number of available elves in the workforce is very limited. There are only a few hundred of us."
"Believe me, I know," said Santa. "I could do with a few thousand more of you."
"I can provide them."
"How?"
Spangle unrolled the blueprints and spread them on Santa's desk. Santa rescued the half-empty bottle before it got knocked to the floor.
"A biochip. We use simple surgical techniques to implant a chip in the medulla oblongata of deceased elves, and return them to more-or-less full functionality. I already tried it on Rudolph's corpse, and it works."
Santa turned purple. "WHAT?!?" he bellowed.
"Do you mean to say," asked Dingle, "that you propose to reanimate dead elves and put them on the assembly line?"
"Absolutely. The elf mausoleum contains over six thousand bodies. At least a fifth of those still have enough brain matter to be salvageable. They'd have no emotions or individuality, but their motor skills would remain relatively intact. Plus, they wouldn't need to eat or sleep, so upkeep costs would be at an absolute minimum."
"Zombie elves," muttered Santa.
"It's sacriligious," said Dingle.
Spangle grinned at him. "What does Santa care? He's a secular symbol anyway."
Santa sighed. "So it's come to this. I'm tired. Leave me alone so I can think. I'll let you know my decision later."
"But sir," began Dingle.
"I said later." He chased the two of them out of his office.
At last he found another bottle in the filing cabinet.

Santa emerged from the bathroom and sat on the edge of the bed heavily. His eyes were red.
"You drink too much," said Mrs. Claus.
"My job gets to me," he said.
"You drink enough for three jobs."
He dismissed her with a wave of his hand. "Don't start on me. I had a rough day." He lay back on the bed.
Neither one said anything for a moment. Then Mrs. Claus turned on her side to face him. "Kris?"
"Yes?"
"I heard a nasty rumor that you're going to start bringing dead elves back to life and using them as slaves on the assembly line."
Santa was silent. At last he said, "I'm considering it."
"You can't be serious."
"Of course I'm serious!" he exploded angrily. "Maybe you can figure out some other way to meet our toy quota! If we don't make enough toys for all the damn kids people keep having then Christmas just doesn't fucking happen!!" There were flecks of spittle on his beard.
Mrs. Claus looked away. "I don't know you anymore," she said.
Santa picked up the bedside phone and dialed. "Spangle? Santa. I don't see any other way. Do it." He hung up.
"I want a divorce," said Mrs. Claus softly.
"Fine with me," said Santa.

"Now, remember," said Spangle as they hurried down the hall toward the laboratory, "this is just a prototype. The ones that come later will be much more sophisticated."
"We'll see," said Santa. He was tired and hung over. They opened the swinging door to the lab and entered. A knot of elves in surgical scrubs were clustered around a supine figure on a gurney. At Santa and Spangle's approach, they parted. The figure sat up with difficulty.
"Santa, I'd like you to meet Zombie Alpha," said Spangle. "Alpha, this is Santa Claus."
"... pleased to ... meet you..." A drop of viscous yellow fluid dripped out of its mouth.
Santa smiled desperately. "I'm pleased to meet you, also." He turned to Spangle. "Could I speak with you for a moment? We need to discuss the, um, the electric bill. It's higher than usual this month." He grabbed Spangle by the elbow, hard. They moved to the other side of the room and conversed in low tones.
"My God, he's hideous!" Santa paced back and forth nervously. "That green skin! And why was his eye hanging out like that?"
"All zombies unfortunately bear the marks of their final struggle," Spangle said, "and the reanimation technique can also be quite brutal. We're hoping that later models won't be quite so repulsive."
Santa calmed a bit. "Well, you should have warned me."
Spangle shrugged. "It won't happen again, sir. Do you wish to delay the project until we get the cosmetic problems ironed out?"
"No, we don't have time. It's already late August. Go ahead and start full-scale production."
"Yes, sir," said Spangle.
Santa paused. "He said he was pleased to meet me. I thought you said they wouldn't have any individuality."
Spangle looked uncomfortable. "They're a great deal more lively than our calculations originally indicated, sir."
I'm in way over my head, thought Santa.

"They stink, sir. They smell really terrible. None of us can handle it, especially right after lunch. It wasn't so bad the first couple of days, but it's gotten worse and worse. They stink up everything they get near, including the toys. When I get home, my wife won't even kiss me until I've had a shower."
Santa stared wearily at the elf standing in his office. What was his name? Pogo, or something...
"Listen, Pogo," he began.
"Pongo, sir."
"Whatever. The fact of the matter is, there are 189 living elves on the assembly line, and 2,014 zombies. Without zombie elves, we can't meet our quota. Without living elves, we can. The zombies stay. I don't like it any more than you do, but that's the way it is."
Pongo looked like he was going to cry. "Could we at least segregate the working quarters?"
"We don't have the time or money."
Pongo broke down. "P-please sir," he sobbed. "Please don't make us work with zombies! Please, please..." He blubbered uncontrollably.
"Tell you what I'll do," said Santa after some thought. "I can probably get a deal on some gas masks from the U.S. military. They still owe me a favor for some secret high-altitude photography I did for them back in the fifties. Okay?"
The elf wiped his nose and tried to compose himself. "Anything would help, sir," he said, sniffling.
"I suppose we could also rig some sort of overhead system for spray disinfectant..."
"Thank you, sir."
"You're welcome. Now get out." The elf left. This is a bad business, thought Santa. He picked up the wastebasket beside his desk and turned it over, emptying its contents onto the floor. Pressing a hidden button, he removed the false bottom and pulled out a pint of Jack Daniel's he kept for emergencies.
Dingle ran in the door, panting.
"Sir! The zombies are threatening to strike! They demand a meeting."
"Just a minute," said Santa. He broke the seal on the bottle and upended it into his mouth, chug-a-lugging. He shuddered and threw the empty pint against the wall. It shattered. "Okay, I'm ready," he said. "Let's go."

"Whew!" said Santa, holding his nose. He and Alpha were standing beside the assembly line, where a group of zombies were building a rocking horse. "For God's sake, open a window or something!"
"That's... the sort of... remark that we're... talking about," said Alpha.
"What do you expect? You all smell like rotting pork. You're zombies, for God's sake!"
"...We prefer... the term `viably challenged'... We didn't... ask to... be reanimated. ...We demand the... same... treatment that you accord... the living..."
"Like what?"
"Wages, for... one thing..."
"For what?" asked Santa. "Embalming fluid?"
Alpha was unperturbed. "... And... sensitivity training... seminars for... all living... employees. ... Including yourself..."
"Why? I mean, you're not supposed to have any emotions."
"Self... respect. ...Otherwise we will... strike. There will... be other... repercussions as well..."
"But I can't," said Santa. "If I could afford to pay you, I would have hired live workers in the first place. The only reason we brought you guys back to life was because we could work you for free."
Alpha shook his head sadly. "...Sorry to... hear that, Santa..." he said. "I didn't... want to have to... do this, but..." He made a hand gesture, slinging mucus wetly.
Veteran newsman Mike Wallace stepped out from behind a column brandishing a microphone, followed by a small, dedicated camera crew.
"Santa Claus, could you tell our viewers what it feels like to be running a slave-labor camp at the North Pole?" asked Mike.

It was the usual 60 Minutes hatchet job. Santa got up and switched off the television. They portrayed me as a heartless monster, he thought. I'm really fucked. He sat back down.
The telephone rang. Santa answered it after seven rings.
"Yeah?"
"Mr. Claus? I'm a lawyer representing a consortium of department stores. We feel that your recent actions as reported in the media will have a substantial negative impact on my client's business over the coming holidays."
Santa sighed. "Yes, that's probably true," he admitted.
"Therefore, we're sueing you for damages totalling $170,000,000."
"Whatever you say," said Santa. "Send me the papers."
"Oh, and Santa?"
"What?"
"You've betrayed every innocent little child on the planet. I just thought you should know that."
"Thanks." He hung up.
Santa sat and stared into space. This is it, he thought. The end of everything. He got up and locked the office door. Returning to the desk, he opened a drawer and took out a pistol. He hefted it appreciativley, feeling its weight in his hand. A Luger. Good workmanship.
In one swift motion, he placed the barrel against the roof of his mouth and pulled the trigger.

"Santa?" Dingle's voice came to him from a thousand miles away. "Santa, can you hear me?" The voice was much closer.
Santa moaned. "Wha..."
"He's awake," said Dingle excitedly.
"Good," said Spangle's voice. "Expect some disorientation at first."
"What... what happened?"
"Easy," said Dingle. "Don't try to move around too much."
"Where am... I? What..." He felt straps holding him down. Suddenly his memory returned with horrible clarity. "Oh, no... How could... I have..."
Spangle came into his field of vision, grinning. "You didn't miss. It's a miracle you had enough brains left for me to work with. Your office was a bloody mess."
"You mean... I'm a zombie?"
"I'm afraid so. We had to do it. Without you, there's no Christmas, you know."
"Just try to relax, sir," said Dingle.
Santa had an awful thought. "What do I... look... like now? ...My face..."
Dingle reassured him. "No, no. Your face is fine. Most of the damage was done to the back of your head."
"I want to... see! ...Bring me... a mirror."
"I don't know if that would be a good idea right now."
"...MIRROR!!!..."
Spangle brought a small mirror and handed it to him. Santa took it and looked. The face that looked back was intact, but a sickly greenish-yellow in color.
"It's going to... clash with... the suit," said Santa.