 Alright. Now, on to our next tale, friends. How Dr. Clef Saved Christmas. After this break brought to you by Momatic Fluid. Ah, that's good memes. Dr. Clef Saved Christmas. The senior staff of Site-19 huddled in the conference room, warming themselves from the chill air of the cold mid-December morning. Coats and hats hanged on the wall and over the backs of chairs, ice and snow dripping onto puddles on the tile floor, as their owners drank strong black coffee from syrophilm cups and chatted idly. None of the new widest emergency meeting had been called, nor why on such short notice, so early on a Sunday morning right in the middle of the holidays. The muffled conversation came to a halt as Site Director Ives entered the room carrying a stack of notes and a reel of slides and approached the podium in the front. The Site Director's suit was wrinkled, his tie undone, beads of sweat on the balding man's forehead, though the heater had yet to kick in. Oh, that was a Momatic Fluid reaction. My apologies. Got a deal. Though the heater had yet to kick in, as he shuffled through his papers before dressing the group. Good morning everyone, I've said. Thank you for coming in on such short notice. I know it's early to discuss and most of you had the day off, but we've got quite a lot to discuss and there's a lot of work to be done. I've just finished up a conference call at the O5 Council and I'm afraid I've got some bad news. Ives paused and shuffled through his notes again before continuing. At 0532 Greenwich time, we received an emergency distress signal from Area 36 near the Magnetic North Pole. Security personnel reported that unidentified aircraft had been observed entering the zone of exclusion around SCP-4040's main facility and they believed a hostile attack was imminent. Ives paused. Three minutes later, we lost all contact with Area 36. We attempted to race SCP-4040 directly and got no response as well. We went to high alert at that time. We dispatched Mobile Task Force Alpha-7 from Montreal and they arrived at the scene at approximately 0930. I've set up the reel of slides on the projector sitting on the front desk and pulled the screen down from its place along the wall. Adelstein, could you get in the lights please? Adelstein flipped the switches by the front door, casting the room into darkness as Ives turned on the slide projector. When NTF-A7 arrived, this is what they found. Ives pressed a button and a slide popped up on the screen, depicting a single small house alone on the arctic tundra, what remained of that house anyway. The windows had been smashed in. The door kicked open. Its interior lay bare to the cold arctic winds and the perpetual winter twilight. Ah, fixing my sleep mode. Arctic twilight. A giant candy cane standing in front of the dwelling had been smashed in two and whatever color the building had been before, it was covered in a bizarre sort of ooze, dark and red. The drip from the rooftops informed crimson icicles, hanging by the dozens over the awning. It wasn't much better inside. Ives flipped in the next slide of the little house's parlor, furniture overturned and broken. Cabinets emptied onto the floor haphazardly. Everything covered in that strange, thick, red, icor, icor, icor, icor. One of those words. The annex was the same except for bodies. The next slide showed a tiny humanoid no more than four feet tall, dead on the floor. Its skin was horribly burned and fused together like it had been set on fire. Its flesh fused to its tiny green outfit and also soaked in red. We found 16 SCP-4040-3 dead in the annex. 184 were unaccounted for. No survivors that we've been able to locate. The entire on-site security team was also KIA. What about SCP-4040-1, asked Dr. Johnson. As of this time, MTF-87 has been unable to locate SCP-4040-1 or his remains. Ives, that as he flicked through several more slides, eat everyone showing a similar scene of devastation to the Arctic Workshop. And the re-at all nine instances of SCP-4040-2 are missing as well, I'm afraid. Ive signaled for Adelsine to turn the lines back on as he shut off his projector. Sorry, I didn't know who was talking so I missed that voice. Area-36 is a total loss and almost all of SCP-4040 is either dead or in the hands of a hostile power. As we all know, its now slightly less than five days until this year's scheduled occurrence of event 1225-pinnacle. In light of the damage to the facility, even if we're able to recover the surviving elements of SCP-4040, I'm afraid that... Ive stopped in mid-sentence as he looked out over the researchers. I'm sorry, he continued after collecting himself. Ive seen a lot of shit go down with my day. And I never thought I'd have to say something like this. But it looks like we're going to have to cancel Christmas. The room was a war with worried exclamations. Cancel Christmas? No presents! What did I tell the kids?! Please, everyone, calm down! Ive said as the group fell silent. We're collecting the available evidence as fast as we can. But what we need right now is an information management. The O5 Council feels that given our minimal lead time, procedure 1843 Scrooge Haymarket IV, that's the elves union goes on strike story, by the way, is the appropriate cover story to disseminate to the media. We should be able to cover this up and keep the civilian world from getting too worried about Santa's absence until we get a substitute toy delivery up and running. Dr. Jones raised his hand. Do we have any suspects yet? All we know for sure is it wasn't the GOC and it wasn't the Reds, Ive said. We've been in contact with Geneva and Moscow and the whole thing started and there's much in the dark as we are. It doesn't look like a CI job either. The science just aren't there. There aren't any bullet casings either. Whoever took this place down, they did it without firing a single shot. Dr. Michaels spoke up next. What about that who's all over the place in the photos? It's not elf blood, is it? No, thank God, Ive's replied. That's the strangest thing of all, really. The lab boys are still trying to figure it out while it's tomato sauce. Ordinary, run-of-the-mill, 5 cents a can tomato sauce with a little extra salt. Anywhere, there'll be time for a Q&A later. We've got to get started on this. Ive's picked up his briefcase from next to the podium, set it on the table, and opened it up to reveal several Manila folders packed with pre-prepared documents. This is what we'll be working from and what I want you to disseminate to your personnel or under your authority. Anderson, get this out of the press ASAP. The LA Times, the New York Post, CVS, NBC, ABC, BBC, CBC, everyone. Yes, sir, Anderson said. Jenkins, get the AFL-CIO and the Teamsters on the line. See if we can arrange some sympathy strikes with the Elves Union. Right away, boss, Jenkins replied. Clef, I want you to liaise with the Republican Party. Have Goldwater or someone give a pro-Santa speech. There was no response. A confused mutter filled the room for the missing administrator. Has anyone seen Clef? Fitzroy the Elf woke up with a start as a bright light shone in his face. His joints ached. His skin still burnt from the hot liquid that the men in green costumes had sprayed him down with. And his head was pounding. He opened his aching eyes slowly, trying to adjust the glare of the bright lights. He looked around. He found himself in a massive room with high ceilings and distant walls. He was shackled to the chair in which he sat, and a second chain bound him around the waist, leaving only his arms free. In front of him sat a long bench, one of five stretching the length of the room, before which sat scores of other Elves shackled as he was. In front of each of them, as in front of him, sat a curious collection of accessories. A hot plate, a spoon, a potato peeler, a kitchen knife, and a nice chest. Fitzroy struggled with his swimming head, as he tried to remember how he'd gotten here. It had been just another morning in the week before the big day, just another shift making toys for the boss's big delivery. At least it had been until the lights went out and the men in green busted down the doors. He could see a few of them marching back and forth between the benches even now. Their green dresses, or togas, maybe? Dragging on the floor behind them, they're matching spiked crowns obscuring their faces and shadows, and each of them wearing a tank over their shoulders making to a nozzle this view that that burning hot red fluid that had scalded his friends to death as they grabbed him and injected him with something before tossing him in a sack. Fitzroy didn't have time to contemplate the circumstances of his captivity or what fate had been following the boss before a loud and evil voice rang out over a loudspeaker hidden in the rafters echoing throughout the cavernous building. Good evening, my happy little Elves, the voice declared. I'm afraid there's been a little change in the work schedule this holiday. In the next couple days, you'll be working quadruple shifts. Meal and smoke breaks are canceled, and you won't be making toys anymore. You'll be making something different. The speaker snickered to itself. We've got a big quota to make in time for the big day, and I'm counting on your magic little figures to make it happen. And once this is finished, you can all go back to your happy little Elf families. Safe and sound. Oh, and by the way, the voice added, I have your boss and his delightful little animal friends in captivity as well. If you resist or fight back or don't work your hardest. Well, I can't guarantee that I won't be eating reindeer sausage this Christmas. The speaker laughed. His wicked cacophonous foul echoing over the booming speakers. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Now then, no time to waste. Get started. You'll find the recipe guide in the cooler. Start by warming your hot plate up to medium-high. Then go ahead and add a few tablespoons of butter. Extra, extra, shout out to the news agent of the dozens of software businessmen passing his stand on Fifth Avenue. Special Edition Elves Union pulls out of negotiations. LBJ demands immediate resolution to Christmas catastrophe. A man in a trench coat and fedora hat flipped a nickel to the newsman as he grabbed a copy of the New York Times off the stack, unfolding it and reading it as he walked. Christmas and perilous strike continues. Elves threaten to stay off job until after New Year's. First canceled Christmas since 1896, says Santa Claus. Is there still a reason for the season? The man folded the newspaper up as he crossed 59th Street, approaching the throng of people outside of F.A.O. Schwartz. With no kindly up deliver toys for their kids, the parents of the city had gone mad. The man peered in the window with the shelves almost bare as men ensued practically engaged in tugs of water over stuffed animals and Barbie dolls. You must have more bicycles in the back! Do you have any more Jack Proton toys? I'll pay anything, anything! Whatever she's paying for that doll, I'll pay double! The man was standing by the door with a box of teddy bears and auctioned them off to the eye as bitter as the man in the coat made his way past. People were waving bundles of cash in the air, a look at desperation in their faces as if they were bidding on the last loaf of bread in Manhattan. The man decided to take his leave before the police showed up and found his way to a phone booth on the corner, closing the door behind him to keep out the winter chill. He fisted his pockets to change as he dialed seven digits and dropped a dime into the slot. The phone rang five times for his intended contact deed picked up. Hello? Doc, it's me. Who's this? It's nobody. Listen, Cronkite was right. This place is going insane. So? We're gonna have to speed up production. We need at least 10,000 more units. We need to be able to get them on the shelves by Christmas Eve. Are you crazy? I can't work that fast. This is our golden opportunity, Doc. Every toy store on the island is sold out. All these people out here got to get something under their Christmas tree now that Santa's out of business. That's something that could be your toys. What if something goes wrong? You know this technology isn't perfect yet. Relax, Doc. This is a once-in-a-lifetime shot. If we play this right, every boy and girl in Manhattan is going to be playing with one of your toys. And once the war gets out, this could be the year the whole world learns the name Wonder Sangments. Dr. Jacob Andrews, flashlight in hand, made his way through the dark, cramped basement of Site-19. Most people barely even knew the basement existed, let alone had a reason to go down there and root around the old stacks of spiritualist quack artifacts and mothballed electrons from World War II and reams and reams of handwritten SCP files from the days when things like radium and daguerreotypes were considered anomalous. Andrews had his reason. Nobody had seen Dr. Clefton's the meeting yesterday morning. Everyone assumed he'd gone home or walked out or holed up in one of the labs or something. Andrews knew better, passing the shells of preserved Egyptian mummies and turning the laugh to the Olmec head. Olmec head. That's a legend of the Hidden Temple reference, I think. Andrews reached the brick wall and counted off one, two, three, four, five, six bricks, but we grabbed on with the masonry and pulled. The wall opened up instantly and the smell of saltwater and kelp hung heavy in the air as Andrews descended the stairs into the hidden grotto in the Site-19. Andrews reminded the seashell motif along the walls, turning off his flashlight as he approached the well-lit area at the bottom of the stairs. A new smell struck Andrews as he entered the main room of the massive cave. The undeniably distinctive scent of simmering cream and the frizzle of potatoes gently sautéing in bacon grease and the undeniably savoury aroma of Mericinera, Mericinera, Site-19ia. Mercenaria, Mercenaria, Site-19ia. The unique species of Quahog found in the waters of this grotto. The mandarin tunnels and low ceilings of the Chowder Cave could be next to impossible for strangers to navigate. Dr. Andrews was no stranger and in 30 seconds' flight he found himself in the kitchen of this subterranean base where Dr. Alto Clef, dressed in his black chef's coat, stood over the stove stirring a pot of flipping potatoes in his skillet. A dozen spice jars opened on the shelf beside him. I thought I'd find you down here, Alto. Andrews said the inward-focused chef. Chef Clef, chef Clef, chef Clef, lowered his spoon into the creamy broth simmering on the stove dove and brought it to his lips. Needs white pepper, he muttered to himself. We've been worried about you, Alto. Have you been down here all night? I gotta get this batch just right, Jacob," Clef replied. We both know the only person in the entire foundation qualified to deal with the man behind the sands napping. You don't know what was him, Andrews said. Just because the North Pole was covered with tomato sauce doesn't mean it was supposed to... Nobody even eats that shit anymore! Clef responded angrily, turning away from the stove as he pulled the potatoes off the flame. Who else could it be? He has been seen since that cook-off in Rhode Island five years ago. The one that almost got you killed. Don't remind me. If I had a half a second sooner with the bossly, I would have stopped Alto, Andrews said. You haven't put on that coat in five years now. You're not getting any younger. Well, we all count on you to keep this place together. Santa counts on us, too, Clef said. Those G.O.C. bastards would have turned the North Pole in the glass years ago if it weren't for us keeping an eye out for the old man. And we've let him down. And if there's anything, anything I can do to help him, even if he's going back on my promise, never again, then I'll do it. Andrews sighed. I can see you've got your heart set on this, though. The doctor turned around and began to make his way back to the stairs. Wait, Clef shouted. I could use your help. Just like old times, huh? Clef smiled. Make sure the chowder clopped his... The fuck is it called chowder clopped her? The fuck is it called chowder clopped her? No, chowder clopped her, no. Get out of here. Get your chowder clopped her out of here. We don't need your chowder clopped her. Clef smiled. Make sure the chowder clopped her as fuel opened ready to go. Oh, and see if he can grab some white pepper from the site pantry. General Thomas Dawes made his way down to a hallway deep within the secret recesses of the North American aerospace defense command. On its left, he was followed by researcher James, special liaison from the foundation. Head cannon already, James Taloran. Boom, it's on. On the right followed another military man, his uniform green in Dawes' blue. Colonel Arthur T. Backer, special liaison from the Global Occult Coalition. General, researcher James said, I'd like to state again my formal opposition to the GOC having an official presence here. The position on SCP-4040 is well established and it simply isn't conducive to our purposes here. The Global Occult Coalition stands by its beliefs that the rogue entity doesn't mean the KTE-4040-1 is a clear and present danger to the international security general, Colonel Backer stated with a smirk. But be that as it may, it is the full intention of high command to adhere to the terms of the March 1953 memorandum of understanding with the foundation regarding that entity. The Americans would agree that Santa Claus is a rogue entity, Colonel. General Dawes says that the trio approached his locked door at the end of the hallway and the general rang its doorbell. But let's see if we can find him first before we figure out what to do with him. A guard on the other side of the door answered it, area, attention! The airmen shouted, signaling the dozens of airmen in the dimly room to stand at attention before the general ordered them back to their posts. James looked back and forth, men sat in rows at radar terminals, each of them scrutinizing half a dozen or more of the tiny green monitors. Half a dozen officers sat at banks of phones, most of them in the middle of discussions with Washington or Moscow or Beijing or who knows where. This is the where the magic happens, gentlemen. General Dawes said that he swept his arm out of the room. Out over the room. Most people think all we do here at NORAD is watch for a Soviet airstrike. That's part of it, sure. But we've got husband... Husdits. Husdits is a word that's not a word. But we've got hundreds of top-secret radar arrays all over the world that feed directly into this room. We could probably break deep the Department of Defense's budget just sitting here, around the clock, tracking every last bird in the sky all around the world. The general laughed to himself. Let's note what this equipment is for. This is magic radar, you see. Magic radar, Colonel Bekar asked skeptically. The high command was not aware nor at it was in possession of magical equipment. Oh, it's not the radar itself that's magical, Colonel. General Dawes replied. These radar arrays are specifically designed to track flying objects powered by magic. That's what we use this system for on this day every year. To track Santa's sleigh. The general turned to one of the men on the phones. Any news from the Kremlin? Captain? Yes, sir. The officer replied. Stifling a chuckle at his own joke. No sign of the big man. If you don't mind my asking, Researcher James chimed in. How is any of us going to help us figure out who kidnapped Santa or where they've taken him? As soon as we got the call from the White House that Santa was missing, General Dawes answered. We started pouring over the logs from these arrays. Sure enough, we had some readouts. Whoever got ahold of Santa and his reindeer got on that sleigh and flew it into the middle of nowhere in Wisconsin. By the time the Green Berries got there, though, they were long gone. They must have loaded the sleigh and the reindeer onto a truck or something and moved them by land from there. Anyway, it's the morning of Christmas Eve now, of course. But Christmas Day officially started in the western Pacific about seven hours ago. Everyone knows Santa does his work at the stroke of midnight, and we've got 17 midnight to go. So, why? James asked. Well, whoever's got Santa, they haven't made any ransom demands. Our guess is they want him to do something for them this Christmas. Why take the reindeer and the elves as well? They want the elves to make something and they want Santa to deliver it. And he'll have to do that at midnight. As soon as he makes his move, we'll know where it is. Deliver what? Colonel Backer asked. Guns, bombs, German warfare? This sounding more and more like a pizzicato situation, General. That's just wild guessing, James responded. We can't just jump to conclusions here. I will not be second guessed by a cut-rate mad scientist researcher, Colonel Backer snapped. Mad scientist? That's a laugh coming from a John Wayne wannabe like you. After the message he's made of SCP-1609, he applies a stray dog. I've read your dossier, James. You're not even qualified to be in this room. Why don't you go back to the site A-2 and talk to your, what was it, toilet ghost? That's butt ghost to you, you asshole. This is Researcher James with the post out of nowhere. Random butt ghost for Researcher James. Ah! I can't live. I'm hurt. I'm hurt so bad. I need a memetic fluid to live. Please come to me. Please back, watch on the stream. Yay, butt ghost. Okay, here we go. We're back, butt ghost. Gentleman. General Doss shouted. You can't fight in here. This is the war room. James and Backer stood silently at Doss and made sure of confusion and disdain in their eyes. My wife loves that movie, General shouted one of the airmen at the Terminals. We've got something. The three rushed over to the crowd and crowded around the airman's chair where a single blip was moving toward the top right of one of the screens. What are we looking at here, Airman? Colonel Backer asked. It's all in the Midwest now, sir. Airmen replied. Super Summit speed, definitely magical. Hitting six degrees north by northeast. Huh. What's that heading? It'll be in New York City by sunset. New York City. Doss said to himself. What could Santa want in New York City? James mumbled under his breath. Excuse me? Backer asked. I said I'm a chaplain. Yes, Project Chaplain. False alarm, General. That's one of our birds. Backer stared James down, a skeptical glare in his eyes. Our intelligence did not indicate that the foundation was a possession of magical aircraft. It's a new project. Top secret. We've been developing a plane capable of keeping up with SCP-1115. It looks like it's just a test run. See how it flows back and forth a little from its heading? That's how it works. Can't share all the details of mixed company. You understand, Colonel. SCP-1115, the flying robots. General Doss chuckled. Good luck keeping up with them. They had me try to shoot one down and we've made it out alive. Well, false alarm as this may be, Backer asked. I really should let High Command know what the current situation is. Is there a private phone nearby? Two rooms down, Doss said. Airman Rodriguez will show you the open line. That's chapter end, but this is a really short final chapter, so we're going to move on. Not final, just the next chapter is really short. Let's keep going. High Command switchboard. How many director call? Hope me through to General Abrams at once. Gold Priority, Security Code Delta, Omicron 669, or Epsilon Tau. One moment, General. Colonel. This is General Abrams speaking. Santa's in New York. The Foundation already has a bird in the air en route. Coordinates. Unknown at this time. They've got magic radar. Get our primary radar online and watch their bird. It flutters. Once they do the groundwork, they'll know that Santa's on a sleigh. And then we neutralize KTE 4040, I assume. My thoughts exactly, General. Santa Claus hang upside down above a giant vat of boiling clam juice. A rope tied around his ankles was the only thing keeping the not-so-joly old man from falling to his doom in the steaming pot. In front of Field of Vision stood his kidnapper, a grizzled old man dressed in a red chef's coat. A toke as red as blood on his head. A tomato embroidered over his heart. The man pinched and twirled his moustache as he paced back and forth in front of Santa. Reaching out to the control panel before him, he pulled the main lever a tiny bit, and the rope loosened, sending St. Nicholas hurtling a few inches closer to the pot. It's not much I'm asking of you, Santa, the man said. Just tell me the magic words I need to use to get those randias of yours into the air, and I'll be on my way. Once I've taken care of delivering my special presents to all the good little boys and girls, I'll let you go. And your elves and your reindeer and you can go back to the north and rebuild your little house and your little factory. And you can go on like none of this ever happened. Never! Santa shouted defiantly, his voice echoing through the abandoned warehouse and his sweatshirt over the past week. I won't let you do whatever you're planning to all those good little children. I was kind of hoping you'd say that. The man said as he pressed the intercom button on his console. Libertines, do you copy? Yes, sir! A voice cracked into the radio. Take one of the reindeer down to the basement. I don't care, the freak one with the atomic nose. We're eating good tonight. No, Santa shouted. Don't hurt Rudolph! You know what you have to do to make this stop, Santa, the red man said. Tell me the magic words. A tear fell from Santa's eye. Rolling down his bald head and dripping into the clam juice boiled away instantly. All right! Come here and I'll tell you everything. The man leaned over the edge of the pod as Santa between his tears told the men what he needed to know. How to get the reindeer flying. How to break the sound barrier. How to stop time long enough to visit every house in the world before the sun came up. I knew you'd see a reason eventually, the kidnapper said. I'll go ahead and call off that order of reindeer burgers now. The kidnapper recoiled in surprise from the horrific scream he heard as the instantly pressed the intercom button. What is the meaning of this, Santa? The reindeer myself! The kidnappers were cut off as a flying porcelain ball smashed into the side of his head. Shards flying every which way as piking-hop creams splashed all over his immaculate coat. He turned towards the door where his guards were standing and saw them on the floor, coated in the same boiling broth that had now soiled his costume. Standing between them was his counterpart. Black coat. Black hat. A massive tank strapped to his back. A dozen from his utility belt. A long tube connecting the tank to a massive cannon in his hands and a righteous sneer on his face as he eyed the man who had kidnapped Santa Claus. Chowder, Clef! The Manhattanite! Clef responded he's dead down the Vermillion Valley before him. I knew it was you the second I saw the pictures of Santa's workshop coated in Manhattan-style chowder. Impossible! There's no way you could have tracked me here! Quite possible indeed, you burgundy burglar of Christmas cheer. Clef replied as he approached his arsonimesis. The breed of clam you used was specific to the East River. Once I figured that out, it was a mere matter of checking the real estate records to find any disused waterfront warehouses that had changed hands recently. Now stand down, I'm taking you in and I'm letting Santa go. The Manhattanite dodged a blast Chowder cannon as he left towards the consul wrapping his hands around the control lever. One more step and Chris cringled him. You monster! Clef shouted. What do you want from St. Nick anyway? I'll chowder anymore! The Manhattanite mumbled to himself. Excuse me? Clef asked. Chowder! It's everywhere these days from Suffolk to Seattle to San Diego from La Santa Las Vegas to Miami to Manitoba from D.C. to Dallas from Tampa to Timbuktu. You can't so much walk through a door of a seafood restaurant without having a moment shoving your face. But you know what? Chowder Clef. What? Tomato sauce. It's all heavy cream and bacon and potatoes and a splash of sherry. It makes my blood boil. Chowder Clef. Not that you could even boil that stuff. Oh no, it scalds the milk. We must be delicate with it. We'll get to know what real Clem Chowder is all about, my friend. That's why I barely held so hard to work this last week. They finished up an hour ago. You know, it's amazing how all the magic on that slime works. I didn't think we'd be able to load 3,268,896,174 gallons of piping on Chowder into the back. But believe it or not, 3,268,896,174 gallons of piping on Chowder into the back. 6,174 gallons. Clef said himself as he came to a horrific revelation. Well, that's exactly exactly the Manhattanite shouted. Exactly one gallon for everyone. When the sun comes up on Christmas morning, all the little boys and girls are going to find a hop along boots and talking dollies under their Christmas trees. No. They're going to find the greatest gift of all. Piping heart Chowder. You're insane, Manhattanite. Chef yelled. You can't take away everyone's presents and give them your disgusting tomato soup. They'll detest it. We'll have a revolution on our hands. A revolution indeed, the Manhattanite shouted. A Chowder revolution. We should cast down on New England oppressors once and for all. And it starts now. The Manhattanite jerked the control of her all the way down, towards the battle of clam juice. Your choice, Chowder chimp. Save Santa or chase me. The Manhattanite dodged three blasts from the Chowder candidates. He leapt through the door at the edge of the room. Clef started to give chase but stopped himself. In less than 30 seconds, Santa would be in soup as fast as he could. Clef switched the control knob on the Chowder candidates, setting two and put a bowl of the creamy savory end product into a bowl gulping it as fast as he could. Strength welled within him. Omega-3 acids coursed him through his veins as the muscles seemed to double in size. Santa even fancied that he saw a stylized image of a clamshell appear on his bicep. As Clef rolled up his sleeves, set his hands on the side of the boiling pot and impervious to the pain from the heartsteel, upended it and turned its on its side, spilling its deadly contents down the stairs and over the half-dozen guards in their Statue of Liberty dresses who had been on their way up to the stairs to confront the dark chef. A kitchen knife tossed from his you-building belt, suffered the rope and set the fountain to Clef's waiting arms before being set back on his feet. Why, if it isn't little alto, Santa said, his typically typical joviality returning to his voice, I guess that easy make-up and I gave you when you were a little paid-off, didn't it? Are you okay, Santa? Nothing along with just that won't fix, believe me. I'm putting you on my nice list for the next year. There's still this year to worry about, Santa. Where's the sl- Clef stopped his sentence as he heard the jingle of bells outside the window in turn just in time to see Santa slay ascending into the night sky, a bubbling pot of chowder sitting in the place of Santa's bag of toys. Ho, ho, ho! Merry chowder mess! The man had night's voice echoed through the empty streets. Damn it, Clef shouted. We're too late! No need for impudent language, little alto. It's not quite midnight yet, Santa said. He won't be able to use all my magic until it's Christmas Day. You can still catch him. No offence, ain't it, Nick? But I know what you rang to your capable of. My chowder copter might have magical clan powder, but even it can't keep up. There's no way I can catch him in time. Oh, no! Santa winked and stuck his fingers into his mouth as he whistled. I can't whistle. I'm so sorry. I'm so bad. I can't do this part. In a moment, he reread globing and emanate from the staircase to the ground floor, and a single reindeer trotted up the stairs past the libertines rolling in agony as the chowder burned away their flesh, his bright red nose illuminating the room like a Christmas tree. You called, Santa, the reindeer asked. Santa and the elves stood on the roof of the factory in the darkness, looking out into the overcast sky for any side. Santa checked his pocket watch. A quarter after one, he looked inside. Do you think chowder clefts all right? Oh, rewind. Do you think chowder clefts all right? Fitzroy asked, Santa. I think... I think it's going to be a late delivery this year, boys. Wait! One of the elves shouted, look over there! A faint glow showing through the clouds to the east. It might have just been a warning light from one of the beacons on the river, but as they watched and watched and brighter and brighter still, until Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer himself emerged from the fog, and behind him came Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Goobit, Donner and Blitzen, and behind them the sleigh and riding on that sleigh alone, smiling and covered head to toe in tomato sauce, was chowder cleft! A chair rose up from the elves as the sleigh alighted on the rooftop and cleft stepped off. Oh, toe! Santa shouted. You do it! It wasn't easy, Cleft said. The GOC tried to shoot his boat down. I guess they figured nobody would know if it was that if Santa and the reindeer just had to get blown up by edit and missiles this year. I was going to have to have words with them after we're done here. Now this guy here, Cleft padded his red-nosed mount on the head. Now he is a real trooper. Thanks, Cleft, Rudolph said. All I did was do a barrel roll, like you said. It was so modest, Rudolph. It was you who came up close enough for me to make the jump onto the sleigh. But how did you stop the Manhattanite? Santa asked. Well, Santa, in the middle of all our fighting I asked him a question. What was that? He spent his entire life fighting to wipe out New England-style chowder. I asked him if he'd ever actually tasted any. You mean he hadn't? I had a special batch just for him. Call it a Christmas present. He had a bomb on his chowder cannon, which had been turned to the third and final setting. I spent days trying to get that batch just right. And to make sure it was perfect, I ran it through SCP-914 on very fine. He was in tears after a single spoonful. He poured the bot out over the Atlantic ocean and barely shooted out. Wonderful, Alto. You see, Christmas consumed the heart of even the most wicked man. Oh, I doubt I've seen the last of him, Santa. This isn't the first time we've dueled over the question of soup supremacy. And it sure won't be the last. Well, the important thing is I have my slay and my reindeer buck. Thanks for all the help, Alto. I've got a Christmas to save. It's already a quarter past one, Santa. Clef said as he looked downwards. It might be too late. Oh, Alto. The magic works for any midnight. I've still got six more chances. But what about the toys? The Manhattan Night never got anyone near the toys, Alto. I keep them someplace very safe, Santa said with a wink. It's just a matter of picking them up and say, Alto. Yes, Santa. There's one more thing we can do to make up for lost time. I hope you don't mind lending a little hand of yours a little while longer and letting me borrow that canon of yours. I'm finishing this last chapter. We're going all the way. Marathon, let's go. Dr. Andrews set the coffee in the Styrofoam cup as he drove home along the docking roads. His watch said it was 5.32 a.m. Christmas morning. He had no wake up sleep in the past three days. Nobody at site 19 had. With all the work convincing people that things would be just fine as soon as the elves settled with researcher James at Cheyenne Mountain tracking the bizarre radar settings all around the eastern seaboard and ultimately dealing with the blowback after the GOC had been caught red-handed violating the rules of engagement, trying to shoot down Santa's sleigh and the unidentified object chasing it. What had become of them after that was anyone's guess. It was a miracle Norad was still standing after what the GOC liaison tried to do to neutralize their magic radar. Andrews pulled with the driveway and shut off the motor as he climbed out into the pre-dawn air. Sector under eyes had been kind enough to let him spend the morning at home and explain to his girls why Santa hadn't come. He'd grown as he looked at the headlines in the morning paper on his doorstep. No sign of Santa's Christmas hangs in the balance. LBJ makes last-minute call to the north panel as the strike continues. Rides to New York, LA, London outside of sold-out toy stores. Bucky and Vidal debate. Is Santa a rad? Andrews dropped the paper as soon as he saw the tableau in his living room. Beneath the golden little Christmas tree lay dozens of presents all wrapped up in paper and bows. He hadn't bought them. Karen hadn't bought them. Who had? Like an excited little boy he felt you his knees and examined the tags. To Jane from Santa. To Amy from Santa. To Mom and Dad from Santa. He had done it. Somehow his crazy old friend in the black coat had done it. Santa was safe and it would be a merry Christmas after all. Andrews was about to race upstairs and wake everybody when he noticed something else. A certain aroma wafting from the next room. He turned the corner into the kitchen and there, sitting on the warmer on the stovetop was a great big pot bubbling with cream and potatoes and clams and just the right faint of bacon and a little splash of sherry a note on the side read to the Andrews family from Santa Clef four brand new porcelain bowls and shining silver spoons sat on the counter next to the stove waiting to be used cautiously Andrew stripped a spoon of the pot and took a taste. Hmm. He said to himself white pepper really does make a difference. Dr. Clef saved Christmas. Oh my God. That tail was amazing. That tail was amazing. That tail was amazing. I don't know what you're doing right now but if you are not upvoting the 155 upvotes how Clef saved Christmas you are doing it wrong.