Santa's New Toy

Chapter Two

Back in the study, Nicholas selected another disk from the pile. This would be slightly more challenging, he suspected. Loading the disk, he scrolled through the images on screen. Episode 1....no, episode 2....no, episode 3....ah, there it was. Nicholas checked the time again, and realised he'd probably be able to get through the selection process a lot quicker with his wife's help, but frankly he wasn't willing to risk it. It could, he mused to himself, cause complications on so many levels...

The machine had been doing its thing for several minutes by the time Nicholas returned from the bathroom, and he was aghast at what he saw forming in the chamber. He ran as quickly as his stumpy legs would carry him to the control panel, where he realised the screen shot he thought he had loaded had changed. Either side of the console was a tell-tale scattering of paw prints, "Bloody cat!" He exclaimed in a most unfestive manner.

Scrabbling through the hefty instruction manual, Nicholas realised there was nothing he could do to halt or change the process. The only option was damage limitation, and he picked up the phone and dialled the workshop. The reply from Colin the foreman was snappy to say the least.

"Yes, I realise you're up to your jingle bells, Colin, but I've had a bit of an incident with the new machine and I need your best hair and costume staff on standby ASAP. It's a big job, so it'll be all hands on deck. With you shortly, Colin..."

At the other end of the phone, Colin harrumphed loudly and the line went dead.

Nicholas returned to the machine where a somewhat agitated man stood, looking for a way out. Nicholas gave him a quick once over and sighed. It could be worse he reflected, as he opened the catch on the chamber door, at least the raw materials were there. "Right matey," he greeted the man, who was looking around quite bewildered, "We're going to give you a bit of a makeover. Now, shall I call you Ralph or John...?"

***

Back in London the Christmas party was well and truly underway. The guests were beginning to get a bit tipsy and were either hitting the dance floor to selection of their favourite tunes - Justin Timberlake’s ‘Sexy Back,’ Britney’s ‘Womanizer,’ Katy Perry’s ‘Teenage Dream,’ and Barry White’s ‘Never Never Gonna Give You Up,’ were all proving particularly popular - or huddled in corners discussing their favourite subject and giggling like teenagers.

None of them noticed Malcolm, tucked underneath the lower branches of the Christmas tree. To all outward appearances anyone spotting him would assume he was just another decoration. In fact he was Nicholas’ chief reconnaissance elf, the North Pole’s answer to James Bond, if you will.

With the aid of some high - tech gadgetry his job was nearly done and he was about to return via a particularly magic trick to the North Pole, when his ears pricked up.

“Heinz Kruger….Thorin Oakenshield…” Malcolm was totally mystified, “Who the bloody hell are these two then? That’s going to put a proper spanner in the works…”

***

A little over 2,500 miles away, Nicholas was watching a third creation taking shape. He was interested to see how his next creation would work out, particularly once he reached London. He wondered if he really should have started with this one as he would take longer to acclimatise than his two previous characters, but he had felt it wise to begin with the more straight forward men in case any problems arose. Now he was confident in the machine’s abilities, he felt more able to deal with anything untoward his next few projects would throw at him.

In the chamber, another long pair of legs were taking shape, this time clad in finely woven black wool. The shoes beneath were spotlessly shiny black leather, as his form took shape it became clear that he was a gentleman from the Victorian era, his black waistcoat, frock coat and cravat being layered over a snowy white, full sleeved cotton shirt.

Santa smiled, another happy customer guaranteed, he chuckled to himself.

His reverie was soon broken by a jingle and a thud as Malcolm materialised in the middle of the room, looking flustered and panic-stricken.

“Good Lord, what’s the matter with you?” exclaimed Nicholas, who was used to Malcolm being the epitome of calm in a crisis.

“We’ve got a problem Nick,” he said, straight to the point as ever. “It was all going fine, the usual names came up, the ones we were expecting. Then suddenly they mentioned two other blokes, a…” he checked his notes, “A Heinz Kruger and Thorin Oakenshield? Who the bloody hell are they? My WiFi’s playing up and without it I’m buggered for on the job research.”

“Laptop’s over there,” Nick indicated with a sideways nod of his head. “Check the usual search engines and let me know what you turn up. I’ve got two more to deal with after this chap which should take about 40 minutes – I need to the intel by then or we’re as stuffed as that turkey the missus is working on for tomorrow.”

With that, Malcolm scuttled off back to his office with the laptop, and Nick turned his attention back to the chamber. The man contained within was the perfect image of a Victorian gentleman, albeit a rather poleaxed one.

“Mr Thornton,” said Nick, smiling and extending a hand as he opened the chamber. “So lovely to meet you. Come, let me pour you a whisky and tell you what’s been going on over the last few years…”