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“I explained to the Girl Death Guild that they will never get out, but it doesn’t stop the bastards from trying,” Painfree informs you. “They’re always trying to get out on the ice, and slamming toys to the ground to distract other elves whilst they attempt escape.” As you well know, elves are spiritually obligated to pick up and repair broken toys — or at least most elves are. The more wicked and wild ones curb those inner urges, and exploit them in the others. Painfree and Mr. Falwell are always bringing in terms unique to the industry, with “Girl Death Guild” being one amongst a countless supply. It’s a very attractive, informal guild to elves who are former lust killers.
Before you were expected to deal with miscreant elves, you basically just stood by, accruing time. You would occasionally set an elf straight, but things have just gotten worse and worse. Their bottled rage is building, and it seems it now requires some outlet. It makes you nervous, for obvious reasons. Either way, you must think of solutions. Provided with a satisfying means of letting off steam, the elves could then return to work, sated. However, this may just be wishful thinking. There are potential dangers to such extravagances. Obviously, it could set a bad example for the other elves, who may be lured into rage-like behavior. It’s like the rules are made to be broken or bent here, just like on earth! The question is, how far can they bent or broken before all hell breaks loose with these foul things?
All the phones are ringing off the hook now — the elf voices calling in your head. All the phones. You have known this: It is all a concrete dream. The noise in your brain is a thing, and the noise in the other’s things is your brain, too. You have resigned to your office again, for safety from the voices. You need to go over the massive budget figures soon, but your head is in no condition for number crunching. You see the club beside your desk, and feel like going out there and bashing some elves. When they steal and break toys, it costs this whole operation money — just like in the outside world! How can those elves not understand that? How can they not see the problem? Well, you decide, they soon will. You are feeling innovative today.
“Everybody!,” you shout. “Listen to me! I have ordered you to wall something off, and you had better well fucking do it!” You descend the staircase quickly. “You!,” you say, grabbing a random elf’s head. “Don’t you know that everything’s being filmed from the upstairs? I’m monitoring every little thing you’re doing! Every time you pick your ass and sniff your grubby little finger, I see it. Then you touch those toys again?! Bastard!” You shake his head violently, then remove your sweaty, jittery hands from him.
“Now, who knows what percent of a floor can be stained by elf’s blood?” You look at everyone, their perplexed and angry eyes piercing your soul. “Anybody? Can anybody answer my question?” “All of it!,” one elf shouts. “That’s bloody well right! Every single percentage point of this floor before your feet can be stained by elf’s blood, if you don’t stop screwing around! One hundred percent of it!” You pace around a little, then sigh, forcing a calm demeanor (which may be more unsettling than rage). “Look, I don’t mean to be mean here. I’m not trying to be a tyrant, but don’t you see that souls are at stake here? Theirs, mine, even yours. Everybody’s! We have to do better than this. Even though you’re demons and everything, you are not here to do evil things. You’re here to build toys for children, to redeem yourselves. Why is that so hard to understand? And if you redeem yourselves, you redeem me as well. Is that so complicated? Is that rocket science? Must I show up down here with charts and graphs and give some ongoing seminar?” You punch your forehead repeatedly, causing an unknown elf to snicker.
You leave soon after, and the elves start back to work, cautiously and quietly. Some have even added to the wall, and quite quickly. It’s not exactly impenetrable, but enough to contain the average elf individual (if not the horde). Meanwhile, back in your office, you think of other ways to possibly contain the elves, and to keep them happy. Lounge music? No, that won’t do the trick! Idiot!
You look at the cash registers and see the vast amounts of money in there, provided by Mr. Falwell and people very much like him. Then you look at a file — a real file. It’s like this moment is synchronized with your consternation. You see the name: Trevor Richards. You had marked his file “TBC,” as in “To Be Continued.” Should you be messing around with this any more? “Well,” you say out loud, “it’s all relative.”
When you first started here, you were a non-employee to the first degree. You were no moral vigilante; You did this because you practically had no choice — it was either this or the actual, literal Hell. It’s insane! The police club by your desk is entirely free of elf blood, yet you truly wanted to bash in some brains. How did you hold back? You showed tremendous resolve, given how deeply this place has warped you. The elves are all angrier at you now, though. Many of them were angry enough already, being unable to inflict deviance upon the outside. It’s like smokers forced to become nonsmokers — they may have to obey, but the temptation never totally goes away, does it? Sooner or later they may go back, just saying Hell with it. Sooner. Later. Hell.
As you look over the budget, you realize it’s doing well enough. It figures positively into the billions. It’s simply as the corporation demands it; Your life is theirs, and theirs is yours. You write down on the ledger, “There shall be no more hitting of employees.” Moderation is key. Moderation.
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