The Seven Dwarfs (Blick, Flick, Glick, Plick, Quee, Snick, and Whick) arranged to meet for lunch one sultry February afternoon at an Argentinian steakhouse on The Kurfürstendamm in Berlin. They invited Goldilocks and Santa Clause to join them, anticipating both would offer a unique perspective on the problems facing the dwarfs. The dfwarfs thought, too, that Santa and Goldilocks might be experiencing the same issues.
Always interested in enjoying a typical German lunch on someone else’s nickel, Santa Clause accepted their invitation in anticipation of ordering halibut ceviche. Goldilocks habitually accepted all lunch invitations in the hope she might stumble across an acting gig in the process.
None of the Seven Dwarfs wanted to be the first to admit, aloud, to the purpose for the gathering.
“Look,” Quee said, finally breaking the silence, “we’re running out of possibilities. Hollywood isn’t hiring, sales of fairy tales and their ilk are down to alarming levels, and there’s just a general disenchantment with fantasy and whimsy. From my vantage point, that leaves just one option for us to have any hope of generating sustainable income, and that’s crime. The only question is what kind, isn’t it?” He scanned the eyes of the characters around him, searching for signs about their feelings on the matter.
Santa Clause was the first to respond. “You know I hate the idea of abandoning our principles, but goddamn it, the War on Christmas has damn near bankrupted me. I’ve got to boost revenue or I’m going to be laying off another set of elves in a month or two. Quee, I’m all in. We just need to agree on the most lucrative crime with the least risk.”
Even before he spoke, Plick’s scowl betrayed his disgust with Santa’s comments.
“First, there is no War on Christmas. Santa’s just buying in to the bullshit he hears on Fox News. Second, he abandoned his principles when he refused to deliver toys to children in Havana.
“Santa’s failures notwithstanding,” he said as he studied the faces gathered around the table but conspicuously avoiding eye contact with Santa, “I’m in just because we all know we’re struggling and things can’t go on the way they are. We have to do something.”
“Well,” Goldilocks said, “I am not in such bad shape…”
His white fluffy eyebrows twitching wildly, Santa interrupted her. “Plick, you don’t know squat about why I didn’t deliver to Havana. I didn’t refuse. The goddamn sleigh broke down and they don’t have parts in Cuba, thanks to the embargo. Get your goddamn facts straight before you start making accusations against me! And as for the War on Christmas….”
“All right, all right, cut the crap,” Whick snarled. “We’re not here to fight, we’re here to talk strategy. Goldilocks, you were about to say something?”
Goldilocks smiled weakly at Whick. “Thanks. As I was saying, I’m not in such bad shape as the rest of you, thanks to my contract for the Sleep Number commercials. So I don’t think I ought to be part of the decision process and I’ll certainly not be part of any scheme you all launch.”
“Well isn’t that just peachy,” Santa growled, “you stumble into a a short-term gig and the problem doesn’t impact you, huh? You just wash your hands of the problems confronting the rest of us. You’re what I call a bleached-blonde fair weather friend.”
Goldilocks responded to Santa’s rant by throwing her vodka tonic in his face. Santa wiped his beard on the sleeve of his white-trimmed jacket and grinned. “Goldy, with your temper, I’m surprised you haven’t been transformed into bear fecal matter by now, hah!”
“Santa,” Goldilocks replied, “Rudolph has more class in his big red alcoholic nose than you have in the whole of your stunningly corpulent body.”
Just then, Sinbad the Sailor waved at the group, as a waiter delivered a large order of poached leprechaun-on-toast to the table and pointed him out as their benefactor.
“Maybe we should invite Sinbad to be part of this discussion,” Glick said. “He may have some useful insights about this matter. It’s always wise to get a sailor’s perspective before setting sail, if you know what I mean!” Glick’s face twisted into a self-satisfied grin.
Plick and Flick simultaneously rolled their eyes.
“Hell, it can’t hurt,” Quee said, motioning to Sinbad to join them and ignoring Plick’s and Flick’s denigrating expressions.
YEAH, I got just as tired of writing this as you got reading it. Just killing time before our couch surfers arrive.
Could well be, Pauline! (With a bit of absurdist fantasy mixed in for good measure.)
Sounds like it could be a political treatise…