About the author:

Best known for producing the Blockbuster podcast Chuds n Spuds, where they spend forty five minutes every week licking ghost peppers and arguing that potato salad is a citrus fruit, Buster Manwomb had long since retired before finally learning the difference between producing a podcast and verbally abusing the organic bananas in a Saskatoon Co-op.

Make like one of Immortan Joe's war boyz and WITNESS them on Twitter at Bustermanwomb.

Chapter One: Funforeseen consequences

Christmas never truly recovered from the cataclysm known as "Starbucks making their holiday cups plain red back in 2015". War scholars refer to it as the deciding campaign in the war on Christmas. Seemingly overnight, the north pole, headquarters of the Christmas forces got more fucked up than the sex-face of a Bioware character. Infrastructure melted away. Workshops conveniently filled with the elves threatening to unionize burned down. Entire warehouses of toys crumbled away as if some FUCKING idiot decided it was a good idea to make all the warehouses out of gingerbread! Yes, I'm fucking looking at you, Tingles!

Anyway, Santa, the leader of Christmas, found that the elf population under his control had been halved. Outsourcing to third world hellholes like China and Flint, Michigan kept his operations above water, but they needed to recoup their numbers fast if the more labour-intensive divisions were to keep up with demand.

Elrond had fallen on hard times after he found out he wasn't needed for nearly as much of The Hobbit 3 as he'd banked on. He accepted that downsizing from his lofty title of Lord of Rivendell was an inescapable reality, but he struggled to accept that his best prospect as an elf was at the North Pole assembling 'Unruly Drake' brand dildos: the one product whose expectations were too high for a Flint sweat shop to meet.

Papa elf was walking along the workshop aisle with a face of constant disappointment, like an incel who shoved a lemon up his ass every time a date checked his twitter and canceled. Every time he walked past an elf at risk of being crushed to death, should the pile of dildos they sculpted fall upon them, he would nod and move on. Halfway down he saw an elf try to leave to take a bathroom break before being gunned down by the sniper in the guard tower. Don't worry, elves are supposedly pretty immortal; they only want to torment the poor little bastard, not affect his productivity.

Papa Elf stopped at Elrond's table, his face not unlike that of George Castanza's father after hearing his son say he wants to become a ventriloquist. He pulled out a measuring band and held it against Elrond's dildo pile.

"Elrond." Papa elf declared loudly enough for the other workers to hear. Seeing other workers get chastized or shot were the only things that broke up the monotony. "The height of your pile of self-ejaculating, triple-rippled SIR Unicocktopussies is only 'substantial'."

"Yes." Elrond declared.

"It should be at 'hazardous' already! How many have you made today?"

"The elves of Rivendell were craftsmen of legendary renown." Elrond explained with grace and duty. "Our value was upon the quality of our work, not the speed if it."

Papa Elf whistled. A red dot fixated on Elrond's chest from the tinsel-adorned sniper tower.

"Eighty Five." Elrond said, admirably attempting to mask his shame.

The workshop went silent.

"That's… four hundred and twenty behind quota." Papa elf said, scribbling a crosshair over Elrond's name in red ink.

One foolishly dank elf in the background broke the silence by yelling "Ha ha! Blaze it!" Before getting their innards pulped by the sniper.

"This isn't acceptable behavior, Elrond." Papa Elf said gravely. "If you were working for Amazon, you would have already lost most of your internal organs to recoup profits. Do better."

"Oh, why do you not just say it?" Elrond asked defeatedly. "I'm the worst toy maker in the world. I'm a cotton-headed ninny muggins!"

Every elf within earshot gasped in a manner similar to if a gaggle of nuns entered a church to see someone fellating a crucifix. The hand of Papa Elf flew through the air, colliding with Elrond's cheek in the most stinging and vindictive of bitch slaps.

"I don't ever want to hear that filthy fucking language out of your filthy fucking mouth, you son of a bitch!" Papa Elf screamed as the bitch-slapped Elrond flew to the ground, his exact state of consciousness a matter of debate. Two very large elves lumbered down the aisles, picking Elrond up by his dainty shoulders. "Take this son of a bitch to…. the shelf."

Had Elrond been in a state permitting conscious movement, he likely would have been pleading, or crying, or incomprehensibly screaming, as most other elves are when they're assigned-nay damned- to the shelves.