Overhead, the roof echoes with the tramp of thirty-two tiny hooves and the sound of sleigh runner crunching the crust of the snow. Two footsteps echo downward, the sound of a heavy body and an "AAAAAAAAHHH!" like you make when you stretch after stopping during a long drive to loose your muscles and empty your bladder.

Then, other sounds, other voices, from on high and everyone becomes still and looks aloft, as if they could peer through the Olde Oaken Roofe Beams.

"Outa the bag and grab him, boys!" and the sounds of a scuffle, the sounds of small, elven, fists smacking into rotound flesh.

"Got the old bastard!" "Tie him up good, Jocko!" "Death to the bloated exploiter of Elvish labor!" and other cries in high-pitched voices echo through the room below. Even the squid and the cats are temporarily silent.

"Okay, boys! Shove him down the chimney! Do it headfirst and let's get back to the Pole! You Know Who's Waiting There For Us!"

And a large, white-bearded, soot-covered, Carhart-clad body thumps headfirst into the fire. Tied with ropes, cuffed with handcuffs, chained with chains, it quickly rolls out of the fire, smothering any burning spots on the way.

"Say, friends," says the old man, "Could you untie, uncuff, and unchain me? Hijacked on a pre-Yule test flight by the elves. Who would have believed that the little Commies had it in them?"