KRINGLEFINGER

Kringlefinger stirred the enormous cauldron of Christmas soup with his massive spoon.

Even for an elf he was so short and crooked he had to stand on a stool. All of the other elf folk always laughed and called him terrible names. The big fella upstairs just let it happen.

He could cook though, Kringlefinger. Like a demon. But he was unappreciated by the big red mister. Even worse, he'd treated him like crap as far back as he could remember.

Kringlefinger dipped his hairy hand in the soup and licked the whole thing like a chicken leg.

"Damn. That's tastey. Too good for that old bearded bastard upstairs that's for sure!"

His hand scratched his bollocks, went in again and slurp!

"Time for all the trimmings! Summat really special this time 'cos I'm well and truly hacked off with him booting me up the arse!" he cursed.

Kringlefinger shoved his calloused pinky straight up his gigantic flaring nostril and grappled with a bogey the size of a whelk. He wiped it onto the side of the pot and pushed it into the soup with his spoon.

"Nice! For starters!" He grinned.

After rubbing his buttocks vigorously the old bent cook hawked up a humongous green gobbet of phlegm. It sounded like a towel snap and out it shot, bang into the bubbling broth, where it landed with a loud splat!

"Yum!"

Next he leaned forward on his woodwormy stool, undid his ancient leather codpiece and with both hands took out his gnarled, warty and fantastically large tattooed member. 

Balancing on tiptoes he began to rub with increasing zeal but his glorious release was cut quite short when his Boss bellowed from above.

"Kringlefinger! You stumpy fuckwit, where's my soup!"

"Coming Sire!" he yelled, staring at his flaccid tool, "or maybe not!"

Deprived of his playtime, the cook took aim and heartily peed, stirring the yellow cordial around and around into the swirling holly.

Spooning it out into a decrepit but gargantuan bowl and adding a sprig of nettle, Kringlefinger carried it to the dumbwaiter and hauled on the greasy rope.

"Blasted rotten caribou hugger!" he scowled and turning let rip a long loud fart inside the rising box.

Grumbling, he knew it wouldn't be long before the main dinner was required, so the cook got to it. But this time he'd get some payback. Oh yes!

In the oven was the Boss's very own rotund Chief elf rammed right in and judging by the fat pooling round his knees he was nearly done. 

Kringlefinger put his cheek close to the roast and checked the heat. He tugged on a thick curly nasal hair and the meat came away lovely.

"Far too good for the old twat! Old Chiefy needs doctorin'!"

Just at that moment the cook's wife entered the kitchen dragging a huge writhing sack, which emitted loud braying shrieking sounds.

"Is that our stuffing?"

"It is my dearest but it wasn't fuckin' easy at all! The damn thing just wouldn't get in the bag!" she moaned.

"But you went to his favourite reindeer stables didn't you dear like we discussed?"

"No, this red-nosed brat is from the birth barn. It said Rudolph or something on the sign outside. It also said it was special so I guessed it would be just the job!"

"Ah, a sleigh-born eh! That's even better! Let's hope he's really special and very important! Serves the old sod right for treating us like shit. Get the leggy sprogget in the mincer dear".

"Which one?"

"Use the big mincer this time. It'll come out coarser and the old fucker might choke on a hoof!"

The hunched elf woman smacked the sack with a mallet and went quiet. She tipped the bag into a vast crusty hopper. Something glowed bright red, all the way down to the grinding screw.

The glow stopped abruptly when the handle was turned and a squidgy plopping sound began, punctuated with the occasional yelp and snap.

"Kringlefinger you ugly little fucker! Where's my bastard Christmas dinner?" bellowed the big fella. The oak plank floor was thumped so hard that the cook and his wife both jumped out of their skin.

"That Nickel arse! He'll be the bastard death of us! We'll show him! No more Santa's Little Helpers for us! This year it's got consequences 'cos he's on his own fuckin' naughty list!"

The weary chef impaled the cooked Chief elf with a rusty halberd and pumping abnormally muscular arms, he hefted the whole thing onto a battered platter in a single swing. Plump!

"K R I N G E L F U C K I N F I N G E R!"

The Sire's shriek was so loud that the cook slipped on a slick of elf lard and his scabby head shot straight up into the Chief's seared arse.

Pulling it out with a schwupp, Kringlefinger cursed.

"That chuffin-well does it! Let's give the old cock-head something to really fuckin' moan about dear! Let's give him the treatment!"

Kringlefinger took down his stiff little breeches and clambered onto the elf roast. Gripping its charred belt buckle he rubbed his bare crack all over the elf meat leaving a trail of glistening brown smears.

"Ha ha!"

His wife removed her bloomers and balanced on the lip of the big mincer, where she let loose her swollen bladder. The hot piss steamed where it pooled on the top of the special reindeer-mince.

"Oh shit!" she wailed.

"What's up?"

"I've squeezed too hard and let one go!"

"Don't fret! Let the whole lot out dearest!"

The old woman shat into the mix as hard as she could.

Bluuuuuurpp!

With tears in her eyes she got down, turned the handle and out poured the raw stuffing, which was caught in a huge tin basin.

The Chief, stuffed with Rudolph, was sent upstairs in the dumb waiter with the reindeer's glowing nose as garnish just to rub it in.

The old couple waited silently peering up at the cracked oak ceiling.

Surely this would piss him off.

"What's this! What's thiiiiiiiis!" came the roar as Rudolph's red nose came bouncing down the stairs.

The cook and his wife looked at each other.

"This is fuckin' .........

D-E-L-I-C-I-O-U-S!" Bellowed Santa.

The cook and his wife visibly wilted.

"Bollocks!" moaned Kringlefinger and he slumped to the floor.

Rudolph's red nose landed on his head.