Not many myths about him are true. Sure, he wears the red suit, has that white beard, and he is plump. Disgustingly so.

And, yeah, I’ve heard him, “Ho, ho,” a couple of times–after he’s had too much eggnog. But he’s not jolly and his eyes don’t twinkle. They glow with an evil light.

That’s why I’m here, starving in this Tijuana prison. I tried to extinguish that glow. Permanently. The Man is a menace–cruel–he must be stopped! His fame lies in the bowels of the earth: his toy-making slaves in the gloomy dungeons beneath the North Pole.

Even this jail is better than those dungeons. At least it’s warm here. Did you know how sensitive pointy ears are to frostbite? Tiny lungs are susceptible to pneumonia? The Man knows. And doesn’t care. My mother died right after the big Christmas push of ‘71. The Man sent her on reindeer poop-scoop detail, though he knew she was sick. I lost Dad shortly afterward. One day he filed a grievance and the next day he was crushed beneath an avalanche of Easy Bake Ovens, deep within Warehouse #8. “Freak accident,” The Man called it.

That’s when I decided to make a break for it; go someplace warm and dance in the sun. But how? Though magical creatures, elves are raised from infants as slaves. At the age of five, we’re forced to memorize The Book of Rules: 231 Rules, designed so we never understand our powers.

But I watched for a chance to escape. By luck, I overslept one morning when my rooster didn’t crow. I was furious with the bird – braiding Barbie hair was the standard punishment for being tardy. No one was looking as I ran by him, so I stuck out my tongue at him–a direct violation of Rule #142. The rooster exploded. As the feathers rained down upon me, I suddenly realized why that was a forbidden practice.

A hundred of us escaped together. The locked dungeon door locks exploded before our outstretched tongues like dynamite. The guards, those foolish enough to get in our way, did the same.

The Man sent his Royal Guard after us. Before we even set foot on the beach, they had thirty of us. Those who escaped leased a beach condo and laid low. We posted guards but were edgy; the mere tinkling of a wind chime sent us scrambling for cover. One day I looked up from a two-day binge of Internet gambling and realized I was the only one left. The rest disappeared after receiving postcards announcing they’d won a free cruise. They went to a remote dock to claim their prizes and I never saw them again. The Man was that cunning.

I had to get rid of The Man for good. I only had one weapon to use against him, but it was a sneaky one. I knew his dirty little secret.

Santa has a fetish for Spam.

I planned to use his addiction to my advantage. A true connoisseur, he is not satisfied with a simple snack of fried Spam on white bread. No, The Man lusts for variety: Spam on toasted wheat with anchovies and a pinch of thyme; Spam on gingerbread with a hint of mint; Spam on a bagel, dripping in melted Roquefort cheese, a carafe of Cognac on the side. … Fortunately, these abominable binges make him sick. I could work that to my advantage–he could not watch his back while keeping his head positioned correctly over the toilet.

It would be risky, luring him directly to me, but I laid my trap. I fastened a small satellite-tracking device to a Spam can’s bottom, and set it on my chimney with a recipe I’d created to be particularly brutal to his gut: roasted Spam with shallots and cayenne pepper, swimming in a jalapeno chili-cheese sauce. It would be new to him, a recipe I hoped he’d find irresistible.

I held my breath and listened . . . soon, I detected a soft thud upon my roof. Though the sound of each little hoof’s prancing and pawing grew quite loud, I distinguished a heavy tread lumbering toward my chimney, then . . . a pause . . . and silence. He’d left. He’d taken the bait.

I tossed and turned through the night, waiting for morning–the best time to attack someone suffering from a Spam hangover. When the sea shone pink in the dawning sunlight, I made my move. Following the can’s satellite-tracking data, I crept toward a beachfront condo. Closer, closer. …When I heard him inside, retching, I made my move. …

I flung myself on his back and held on tight. It wasn’t easy; The Man bucked like a Brahma bull. Shoving his head in the toilet, I flushed with all my strength. He sputtered–victory was within my grasp–when he managed to reach around and do a horrible thing. He tickled me. I giggled, a direct violation of Rule #107. I suddenly learned why that rule existed. In a poof of red smoke, Santa transformed into an exquisite butterfly and fluttered away.

So did the sink, the toilet, and everything else within ten feet–including the wall. Was it cruel luck the man on the toilet next door was a Tijuana cop?

I think not.

Editor’s disclaimer: This was a fictional account only. Toys are really produced by well-paid, college-educated citizens of China.