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snagged from Bad Movie Planet
And on the Plains of Cyrus Bentok, Santa, the Claus, known as Kringle to the Kelts, Uberelf to the Goths and The Red to those from across the sea, astride his chariot — drawn by eight stout reindeer (the ninth, Rudolph the second, son of Donner, fell at the Battle of the Firfwood Tyne, struck down by an enemy sniper) — road out in front of his warrior elves, the Elfenhard. The toy makers have beaten their toy tools into swords to help repel the invasion from the Red Planet Mars.
Across the way, of the field of battle to come, the Martian legions awaited — the sun glinting off the shiny plastic barrels of their deadly Wham-O Air Blaster Freeze Guns — primed and at the ready.
The Claus turned his battle sleigh and rode up and down the front of his lines. No words need be spoken. A chorus of cheers erupted, as he rode passed, and the elves beat their shields, with their sword butts, in a strong cadence. The Claus swung the chariot back until he reached the center of his lines and dismounted. He went from beast to beast along the hitch, calling them all by name, and when he reached the front, he whispered into the lead creature’s ear. Dasher, the swift, snorted his dismay but a stern look from his master made him lower his head. Dasher looked to the right to his partner Dancer, the not so swift, and they slowly led the others back through the lines.
The elves parted, like a green wave, allowing the creatures to retreat to the rear and another cheer erupted as the noble beasts moved to safer ground. Soon they were gone and the assembled mass turned back to The Claus — but the cheer only grew louder. No semblance of the Jolly Old Elf of old remained. In its place stood a pillar of stone resolve, hell bent on removing the Martian scourge from the universe.
With the raising of one, red mittened hand, The Claus silenced his army. It became so quiet you could hear his Red Banner flapping in the wind. After several pregnant moments, he spoke. He ordered Winky, son of Stanky of the Frupping-Dell elves, to have the archers stand at the ready.
The Claus then removed his hat and his long, white locks dropped low and sifted in the wind. He drew a long saber, from inside his magical toy sack, and drove the blade through the hat and began to swing it over his head. A low, guttural, growl slowly crescendoed and it wasn’t long until his entire army was warped into a blood-rage frenzy.
“They will write songs of what we do today.” He roared.
“Remember the North Pole!” then he turned and led the charge towards his destiny…