December 10, 2024 • 17 mins
Episode 2: The Krampus Unleashed Poirot and Santa's investigation leads them to a terrifying discovery - the Krampus, an evil demon and enemy of Santa, is behind the present theft and aims to ruin Christmas. A deadly confrontation with the Krampus in the ransacked reindeer stables reveals that the demon is being aided by a traitorous spy within Santa's organization. Poirot finds an ancient book hinting at a deeper mystery connecting Santa and the Krampus.
This content was created in partnership and with the help of Artificial Intelligence AI
This content was created in partnership and with the help of Artificial Intelligence AI
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Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:00):
The Crampis's mocking laughter echoed through the blood soaked stable,
his clawed hands dripping with viscera, Poirot and Santa stood
frozen in horror, their minds reeling from the sheer brutality
of the scene before them. The once Pristine's stalls were
now a macab tableau of death and destruction, the mangled
remains of Sanna's beloved reindeer strewn about like broken toys.
(00:20):
You're too late, old man, the Crampis sneered, his eyes
glinting with malevolent glee. Your precious reindeer are dead, and
with them any hope of delivering your paltry gifts to
the brats of the world Christmas is finished. Sanna's face
contorted in grief and rage, his hands bawling into fists
at his sides. You monster, you won't get away with this.
(00:43):
The Crampis threw back his head and laughed, the sound
like the shattering of icicles. Oh but I already have,
and soon the children will know the true meaning of
the season, Not your saccherin lies of goodwill and cheer,
but the icy grip of fear and despair. With that,
he lashed out with one taloned hand, sending a blast
of frigid wind, hurtling towards the duo. Poirot and Santa
(01:06):
dove aside just in time, the gale force blast, slamming
into the stable wall behind them with a thunderous crack,
Splindors of wood and shards of ice rained down upon them,
the very air seeming to crystallize with the Crampis's dark magic.
By the time they'd regained their footing, the Crampis had vanished,
leaving only the grisly aftermath of his slaughter behind. An
(01:27):
eerie silence descended upon the stable, broken only by the
mournful whistle of the wind through the shattered walls. Santa
slumped against a blood stained post, his face ashen. It's over,
he whispered, his voice hollow with despair. Without the reindeer,
Christmas is doomed. I've failed them all, the children, the elves,
(01:47):
the very spirit of the season itself. Poirot placed a
steadying hand on the old ELF's shoulder, his expression fierce
with determination. Nau mun a me It is not over yet.
The Crampist may have struck a blow, but we still live.
And while we live, there is hope. He cast his
gaze over the carnage, his keen eyes searching for any
(02:10):
clue that might point the way forward. The reek of
blood and awful was overwhelming, the once cheerful trappings of
the stable now grotesque prudies of themselves. Shattered ornaments and
torn garlands littered the ground, mixed with gobbts of flesh
and splintered bone. Suddenly, Poirot stiffened, his attention, caught by
a glimmer of something amid the gore strewn hay. Striding forward,
(02:33):
he stooped to pluck a scrap of shimmering fabric from
the ground, A length of tinsel stained crimson with reindeer blood.
The detective brought it to his nose inhaling deeply, his
brow furrowed in concentration. Aha, he exclaimed, his eyes alight
with sudden realization. Peppermint and a hint of nutmeg, the
same scent that clung to the velvet we found in
(02:55):
the workshop. The crampist must have tracked it here during
his foul deed, and frowned hope, warring with confusion on
his careworn face. But how does that help us? We
already know the crampis is behind this. Poirot shook his head,
a sly smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Ah,
but consider this, paranoel. Why would a creature such as
(03:16):
the Crampis, who revels in death and darkness, adorn himself
with something as festive as tinsel. It is a clue,
mon Amie, one that points to a deeper mystery at play.
He began to pace his mind, whirring with possibilities, his
shoes crunching on the rhyme of frost that had crept
across the blood slicked floor. No, there is more to
(03:37):
this than meets the eye. The Crampis is but a
pawn in a larger game, a game orchestrated by someone
with an intimate knowledge of Christmas and a burning desire
to see it destroyed. Santa's eyes widened, realization dawning. You think, he,
you think there's a traitor in the North Pole, someone
(03:57):
working with the Crampis to sabotage us for within. Poirot
nodded grimly. I'm afraid so, mon Amie. And if we
are to have any hope of stopping them, we must
flush them out and quickly, before they can strike again.
(04:18):
He held up the blood stained tinsel, the glittering strands
twisting in the chill breeze. This is our trail of breadcrumbs,
Pair Noel. It will lead us to the heart of
this mystery and to the mastermind behind it all. But
we must tread carefully, for the enemy is cunning and ruthless.
One false move and all may be lost. Santa drew
himself up, his face hardening with determination. Then let us
(04:40):
waste no time. The children are counting on us, and
I'll be damned if I let some traitorous cur steal
the joy of Christmas from them. With that, the two
unlikely allies set off, following the glistening trail of tinsel
deeper into the heart of the North Pole. The wind
howled about them like a mournful dirge, the once cheery
lights of the village now seeming cold and distant. Everywhere
(05:00):
they looked, the specter of the Crampis's evil loomed, a
palpable presence that sapped the very warmth from their bones.
But they would not be deterred. For the sake of
Christmas and all that it represented. They would see this
through to the bitter end, no matter the cost. Little
did they know, however, that the true danger lurked not
ahead but behind, a shadow dogging their every step, its
(05:23):
eyes glittering with malevolent intent. The game was afoot, and
the stakes could not be higher, for if they failed,
the Crampis would be the least of their worries. The
fate of Christmas itself hung in the balance, and only
(05:43):
the keen mind of Rcule Poirot and the indomitable spirit
of Santa Claus could hope to tip the scales in
their favor. But the clock was ticking and the enemy's
web was tightening with every passing moment. As Poirot and
Santa trudged through the snow swept streets of the North Pole,
a sense of unease settled over them like a shroud.
The once merry facades of the Elf cottages now seemed
(06:06):
to leer at them from the shadows, their frost rhymed
windows glinting like accusatory eyes. I cannot shake the feeling
that we are being watched, mon Amie, Poirot murmured, his gaze,
darting from one darkened alleyway to the next, and not
by friendly eyes. Sanna nodded grimly, his mouth set in
a tight line beneath his beard. I feel it too,
(06:29):
It's as if the very air is alive with malice.
I fear the Crampis's influence has spread further than we realized.
They pressed on, the crunch of their footsteps, echoing through
the eerie stillness. At last they reached the towering doors
of the workshop, the gleaming panels now dulled by a
patina of frost. Santa placed his palm against the entrance,
but the doors remained firmly shut, the lock unyielding. That's odd,
(06:53):
he muttered, his brow furrowing. The workshop is never locked,
not even in the darkest hours of the night. Poiret
stepped forward, his keen eyes examining the keyhole. It appears
some one has tampered with the mechanism, he observed, producing
a set of delicate tools from his coat pocket. A
crude job, but effective. One moment, silvu play with deft movements,
(07:16):
the detective manipulated the lock, his tongue poking out from
the corner of his mouth in concentration. After a few
ten seconds, there was a muted click, and the door
swung inward with a groan. Santa and Poirot exchanged a
glance before stepping into the cavernous gloom of the workshop.
The normally bustling factory floor was deserted, the conveyor belts
(07:36):
and work stations standing silent and still. Only the faint,
forlorn whirring of the giant clockwork gears overhead broke the
oppressive quiet. Where are the elves, Santa whispered, a note
of dread creeping into his voice. They should be here,
preparing for tonight's deliveries. Poirot held up a finger to
his lips, his head cocked to one side. Listen, do
(08:03):
you hear that? From somewhere deep within the bowels of
the workshop. A muffled sound drifted up to them, a
rhythmic thumping, like the beating of some monstrous heart. As
they strained their ears, they could just make out a low,
guttural chanting, the words indistinct, but filled with an unspeakable menace.
It's coming from the lower levels. Sanna breathed, his face ashen.
(08:24):
The crampas is lair. Poirot nodded, his expression grim. Then
that is where we must go. But first let us
see if we can find any clues as to the
identity of our turn coat Hey. They began to pick
their way through the labyrinth of machinery, their senses on
high alert. Everywhere they looked, the signs of sabotage were evident.
Gears jammed with hardened candy canes, conveyor belts gummed up
(08:47):
with sticky ribbons of taffy, toy molds filled with lumps
of coal. It was clear that someone had been working
tirelessly to undermine the very heart of Sanna's operation. As
they rounded a corner, Poirot suddenly stopped short, his hand
flying to his coat pocket. There, half hidden behind a
towering nutcracker, was a small red bound book, its cover
(09:09):
embossed with a familiar symbol. The sigil of the crampis
sacre Bleau. The detective murmured, gingerly, picking up the tome.
I have seen this mark before, and my researches into
the dark lore of the season. It is said to
be the personal grimoire of the Crampis himself, containing the
secrets of his twisted magic. Santa's eyes widened, a flicker
(09:31):
of hope kindling in their depths. Then this could be
the key to defeating him. If we can decipher its contents,
perhaps we can find a way to break his hold
over the North Pole. Poirot tucked the book into his coat,
his expression thoughtful, perhaps, mon amie, But I suspect it
will not be so simple. The Crampis is a cunning adversary,
(09:52):
and I doubt he would leave such a valuable artifact
lying about by chance, he glanced around his brow fur No.
I fear this is but another piece of the puzzle.
Allure meant to draw us deeper into the web of
the trader's machinations. We must be on our guard now
(10:14):
more than ever. As if on cue a blood curdling
shriek tore through the air, echoing from the depths of
the workshop, Poirot and Santa froze, their hearts, hammering in
their chests that sounded like one of the elves. Santa gasped,
his face pale. They're in trouble. Without hesitation, the two
raced towards the source of the scream, plunging headlong into
(10:35):
the maze of machinery. They stumbled and slid on patches
of oily soot, their lungs burning with the acrid stench
of burnt sugar. All around them, the shadows seemed to
writhe and twist, alive with the echoes of infernal laughter.
At last they burst into a small, dimly lit chamber,
skidding to a halt at the sight that greeted them. There,
(10:56):
sprawled on the floor in a pool of crimson, lay
the motionless body of a tiny elf, his green hat
torn and bloodied, and standing over him a wicked grin
splitting his goatish face, was none other than the Crampis himself.
Ah Santa, the demon purred, his yellow eyes glinting with malice.
So glad you could join us. I was just about
to teach your little helper here the true meaning of naughtiness.
(11:19):
Poirot and Santa stared in horror at the grisly tableau
before them, the crumpled form of the elf, the leering
visage of the Crampis, the blood soaked floor. For a
moment time seemed to freeze, the very air crackling with tension.
Then Sanna surged forward, his face contorted with rage. You fiend,
(11:40):
he roared, his hands, bawling into fists. What have you done?
The Crampis chuckled, a sound like the splintering of ice,
only what comes naturally, old man, Punishing the wicked is
my raison detch after all, and this little wretch was
positively steeped in sin. He nudged the fallen elf with
a cloven hoof, eliciting a moan from the wounded creature.
(12:02):
Santa made to lunge at the demon, but Poirot held
him back, his grip firm on the old ELF's arm.
Calm yourself, mon Ami, the detective murmured, his gaze, never
leaving the Crampis. Violence will only play into his hands.
We must be clever, not rash. Santa took a shuddering breath,
visibly struggling to master his emotions. You're right, of course,
(12:24):
but I swear if that monster has hurt even one
more of my elves, oh, I wouldn't worry about your
precious little helpers. The Crampis interjected, examining his claws with
a bored expression. They're all quite safe for now, locked
up tight in the dungeons below, where they can't interfere
with my plans. Poirot's eyes narrowed. And what plans might
(12:48):
those be, Monsieur crampis the destruction of Christmas? The corruption
of innocent children, or perhaps something more personal. The demon's
gaze snapped to the detective, a flicker of surprise crossing
his features. Well, well, it seems the famous herculed Poirot
is more astute than I gave him credit for. Yes,
(13:12):
this is about far more than mere holiday mischief. This
is about revenge and the settling of ancient scores. Santa frowned,
confusion mingling with the anger on his face. Revenge, What
are you talking about? The Crampist smiled, a terrible sight
that sent shivers down Poirot's spine. Oh, come now, Chris,
don't tell me you've forgotten our little arrangement, the pact
(13:35):
we made all those centuries ago. Santa's eyes widened, a
look of dawning horror spreading across his features. No, it
can't be. That was just a legend, a story told
to frighten naughty children. Oh, I assure you, it's quite real,
the Crampist purred, taking a step forward. You see, long ago,
when the world was young and the line between myth
(13:57):
and reality was blurred, you and I made a deal,
a contract signed in blood and sealed with ancient magic.
Poirot's mind raced, pieces of the puzzle, falling into place
with sickening clarity. The clause, he breathed, his voice scarcely
above a whisper, The Secret Santa clause. The Crampis's smile widened,
(14:20):
showing far too many teeth. Ah, so you've heard of it, yes,
The clause an agreement that bound dear old Santa to
me for all eternity. In exchange for my aid in
punishing the wicked, he promised me a share of his
power and a place at his side as the shadow
to his light. Santa shook his head, his face ashen.
But I never meant I didn't think. Of course, you didn't,
(14:44):
The Crampis sneered. You were too blinded by your own goodness,
your own self righteousness. You thought you could use me
as a tool, a convenient bogeyman, to keep the brats
in line. But you forgot one crucial detail. He leaned
in close, his breath hot and fetid against Santa face.
I am no one's servant, old man, and I always
collect on my debts. Poirot stepped forward, his expression grim.
(15:08):
So that's what this is really about. You seek to
usurp Sanna's power for your own to twist the very
nature of Christmas to your own dark ends. The crampis
shrugged a gesture of mock innocence. Is it truly usurpati?
If it was promised to me? I am merely claiming
what is rightfully mine. And once I have drained the
(15:29):
old fool of his magic, once I have corrupted the
very essence of the season, well let's just say that
the North Pole will be a very different place. Sanna
seemed to deflate the fight, going out of him like
a punctured balloon. I I can't let you do this.
The children the joy of Christmas bah the cramps spat.
(15:49):
Joy is fleeting, old man. Fear is eternal, and under
my rule the little brats will learn the true meaning
of Naughtinessiro's hand crept towards his coat pocket, his fingers
closing around the reassuring shape of the candy cane revolver.
I think not, monsieur crampis you see Santa is not
(16:11):
alone in this fight. He has allies, and not just
of the Elvish persuasion. With a flash of movement, the
detective whipped out the gun, leveling it at the demon's heart.
The Crampis froze, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features. Now, then,
Poirot said, calmly, his aim unwavering. I believe it is
time for us to renegotiate the terms of this little
(16:34):
clause of yours, and I warn you I drive a
very hard bargain. The Crampis snarled, his eyes blazing with
infernal light. But before he could make a move, a
tremendous crash echoed through the chamber, followed by a shocking sight,
an entire wall of the workshop exploding inward in a
shower of splinters and broken bricks. This has been a
(16:55):
quiet Please production head over to quiet please dot Ai
to hear what matters.
The Crampis's mocking laughter echoed through the blood soaked stable,
his clawed hands dripping with viscera, Poirot and Santa stood
frozen in horror, their minds reeling from the sheer brutality
of the scene before them. The once Pristine's stalls were
now a macab tableau of death and destruction, the mangled
remains of Sanna's beloved reindeer strewn about like broken toys.
(00:20):
You're too late, old man, the Crampis sneered, his eyes
glinting with malevolent glee. Your precious reindeer are dead, and
with them any hope of delivering your paltry gifts to
the brats of the world Christmas is finished. Sanna's face
contorted in grief and rage, his hands bawling into fists
at his sides. You monster, you won't get away with this.
(00:43):
The Crampis threw back his head and laughed, the sound
like the shattering of icicles. Oh but I already have,
and soon the children will know the true meaning of
the season, Not your saccherin lies of goodwill and cheer,
but the icy grip of fear and despair. With that,
he lashed out with one taloned hand, sending a blast
of frigid wind, hurtling towards the duo. Poirot and Santa
(01:06):
dove aside just in time, the gale force blast, slamming
into the stable wall behind them with a thunderous crack,
Splindors of wood and shards of ice rained down upon them,
the very air seeming to crystallize with the Crampis's dark magic.
By the time they'd regained their footing, the Crampis had vanished,
leaving only the grisly aftermath of his slaughter behind. An
(01:27):
eerie silence descended upon the stable, broken only by the
mournful whistle of the wind through the shattered walls. Santa
slumped against a blood stained post, his face ashen. It's over,
he whispered, his voice hollow with despair. Without the reindeer,
Christmas is doomed. I've failed them all, the children, the elves,
(01:47):
the very spirit of the season itself. Poirot placed a
steadying hand on the old ELF's shoulder, his expression fierce
with determination. Nau mun a me It is not over yet.
The Crampist may have struck a blow, but we still live.
And while we live, there is hope. He cast his
gaze over the carnage, his keen eyes searching for any
(02:10):
clue that might point the way forward. The reek of
blood and awful was overwhelming, the once cheerful trappings of
the stable now grotesque prudies of themselves. Shattered ornaments and
torn garlands littered the ground, mixed with gobbts of flesh
and splintered bone. Suddenly, Poirot stiffened, his attention, caught by
a glimmer of something amid the gore strewn hay. Striding forward,
(02:33):
he stooped to pluck a scrap of shimmering fabric from
the ground, A length of tinsel stained crimson with reindeer blood.
The detective brought it to his nose inhaling deeply, his
brow furrowed in concentration. Aha, he exclaimed, his eyes alight
with sudden realization. Peppermint and a hint of nutmeg, the
same scent that clung to the velvet we found in
(02:55):
the workshop. The crampist must have tracked it here during
his foul deed, and frowned hope, warring with confusion on
his careworn face. But how does that help us? We
already know the crampis is behind this. Poirot shook his head,
a sly smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Ah,
but consider this, paranoel. Why would a creature such as
(03:16):
the Crampis, who revels in death and darkness, adorn himself
with something as festive as tinsel. It is a clue,
mon Amie, one that points to a deeper mystery at play.
He began to pace his mind, whirring with possibilities, his
shoes crunching on the rhyme of frost that had crept
across the blood slicked floor. No, there is more to
(03:37):
this than meets the eye. The Crampis is but a
pawn in a larger game, a game orchestrated by someone
with an intimate knowledge of Christmas and a burning desire
to see it destroyed. Santa's eyes widened, realization dawning. You think, he,
you think there's a traitor in the North Pole, someone
(03:57):
working with the Crampis to sabotage us for within. Poirot
nodded grimly. I'm afraid so, mon Amie. And if we
are to have any hope of stopping them, we must
flush them out and quickly, before they can strike again.
(04:18):
He held up the blood stained tinsel, the glittering strands
twisting in the chill breeze. This is our trail of breadcrumbs,
Pair Noel. It will lead us to the heart of
this mystery and to the mastermind behind it all. But
we must tread carefully, for the enemy is cunning and ruthless.
One false move and all may be lost. Santa drew
himself up, his face hardening with determination. Then let us
(04:40):
waste no time. The children are counting on us, and
I'll be damned if I let some traitorous cur steal
the joy of Christmas from them. With that, the two
unlikely allies set off, following the glistening trail of tinsel
deeper into the heart of the North Pole. The wind
howled about them like a mournful dirge, the once cheery
lights of the village now seeming cold and distant. Everywhere
(05:00):
they looked, the specter of the Crampis's evil loomed, a
palpable presence that sapped the very warmth from their bones.
But they would not be deterred. For the sake of
Christmas and all that it represented. They would see this
through to the bitter end, no matter the cost. Little
did they know, however, that the true danger lurked not
ahead but behind, a shadow dogging their every step, its
(05:23):
eyes glittering with malevolent intent. The game was afoot, and
the stakes could not be higher, for if they failed,
the Crampis would be the least of their worries. The
fate of Christmas itself hung in the balance, and only
(05:43):
the keen mind of Rcule Poirot and the indomitable spirit
of Santa Claus could hope to tip the scales in
their favor. But the clock was ticking and the enemy's
web was tightening with every passing moment. As Poirot and
Santa trudged through the snow swept streets of the North Pole,
a sense of unease settled over them like a shroud.
The once merry facades of the Elf cottages now seemed
(06:06):
to leer at them from the shadows, their frost rhymed
windows glinting like accusatory eyes. I cannot shake the feeling
that we are being watched, mon Amie, Poirot murmured, his gaze,
darting from one darkened alleyway to the next, and not
by friendly eyes. Sanna nodded grimly, his mouth set in
a tight line beneath his beard. I feel it too,
(06:29):
It's as if the very air is alive with malice.
I fear the Crampis's influence has spread further than we realized.
They pressed on, the crunch of their footsteps, echoing through
the eerie stillness. At last they reached the towering doors
of the workshop, the gleaming panels now dulled by a
patina of frost. Santa placed his palm against the entrance,
but the doors remained firmly shut, the lock unyielding. That's odd,
(06:53):
he muttered, his brow furrowing. The workshop is never locked,
not even in the darkest hours of the night. Poiret
stepped forward, his keen eyes examining the keyhole. It appears
some one has tampered with the mechanism, he observed, producing
a set of delicate tools from his coat pocket. A
crude job, but effective. One moment, silvu play with deft movements,
(07:16):
the detective manipulated the lock, his tongue poking out from
the corner of his mouth in concentration. After a few
ten seconds, there was a muted click, and the door
swung inward with a groan. Santa and Poirot exchanged a
glance before stepping into the cavernous gloom of the workshop.
The normally bustling factory floor was deserted, the conveyor belts
(07:36):
and work stations standing silent and still. Only the faint,
forlorn whirring of the giant clockwork gears overhead broke the
oppressive quiet. Where are the elves, Santa whispered, a note
of dread creeping into his voice. They should be here,
preparing for tonight's deliveries. Poirot held up a finger to
his lips, his head cocked to one side. Listen, do
(08:03):
you hear that? From somewhere deep within the bowels of
the workshop. A muffled sound drifted up to them, a
rhythmic thumping, like the beating of some monstrous heart. As
they strained their ears, they could just make out a low,
guttural chanting, the words indistinct, but filled with an unspeakable menace.
It's coming from the lower levels. Sanna breathed, his face ashen.
(08:24):
The crampas is lair. Poirot nodded, his expression grim. Then
that is where we must go. But first let us
see if we can find any clues as to the
identity of our turn coat Hey. They began to pick
their way through the labyrinth of machinery, their senses on
high alert. Everywhere they looked, the signs of sabotage were evident.
Gears jammed with hardened candy canes, conveyor belts gummed up
(08:47):
with sticky ribbons of taffy, toy molds filled with lumps
of coal. It was clear that someone had been working
tirelessly to undermine the very heart of Sanna's operation. As
they rounded a corner, Poirot suddenly stopped short, his hand
flying to his coat pocket. There, half hidden behind a
towering nutcracker, was a small red bound book, its cover
(09:09):
embossed with a familiar symbol. The sigil of the crampis
sacre Bleau. The detective murmured, gingerly, picking up the tome.
I have seen this mark before, and my researches into
the dark lore of the season. It is said to
be the personal grimoire of the Crampis himself, containing the
secrets of his twisted magic. Santa's eyes widened, a flicker
(09:31):
of hope kindling in their depths. Then this could be
the key to defeating him. If we can decipher its contents,
perhaps we can find a way to break his hold
over the North Pole. Poirot tucked the book into his coat,
his expression thoughtful, perhaps, mon amie, But I suspect it
will not be so simple. The Crampis is a cunning adversary,
(09:52):
and I doubt he would leave such a valuable artifact
lying about by chance, he glanced around his brow fur No.
I fear this is but another piece of the puzzle.
Allure meant to draw us deeper into the web of
the trader's machinations. We must be on our guard now
(10:14):
more than ever. As if on cue a blood curdling
shriek tore through the air, echoing from the depths of
the workshop, Poirot and Santa froze, their hearts, hammering in
their chests that sounded like one of the elves. Santa gasped,
his face pale. They're in trouble. Without hesitation, the two
raced towards the source of the scream, plunging headlong into
(10:35):
the maze of machinery. They stumbled and slid on patches
of oily soot, their lungs burning with the acrid stench
of burnt sugar. All around them, the shadows seemed to
writhe and twist, alive with the echoes of infernal laughter.
At last they burst into a small, dimly lit chamber,
skidding to a halt at the sight that greeted them. There,
(10:56):
sprawled on the floor in a pool of crimson, lay
the motionless body of a tiny elf, his green hat
torn and bloodied, and standing over him a wicked grin
splitting his goatish face, was none other than the Crampis himself.
Ah Santa, the demon purred, his yellow eyes glinting with malice.
So glad you could join us. I was just about
to teach your little helper here the true meaning of naughtiness.
(11:19):
Poirot and Santa stared in horror at the grisly tableau
before them, the crumpled form of the elf, the leering
visage of the Crampis, the blood soaked floor. For a
moment time seemed to freeze, the very air crackling with tension.
Then Sanna surged forward, his face contorted with rage. You fiend,
(11:40):
he roared, his hands, bawling into fists. What have you done?
The Crampis chuckled, a sound like the splintering of ice,
only what comes naturally, old man, Punishing the wicked is
my raison detch after all, and this little wretch was
positively steeped in sin. He nudged the fallen elf with
a cloven hoof, eliciting a moan from the wounded creature.
(12:02):
Santa made to lunge at the demon, but Poirot held
him back, his grip firm on the old ELF's arm.
Calm yourself, mon Ami, the detective murmured, his gaze, never
leaving the Crampis. Violence will only play into his hands.
We must be clever, not rash. Santa took a shuddering breath,
visibly struggling to master his emotions. You're right, of course,
(12:24):
but I swear if that monster has hurt even one
more of my elves, oh, I wouldn't worry about your
precious little helpers. The Crampis interjected, examining his claws with
a bored expression. They're all quite safe for now, locked
up tight in the dungeons below, where they can't interfere
with my plans. Poirot's eyes narrowed. And what plans might
(12:48):
those be, Monsieur crampis the destruction of Christmas? The corruption
of innocent children, or perhaps something more personal. The demon's
gaze snapped to the detective, a flicker of surprise crossing
his features. Well, well, it seems the famous herculed Poirot
is more astute than I gave him credit for. Yes,
(13:12):
this is about far more than mere holiday mischief. This
is about revenge and the settling of ancient scores. Santa frowned,
confusion mingling with the anger on his face. Revenge, What
are you talking about? The Crampist smiled, a terrible sight
that sent shivers down Poirot's spine. Oh, come now, Chris,
don't tell me you've forgotten our little arrangement, the pact
(13:35):
we made all those centuries ago. Santa's eyes widened, a
look of dawning horror spreading across his features. No, it
can't be. That was just a legend, a story told
to frighten naughty children. Oh, I assure you, it's quite real,
the Crampist purred, taking a step forward. You see, long ago,
when the world was young and the line between myth
(13:57):
and reality was blurred, you and I made a deal,
a contract signed in blood and sealed with ancient magic.
Poirot's mind raced, pieces of the puzzle, falling into place
with sickening clarity. The clause, he breathed, his voice scarcely
above a whisper, The Secret Santa clause. The Crampis's smile widened,
(14:20):
showing far too many teeth. Ah, so you've heard of it, yes,
The clause an agreement that bound dear old Santa to
me for all eternity. In exchange for my aid in
punishing the wicked, he promised me a share of his
power and a place at his side as the shadow
to his light. Santa shook his head, his face ashen.
But I never meant I didn't think. Of course, you didn't,
(14:44):
The Crampis sneered. You were too blinded by your own goodness,
your own self righteousness. You thought you could use me
as a tool, a convenient bogeyman, to keep the brats
in line. But you forgot one crucial detail. He leaned
in close, his breath hot and fetid against Santa face.
I am no one's servant, old man, and I always
collect on my debts. Poirot stepped forward, his expression grim.
(15:08):
So that's what this is really about. You seek to
usurp Sanna's power for your own to twist the very
nature of Christmas to your own dark ends. The crampis
shrugged a gesture of mock innocence. Is it truly usurpati?
If it was promised to me? I am merely claiming
what is rightfully mine. And once I have drained the
(15:29):
old fool of his magic, once I have corrupted the
very essence of the season, well let's just say that
the North Pole will be a very different place. Sanna
seemed to deflate the fight, going out of him like
a punctured balloon. I I can't let you do this.
The children the joy of Christmas bah the cramps spat.
(15:49):
Joy is fleeting, old man. Fear is eternal, and under
my rule the little brats will learn the true meaning
of Naughtinessiro's hand crept towards his coat pocket, his fingers
closing around the reassuring shape of the candy cane revolver.
I think not, monsieur crampis you see Santa is not
(16:11):
alone in this fight. He has allies, and not just
of the Elvish persuasion. With a flash of movement, the
detective whipped out the gun, leveling it at the demon's heart.
The Crampis froze, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features. Now, then,
Poirot said, calmly, his aim unwavering. I believe it is
time for us to renegotiate the terms of this little
(16:34):
clause of yours, and I warn you I drive a
very hard bargain. The Crampis snarled, his eyes blazing with
infernal light. But before he could make a move, a
tremendous crash echoed through the chamber, followed by a shocking sight,
an entire wall of the workshop exploding inward in a
shower of splinters and broken bricks. This has been a
(16:55):
quiet Please production head over to quiet please dot Ai
to hear what matters.
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