Lucky Elf With Blue Screen

Didn't get anything for Christmas? The NSA elf can help!

The zoo at Menwith Hill has managed at last to breed the perfect agent. For reasons as yet undetermined, the bio-technicians are internally referring to their creature as the 'Ottofant'1. It is catpaw-noiseless, always sounds the trumpet at the wrong time, and in grave moments, folds its countenance like the earth's crust during a more vehement continental drift. Had my peyote not confided to me that the "Ottofant" really existed, I would have thought this rumour to be a hoax, an urban legend beyond comparison.

For this reason I wasn't too surprised when, one cold winter night, the surprisingly fluffy 'Ottofant' materialized with a soft *Poof* just above my monitor. I felt furry all over, as if I had just bitten into a ten-year-old, mouldy Perry Rhodan booklet.2

"Hello!" the Ottofant whispered and grinned like a toad. "We just tapped your mind and determined that you are unhappy!" Parbleu! So there is indeed a backdoor in PGPBrain! Should have listened to the guys on alt.brainware.conspiracy.hamsters.hamsters.hamsters!

"You have 2.35 wishes left." "2.35? Wishes?" The Ottofant landed softly on the upper edge of my monitor and casually brushed his silvery dragonfly-wings. "Inflation, baby! And the Soli-Zuschlag3 for the 'alliance against terror'." "Doesn't matter," I said, "I have only one wish." The Ottofant had in the meantime extended numerous noodle-like tentacles and inconspicuously fingered my folders and books. "And that would be?" he falsettoed.

"I wish that all you spooks would disappear, leaving nothing behind but an odoriferous cloud." The Ottofant showed his mean little fangs. Vampirebat-like grin. "I'm afraid that isn't possible," he said, "because we can grant wishes only if we exist. I won't play these recursive games. For that sort of thing, you'll have to get in touch with St. Ignutius." "Which wishes can you grant then?" "Not many," he had to admit. "We can lie, betray, kill, and bomb. Don't you have a neighbour who gets on your nerves? Or maybe you'd like to be dictator of a slave-nation? I could procure a handy gang of religious extremists to do all the dirty work for you. They're so high on religion they'll do virtually anything!"

"Religion? I thought that was contained by the Biological and Toxin Weapons Convention? Religion is the atom bomb of the little man!" "We've still got a factory left in North Carolina. They churn out the finest, purest religion. A mere mote of that stuff can eradicate a whole culture!" "Mmm. Not bad. What else?" "Freely configurable good-bad schemes, including written guide lines for Schriftleiter4." "Does that contain 'rogue state'?" The Ottofant whirrs up and down with a sneer. "'Rogue state' is so last year. We say 'terrorists' now. Fits anything. You can declare the little varmint who sticks chewing gum and firecrackers in your mailbox a terrorist. That makes him forfeit his right to exist and you can... Ooooh! I forgot! We have wonderful Daisy Cutter Bombs and false beards!"

"Is there anything a little less vicious? You need the stronger stuff for Dubya's wishlist anyway. And I don't really care about laying a pipeline through my neighbour's living room." He thought for a moment. "Bullet-proof limousines. Everybody will be needing them soon anyway when Germany finally becomes a slum. Or the niX-BoX, the hot playstation for nihilists, created by our technologyterrorpartner Microdaft! Complete with NoController, a joystick that always steers randomly. Comes with cool games and gimmicks! For example, "Colin MacRalley's Auto Repair," where you stand with a broken racing car next to the track and can't do a damn thing while your opponents slosh you with mud! You'll also have to buy terribly pricey upgrades, so that you can crash the latest games!"

I had to get rid of this ludicrous creature. But how? Splash it with the Tibetarian Holy Spiced Wine from the Dalai Lama? Spooks usually vanish if you fling reality at them. But I never have any reality. I make a principle of not having any reality in the house. The Ottofant casually leafed through my bank statements, shaking his head slowly. At the same time, he ran his tentacle-fingers through ten-year-old love letters, which he discovered in a shoebox, while hissing something about "condominiums at Tora Bora." I had to get him out of my flat. And fast!

I read "Harry Potter" to him, but he only shook his tentacles. "Harry is one of us!" Tossed Frodo-Frosties cornflakes at him. No reaction. "You could blast all the marketing freaks who use the word 'cereals' in their TV spots to eternity." "No way. I worked for the infiltration section before." "You are EVIL!" I hissed. "Or kill Robbie Williams! I wish that Robbie Williams will not only think he's Sinatra, but that he gets the liver condition as well!" He paused. "Not bad. But we need Williams as the next James Bond. Retro-politics need retro-stars. We call that 'hegemony,' harrharrrr!"

The Gramsci-immunized elf gurgled a grotesque version of "My Way" with the Donald Duck voice of Dubya Bush: "I killed them myyyyy wayyyyy!". Until I remembered his mention of the "technology partner Microdaft." I produced my secret weapon. "What's that?" he mumbled skeptically, retreating into a dark corner with a jellyfish-like movement. "This is a compact-flash-card-reader from a Taiwanese sweatshop." "So what?" "Take this, creature of darkness!" I connected him to the card reader; he flushed blue and tumbled to the floor, where he remained motionless. General protection fault. The thing ran "Windows for Trolls," the embedded version of Microdaft's megaseller "Windows eXistanCe."

The elf has left the building, has produced his "best of" album, so to speak. You can't get deader than that. He consists solely of sogginess and biochips. Hence, to the onion peelings and herring leftovers, into the biodegradable rubbish. Fighting planes thunder over the land, over forests and dirt. They tell you where you belong. It's getting dark too soon.

Translated from German by Lissi with support from David Hudson.