Jesse Custer was never one to celebrate Christmas. This year, however, Tulip made a convincing case The Grassy Knoll Pub should be decorated in a festive manner to attract “holiday traffic.”

So one December morning, Christmas lights replaced the yarn on the conspiracy theory boards. At one end of the bar sat a plastic replica of Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree. A Santa hat adorned the alien head on one wall.

Jesse and Cassidy wore red and green sweaters embroidered with the words “Jolly Bastards.” Tulip opted to switch her black apron for one resembling Mrs. Claus’s vestments. And the stainless steel tumbler by the door that held Cass’s beverage of choice was replaced by a ceramic Red Solo cup with “Merry Fucking Christmas” written in Sharpie on it.

One evening before the Knoll opened, Cassidy came in with an evil grin on his face and a plastic bag of Christmas decorations. Stringing together several paper chains of “Ho Ho Ho,” the Irishman affixed a cardboard train engine car to one end before mounting the whole thing on the back wall of the Knoll.

“The fuck are you doing, Cass?” Jesse asked as the contraption was assembled.

Now, Cass jumped down from the chair he’d used to string up his decoration and proudly waved a hand towards it.

“Lookit, Jesse! It’s a Ho Train!” Cassidy exclaimed loudly.

The bartender exchanged glances with Tulip. Both shook their heads at the display.

The door of the Knoll swung open, bringing with it a blast of chilly air and what Custer thought was a bit of snow. This was odd as it hadn’t snowed in Mud Lick, and the weatherman hadn’t called for any sudden inclement weather.

But this was the Grassy Knoll Pub. Odd was always the order of the day.

In came two unusually short gentlemen wearing what appeared to be factory uniforms. One wore a blue and gold jumpsuit; the other wore one faded with red and green stripes.

“I keep telling you guys every year the future is in automation.” one said. “We have to embrace at least SOME change if the operation is going to properly scale!”

“And every year I tell you the big guy’s never going to go for it,” replied the other. “He’s a traditionalist at heart. It’s one of the reasons we’ve kept going for so long.”

“Whatever,” the first returned. “Let’s make the most of our break while we’ve got it.”

The two clambered up onto stools at the bar.

“Evening, gentlemen,” Jesse said as he approached the duo. “What’ll it be?”

“Peppermint schnapps,” said the one in red and green.

The one in blue and gold eyed the board behind the bar. “What’s ‘Christmas Cheer?'”

“It’s a local blended whisky,” Custer replied. “Just got a batch in from Old Man Cocke yesterday.”

“That sounds nice,” the man in blue and gold said. “I’ll have one, please.”

“You two mind flashing some IDs?” Custer asked.

The two men produced driver licenses from their jumpsuits.

Custer’s eyes narrowed at one name. Looking at the one in red and green, he asked “Your name is Willie Brown?”

This sent Cassidy into a fit of howling laughter. “Willie fuckin’ Brown! The midget’s named Willie Brown! Oh dear, did the fuckin’ veep suck ye off to that size? That’s a hell of a set of hoover lips on her, huh?”

“People call me Spike.” Willie spat through clenched teeth.

“They should make it Stumpy at your size, mate!” Cass howled, tears in his eyes.

“You motherfucker…” the little man said, ready to fight.

“Easy Spike,” his friend said. “You know he’s been on THAT list for a while.”

“Easy for you to say, Juggy,” Spike told his drinking buddy.

“Juggy?” Custer asked. “That’s an interesting name.”

The man in blue and gold sighed. “My name is Cain Marko,” he said. “That’s the real name of a comic book character named ‘Juggernaut,’ but you know how guys are.

“Have ye got the tits to match the name, Juggy?” howled Cass near the door.

“Can it, you stupid Irish bastard!” Custer yelled from the bar. “Respect the customers!”

“What’s his deal?” asked Spike.

“He’s old, Irish and usually drunk,” Custer replied.

“Can’t be helped much, I suppose,” Juggy said. “Where we’re from, that guy’s been on our ‘No Fly’ list for a while.”

“Huh,” Jesse remarked. “We don’t see much of your kind around here.”

“You can go ahead and say it,” Spike said. “Not like we don’t hear it all the time.”

“I thought ‘midget’ or ‘dwarf’ was impolite,” Custer said.

“We’re elves!” Juggy exclaimed. “There. That’s not so hard, is it?”

“Elves,” Custer rolled the word around in his mouth. “Is this one of those millennial pronoun things?”

“Told you he wouldn’t believe it,” Spike nudged his compatriot.

“Seriously,” Custer said. “You’re elves. Like from the North Pole.”

“Seriously,” Juggy said with another sip of moonshine.

“Yep,” Spike said as he finished his schnapps.

“So how do you get a break this time of year?”

“Union rules,” Spike answered. “We negotiated breaks with the big guy back during the Storm of ’93.”

“Nineteen ninety-three?” Custer asked quizzically.

“No sir,” Juggy replied. “We’re elves, not idiots.”

“So that ‘big guy.’ He’s really…real?”

“Was there ever a doubt?” Spike answered. “How do you think all those toys get around the world on Christmas Eve?”

“Huh.” Custer muttered. At the other end of the bar, Tulip couldn’t take her eyes off of the pair of elves and nearly stumbled over a box of bar snacks as she eavesdropped on the conversation.

“Does he have an issue with y’all drinking?” Jesse continued.

“What do you think keeps elves jolly and bright all year long? It’s not the benefits.” Spike snapped.

“Well, we’re pleased to have the two of yeh grace the Grassy Knoll Pub,” Cassidy said, approaching the elves and clasping both around their diminutive shoulders. Laying a twenty on the bar, the Irishman proclaimed a round of Christmas shots for the trio.

Jesse obliged, pocketing the money before Cass could object.

“What’s this stuff?” Juggy asked after downing the shot.

“We call it ‘Fireball’ around here,” Custer replied.

“Tastes like cinnamon,” Spike mused. “I’ll have to arrange for some of that shipped back to Command.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Custer said. Reaching behind the bar, he produced a full bottle of Fireball whisky. Tulip, anticipating what Jesse had in mind, snatched a bow from one of the wreaths and tied it around the bottle.

The elves eyed it with a look not unlike a child’s wonderment opening gifts Christmas morning.

“Is that…” Spike began.

“Merry Christmas,” Jesse said beaming with pride. “Not every day one gets to give a pair of elves a Christmas gift. We might as well be the first.”

“No one ever gives the elves gifts,” Juggy breathed in wonderment.

“Let’s get back before the bosses get suspicious,” Spike told Juggy. “What’s the tab?”

“Any chance you could get my doorman a new scarf? He lost his some time ago and even though we don’t get cold weather around here often he misses that thing something awful. Manage that and we’ll consider the bill square.”

“Done,” Juggy said, extending a hand. After Custer shook both elves’ hands, the duo made their way to the door. Cassidy tousled each elf’s hair as if they were children.

Both ignored the quite-drunk doorman.

As Spike opened the door, he turned to Jesse Custer with first a stare, then a wink.

“We were never here.”

“Bartender/patron privilege,” Custer shot back. “Y’all take care now.”

The elves stepped through the door, letting in a final blast of snow and cold air. In the blink of an eye, they were gone, along with the bottle of Fireball.

A quick glance under the bar saw the Fireball “replaced” in a burst of flame. A note was attached to it. Written in red ink, it said “Jesse: It may be Christmas, but giving inventory away is just bad business—M.” Custer tossed the note in the waste bin, giving it no further thought.

Everyone deserved to celebrate Christmas.

The morning of December 25 saw a strange delivery at the Grassy Knoll Pub. Three boxes, wrapped in Christmas paper, awaited Jesse, Cass, and Tulip when they opened the bar doors that day.

Jesse’s box contained a book called “The Heretic’s Bible” and a copy of “Amazing Spider Man 129” in excellent condition. Cassidy’s box had a scarf, mittens, and a knit hat bearing the logo and colors of “Shamrock Rovers Ireland.” Tulip produced from her box a pink Colt 1911 with a pearl handle that bore an embossed tulip.

A card accompanying the boxes had a curiously scrawled message for the Knoll’s staff.

“Merry Christmas. Thanks for thinking of the little guys. —S & J.”