Angles in the Arctic (Pilot)

"It's always Christmastime in these parts, Johnny," said the old man, who had the skittishness of a ruminant nursing young.

"Which way's East?" I asked.

"Depends on who's asking, in'-it?"

"Beg pardon, old man?" Hiss in my voice.

"It's that way," he said, gesturing.

That was the problem with these washed out North Pole exurbs, I thought. All the ex-elf foreman were bitter, brittle, but they had no heart when you really got down to it. Sure, they'd go through the motions like they wanted to fight, to show their smiling starving beautiful children of light that their daddy was worth something, worth a helluva lot come to think, and no way, NO WAY was ol' Daddy going to put up with any old traveler such as myself asking him for directions. Hence the yuletide prodding from the get-go. Yes, I'd bested the geezer. But why leave it there? I pulled out my Luger and shot him in the dick.