Reg Puts His Foot Down

[This may be cheating, but because of the very specific nature of this particular exercise, I'm going to post the format provided to me by my outside source. Normally I would just post the results, but this will save a lot of exposition.]

Ye format: Write a conversation between two elves at work. They are everyday elves we have never heard of before (like the elves in the ATM) NOT the elves in the North Pole. Whatever kind of elf they are is up to you, but this is just an average day at work. They can be between 3 and 28 inches tall. At some point, their lives change forever. This is the day that big thing happened.

Reg: (climbing into the ice storage bin of a commercial soda fountain): Morning, Rod. (Looking at the stack of ice cubes on Rod's side of the bin) You get here early?

Rod: Well, somebody’s got to stack and prepare these ice cubes before the lunch rush, and if I’m counting on you to be late, then I’ve got to be early. It’s 9:15, you know.

Reg: Oh, for god’s sake...

Rod: No, not for God’s sake. I’m tired of it.

Reg: Listen, okay, it’s not like people will lose their lives if they don’t get ice.

Rod: No, they won’t, but we will lose our jobs.

Reg: Our jobs? What the hell are you talking about? Nobody knows we’re even in here. They think that some stupid mechanical device causes the ice to pour out of the soda fountain when they hit the lever. We don’t exist, literally, as far as they’re concerned.

Rod: Well, if we don’t keep the ice coming, then there will be a service call, and the big hairy guy with the flashlight and the electric screwdriver is going to come poking around here again, and we’re going to have to spend three hours hiding up the ice chute and dodging that metal thingy he sticks up it when he thinks its jammed. One of the guys who works over at Sbarro had his leg broken on the last service call. He was in a cast for a month, they had to stick some unprepared trainee in his bin with him, it was a disaster!

Reg: You know what, forget it. I’m so done with this shit. I want some recognition. Let the service guy come. I’m not hiding any more. I’m going to stand right here in the middle of the ice bin and dance around in my tiny track shoes and my tiny work overalls and give that ass head a freaking coronary. His flashlight can be the spotlight to my debut performance.

(There is a click, followed by a loud grinding sound)

Rod: (scrambling about, gathering ice cubes and throwing them through the ice chute, which is far above his head) Reg! Now is not the time for your empty idealism! The manager is getting his morning Seirra Mist! Now help me fill his cup!

Reg: (not moving) No, I’m not kidding this time. I’m tired of being taken for granted, everyone walking around thinking that what we do, our craft, our livelihood – no, let’s call it what it is – our ART, dammit, is simply the random, mindless tumbling of some inanimate device that two soda fountain engineers dreamed up thirty years ago!

(The grinding sound stops momentarily, then restarts, then stops, then restarts again, the inside of the ice bin shaking back and forth each time. From outside, the manager’s voice is heard, saying “This thing is slow this morning.”)

Rod: (still desperately grabbing at cubes) Reg! You can’t do this to me! Not today!

Reg: Roddy, my boy, it’s got nothing to do with you. I am striking a blow for all elf-kind today. No longer do we work in the dark. No longer will the miniature proletariat...

(The sound of his voice is drowned out by the deafening “woosh” of the Sierra Mist being jetted into the manager’s cup.)

Rod: You can not do this! They’ll kick you out of the union! You’ll have to go back to unskilled Elfing! Do you want that? Do you want to spend the rest of your life roaming around the woods polishing lightning bugs for minimum wage?

Reg: Hey, it’s not like we’re making a fortune running around in the dark chucking ice cubes into a hole. Those Keebler bastards have got the right idea – publicity, ad deals, probably got a nice tree in Malibu...

Rod: It’s not a bed of roses, you know. The Keeblers have had their share of problems, Reg. Fame can be hard.

Reg: Oh, what, you have to go to rehab once every couple of years? So what? At least people know what they do! At least people know who they are!

Rod: Reg, people think they’re cartoons!

Reg: Well, in a little bit, there will be no mistaking it. One that furry beast of a repair-man looks in here and sees me, it’s all going to change. The time has come. In fact, let’s get this show on the road right now. (He unzips his work overalls and starts peeing on the stack of ice cubes on his side of the bin.)

Rod: Reg, no! The kid won’t dump more ice in here for another two hours!

Reg: (really hosing down the ice cubes) Exactly! Next person who wants ice is getting my own special brand!

(The click and loud grinding sound are heard again. Reg zips up, grabs the tainted cubes, and starts throwing them into the chute. Rod tries to stop him, but Reg threatens him with a melting, yellow cube, and Rod backs off, resigned to their fate. After Reg has thrown all of his cubes into the chute and the rush of the soda dispenser has come and gone, he walks over to Rod who is sitting on an ice cube, head in his hands.)

Reg: Trust me, buddy. We’re going places now. You’ll be able to tell your kids one day that you were here. You saw history being made. It’s a brave new world, Roddy boy.