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Act II:
How Dr. Rough Stole Christmas






Snowflakes fell from the twilit sky, each one unique and pristine. They covered the crowns of the tallest trees, dotting the leaves like dandruff. They blanketed the branches below. They carpeted the soft floor of the swamp in a thick layer of white, unsullied but for the trail of muddy footprints that led to a thick, green cypress tree, around which a number of men stood.

“Timber!” shouted one of them suddenly, as the cypress began to wobble.

“-lake!” added a second man, grinning impishly at the others before scrambling out of the path of the falling tree.

“D-don’t let Drums hear you saying that, Danny,” warned a third man, his willowy frame trembling. “You know he doesn’t go by that name anymore.”

“Oh, don’t get your tighty-whities in a wad, New Kid,” retorted Danny, rolling his eyes. “You know Drums ain’t around. Drums is too good, too important, to do something as trivial as cut down the FANS Christmas tree.”

“Drums has s-served us well,” stammered Donnie, his rat-like eyes shifting around nervously. “He’s been a most f-faithful servant to our master.”

“What a crock of bull,” spat Danny venomously. “We’ve all been in Dr. Rough’s service much longer than he has. But oh, Drums gave his right hand for FANS, so Drums gets rewarded. The favoritism in this terrorist league is nauseating.”

“Can it, Wood,” snapped the first man. “Let’s get this tree back to the base and decorate it so we can show Dr. Rough. Then maybe we’ll be rewarded for bringing the Christmas spirit to the FANS headquarters.”

“Good idea, Jon,” agreed Donnie, nodding eagerly. “L-let’s go. Heigh-hoooo!” he suddenly sang out, his anxious squeak of a voice deepening into a strong baritone.

“Heigh-hoooo!” echoed the Merry Minions.

“Heigh-ho,” sang Jon.

“Heigh-ho,” growled Danny.

“Heigh-hoooo!” trilled Donnie.

“Heigh-ho! Heigh-ho!” they chorused, “It’s home to FANS we go!” And they whistled cheerfully as they hoisted the fallen tree onto their shoulders and marched off through the snow-covered swamp. “Heigh-ho! Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, heigh-ho! Heigh-ho! It’s home to FANS we go!”

Still whistling, they trooped through the muck, shouldering the massive cypress, until the surrounding trees began to thin. By the time they stepped into the shadow of the looming FANS fortress, their tune had changed.

“Fah who for-aze, dah who dor-aze,” sang the minions, as they carried the tree into the building. “Welcome Christmas, bring your light!”

“Fah who for-aze, dah who dor-aze,”
they continued on, while they set the tree up and strung it with twinkling purple lights. “Welcome in the cold dark night!”

And when the cypress was fully trimmed, with tinsel and garland, ornaments and embellishments, they stood in a circle around it, their hands clasped together, and chorused, “Welcome Christmas, fah who rah-moose! Welcome Christmas, dah who dah-moose! Welcome Christmas while we stand, heart to heart and hand in hand…”

Bathed in a ring of soft, lavender light, the minions were oblivious to the short man who skulked in the shadows, watching them with one eye twitching furiously, his lip curling up in a sneer.


Every agent down at HimTak
Liked Christmas a lot,
But DR. ROUGH,
The nemesis of HimTak, did NOT!



From his shadowy corner, Rough scowled at his minions, who were still singing, “Fah who for-aze, dah who dor-aze, welcome Christmas, come this way! Fah who for-aze, dah who dor-aze, welcome Christmas, Christmas Day!”

They sang with their eyes closed, big cheesy grins splitting their faces. They sang with their hands swinging, their heads bobbing in time to their song. They sang without worry. They sang without shame. They sang without money or promise of fame. “Welcome, welcome, fah who rah-moose! Welcome, welcome, dah who dah-moose! Christmas Day is in our grasp, so long as we have hands to clasp! Fah who for-aze, dah who dor-aze…”

Dr. Rough could take it no longer. “ENOUGH!” he bellowed, storming out of his corner. The minions stopped in their tracks, quickly dropping hands.

“Dr. Rough!” exclaimed Jonathan Knight, the first to recover from his shock. “Your timing is impeccable! We just finished trimming the tree.”

“Tree!” spat Dr. Rough. “What tree?”

“Well, this tree, sir,” replied Jon, gesturing to the towering cypress, all bedazzled in shimmering silver and violet. “The FANS Christmas tree!”

“Christmas…” Dr. Rough’s sneer became more pronounced. He narrowed his eyes, the left one still twitching. “I hate a number of things, as you well know. Himitsu Takana. Incompetence. The word ‘short.’”

“Don’t forget the ‘It’s a Small World’ ride at Disney World,” inserted Abs Breen helpfully. Dr. Rough flashed him a seething stare. If the prototype of his death-ray spectacles were finished so that looks could kill, Abs would have dropped dead in an instant. As it was, he merely ducked his head, muttering, “Never mind.”

Dr. Rough cleared his throat importantly before continuing his monologue. “But if there’s one thing I hate above all others… well, perhaps not the three others I mentioned, but certainly all the other others…” He paused for suspense, while the minions waited with bated breath. “…it’s CHRISTMAS!”


Dr. Rough hated Christmas! The whole Christmas season!
You wanna know why? I'll tell you the reason:



“Christmas!” gasped the minions, looking in disbelief from their festive swamp tree back to their outraged leader. “But why?”

“I’ll tell you why,” growled Dr. Rough. “Christmas has become so commercial. It’s not about Jesus anymore; it’s about Santa Claus. Santa Claus… what a disgusting heap of lard. He’s a hero in children’s eyes, all because he brings toys to the whole world on Christmas Eve. He and his reindeer – mangy, mutated beasts – take all the credit for the joy and excitement the children feel on Christmas morning, but they aren’t the real heroes. They only deliver the toys. Santa Claus is merely a mailman in a souped-up sleigh. The real heroes are the creators, the masterminds behind the toys: the toymakers themselves. The elves.”


It wasn't that his head wasn't screwed on quite right;
Dr. Rough hated Christmas because of his height!
Though twisted and evil, he had pity for all
The creatures mistreated because they are small,
And Santa, you see, works his elves like they're slaves,
Forcing them to make toys without makin’ bank.



“Santa’s elves are slave labor,” Dr. Rough ranted on. “Unpaid, uncredited, unappreciated. There aren’t even any Christmas songs about elves!”

“Why, yes there are,” spoke up Abs again. “There’s that tune from the old Rudolph special, ‘We Are Santa’s Elves.’ You know… ‘We are Santa’s elves… filling Santa’s shelves… with a toy for each girl and boy, oh, we are Santa’s-’

“SILENCE!” roared Dr. Rough. “Enough singing!”

“Sorry,” muttered Abs, seeming to shrink again slightly.

“Santa’s elves!” Dr. Rough spat. “Santa’s elves! Like they’re his belongings… his playthings… his property! Slaves, I tell you. Slaves! And all because they’re different! All because they’re short!”

The minions exchanged knowing looks.

“You’re absolutely right, Dr. Rough,” Jon piped up. “I never saw it that way before, but you make a good point. The commercialism of Christmas is only perpetuating the problem of slave labor in the North Pole. So what are we going to do about it?”

For the first time, Dr. Rough smiled. His eyes gleamed, reflecting the purple light from the tree. “So glad you asked,” he simpered dangerously.


Plotting deep in his lair, with his trademark eye twitch,
Dr. Rough forged a plan to fix this injustice,
For he knew the whole world, which would soon be his,
Was supporting slave labor by asking for gifts.



“Please don’t tell us you want to bomb the North Pole,” pleaded Jeff Timmons. “The South Pole was bad enough! I mean, unless you’re gonna send MJ with a pack of explosives strapped to his chest…”

Joey Fatone suddenly gasped. “Dr. Rough would never do that to MJ! Would you?” he asked Dr. Rough uncertainly.

“Of course not,” Dr. Rough replied coolly. “I’d send the underling who deemed it acceptable to use the prototype of my weather machine – the last remaining model of the device, I should add, since those meddling agents of Himitsu Takana confiscated the finished version we installed in the Magic Kingdom – to dump a blizzard of snow on the Everglades, thus attracting unwanted attention to our little hideout.” His eyes bored into Joey’s; he knew exactly who was responsible for using his weather machine without permission.

Joey gulped. “Sorry, sir, my bad. I just thought a little snow would add to the festive atmosphere around here. It won’t happen again.”

“Festive atmosphere,” sneered Dr. Rough. “It had better not happen again. The last time you used my weather machine to make it snow, Himitsu Takana took notice and came to foil my plans once again. Do you want this plan to be foiled as well?”

“What is your plan, Dr. Rough?” asked Danny.

“As I was about to explain, before I was so rudely interrupted,” growled Dr. Rough, with a beady look at Jeff. “I was in my chamber the other night, watching my VHS copy of ‘Blue Toes the Christmas Elf,’ and I was thinking about poor Blue Toes and how he sacrificed so much to make the children happy and please his master, despite the appalling mistreatment he’d been forced to endure for the first twenty minutes of the program.

“And I thought, ‘I just cannot stand for such abuse to continue. I am a powerful man… In fact, soon, I’ll be the most powerful man in the world. Surely, I can do something to sabotage Santa’s sadistic slavery,’” he hissed. “But what? So I plotted and I schemed… I schemed and I plotted… and at last, it came to me.”


"I'll start a revolution!" he snarled with a sneer.
"A crusade, a boycott of Christmas this year!"
Then he growled, with his left eye nervously twitching,
And thought, "This will never work how I'm wishing!"

For tomorrow, he knew, all the mamas and pops
Would wake up bright and early. They'd rush to the shops!
They'd buy all the toys made in sweatshops by elves.
With those Black Friday deals, why, they'd clear the shelves!

And the elves, young and old, wouldn't earn a dime
For all their hard work and all of their time.
Santa, the Big Man, would make a gold mine
Off the little guys' work on the assembly line,
Which was something Dr. Rough thought just didn't seem right!

And the more he thought of this elf injustice,
The more Rough thought, "I must stop this whole mess!
But change doesn't come without shit going down.
I MUST start a jihad on Christmas!
...But HOW?"



“You see, I knew merely boycotting the holiday would never be enough,” Dr. Rough went on. “Even if we used the hypnotic device again to brainwash people into following the boycott, it wouldn’t be enough. We must make them pay for their commercialistic greed! We must steal their Christmas spirit away!”


Then he got an idea!
An awful idea!
DR. ROUGH
GOT A WONDERFUL, AWFUL IDEA!



“Steal…” he mused. “Yes… that’s what we’ll do.”

“Dr. Rough?” asked Jon.

A devious grin split the FANS leader’s face. “Without money, greed, and Christmas spirit, there will be no demand for toys. The basic economic principle of supply and demand dictates that without demand, there is no need for supply. And if toy supplies are no longer needed, neither is elf labor. Santa will let his elves go. They’ll be freed!

The minions began to nod, still listening closely, rapt and attentive. Dr. Rough was enjoying himself, enjoying the way he could still keep them spellbound with this grand schemes.

“So all we must do,” he went on, “is kill the Christmas spirit, leave families so hopeless and destitute that they long for only the necessities, not frivolities like toys. We must… STEAL CHRISTMAS!”

The minions gasped in delight. “It’s genius!” they cried. “Brilliant! Unheard of!”

“But… Dr. Rough,” the irritatingly English voice of Abs rose above the others. “Beg pardon, sir, but I thought perhaps you might tell us… how precisely do you expect to – as you put it, sir – steal Christmas? Pardon my skepticism, master, but it seems a bit… ambitious.”

The light left Dr. Rough’s eyes, as they darkened with rage. “Ambitious,” he snorted. “Of course it’s ambitious! When have I ever conjured up a plan which was not ambitious?! You think I am incapable of carrying out an ambitious scheme?”

“I… n-no, of course not, dear master,” Abs sputtered, chortling nervously. “I merely queried-”

“Save your queries!” shouted Dr. Rough. “There’s no need to question a leader of my brilliance. I’ve thought through every detail, and I know just what to do. Now, gather round, my minions, and listen to the plan.”


"I know just what to do!" Dr. Rough told his crew,
And he rented a Santa suit and some elf costumes,
And he cackled and crowed, "What a genius I am!
With these festive costumes, we'll stick it to The Man!"



“Brills!” exclaimed Abs, looking at the selection elf costumes draped across the furniture. “Which one will you be wearing, master?”

“I?” Dr. Rough looked affronted. “I will be wearing the Santa suit, naturally. What did you think, that I would be dressed as an elf??”

“Well, I merely thought… for authenticity’s sake…”

“Better quit while you’re ahead, buddy,” muttered Joey out of the side of his mouth.

But it was too late; Dr. Rough had already caught the meaning. “Are you calling Dr. Rough… short?” he asked in a deathly whisper.

“N-no, Dr. Rough, of-of course not!” insisted Abs, his eyes widening in terror.

“FATONE!” roared Dr. Rough. “Take our friend Abs to my lab. He’ll serve me best as a guinea pig for the tests on my death-ray spectacles! Let me know when you succeed in vaporizing him!”

Joey cleared his throat awkwardly. “You got it, Dr. Rough,” he said, reluctantly taking Abs by the arm.

As he dragged him off, the other minions could hear Abs screaming, “No, wait! Dr. Rough, please! I didn’t mean it! Honest, I didn’t!”

The door slammed shut, muffling his pleas. The remaining minions watched their master warily, waiting for orders. “Well?” said Dr. Rough. “What are you waiting for? Grab a costume! The Santa suit is mine.” With that, he walked off, slinging a garment bag containing the red velvet suit over his shoulder, and disappeared behind a screen to change.

Quickly, the minions scrambled into action. Articles of bright green and red clothing were thrown hither and yon, as the minions selected elf tunics to wear. Spandex snapped, as the minions pulled festive tights over their hairy legs. Bells jingled, as they put on curly-toed shoes and pointed hats. By the time Dr. Rough emerged from behind the screen, decked from head to toe in red velvet trimmed with white fur, all of the remaining minions stood before him in flamboyant elf ensembles, shifting their weight uncomfortably from foot to jingle-belled foot.

“Hm…” Dr. Rough stopped to survey them, stroking his long, white beard. “Some of you are a little large to be elves, but I suppose you’ll do. The silly children will be fooled, in any case. Children will believe anything.”

The minions snickered. But then Danny spoke up, “How we gonna break into their houses to steal all their stuff, Dr. Rough? It won’t exactly fool them if we break the windows or kick down the doors, will it?”

“Of course not, you fool,” retorted Dr. Rough. “We won’t need to break windows or doors – those are the tactics of amateurs. No, we shall do this the right way: We’ll land on the roof and come down the chimney.”

The minions exchanged uneasy glances, but Dr. Rough laughed. “You underestimate me! I see the looks on your faces – you think my plan won’t work!”

“We’re just, uh… just a little unsure about the logistics, Dr. Rough,” said Jon.

“Ah… but you haven’t seen the best part of my plan, the element I’ve been working on in secret ever since the first Christmas commercials began airing on Halloween night. Follow me to the garage.”

There was a bounce in Dr. Rough’s step as he led the minions down to the ground level, where an expansive garage held all of their vehicles. The raised heels of his black, leather boots clicked on the concrete floor as he strode over to a remote corner, where a tarp covered a vehicle the size of a small speedboat.

Dr. Rough cleared his throat and grandly announced, “Feast your eyes upon…” He whipped off the tarp so fast that it flew up into his face, and the momentum thrust him backward, knocking him off his feet. “Oof!” The wind rushed out of him, as he landed hard on his rear, the tarp pooling on top of him.

“M-master!” squeaked Donnie, hurrying to pull the tarp off of him. He offered Dr. Rough one pale, trembling hand, which Dr. Rough ignored, scrambling to his feet and dusting off his red velvet backside.

“…my sleigh,” he finished, though the grandeur had gone from his voice.

The minions turned their attention back to what had formerly been covered by the tarp. Dr. Rough felt better when he heard their awed intake of breath, as their eyes took in the sight of a large, shiny, black sleigh, customized with a decal of Dr. Twitches in a red nose and Santa hat and the FANS logo in small, silver lettering.

“It’s beautiful, master,” Jon was the first to proclaim. “Does it fly?”

“Of course it flies. It’s equipped with twin jet engines and a high-tech GPS navigation system,” boasted Dr. Rough with pride. “It even features a missile launcher and aerosol spray tank filled with the last of our FANthrax supply, should we need to attack. But the important thing is, it will get us around efficiently enough to steal Christmas from New York. There will be no brotherly love in the city after twelve days of Christmas robberies.”

“Brotherly love? Isn’t that Philadelphia?” asked Danny.

“IRRELEVENT!” snapped Dr. Rough. “What matters is, we have our sleigh, and we have our elves. All we need now… is a reindeer.”

A reindeer! The minions, in their ridiculous elf costumes, looked around at each other. Wherever would they get a reindeer in this part of the country?


All we need is a reindeer..." Dr. Rough started to say,
But, see, reindeer don't live in the Everglades.
Did that stop Dr. Rough? Oh hells no, no way!



At that moment, a horrific, metallic grinding noise caused them all to jump and cringe, clapping their hands to their ears. They looked up towards its source and saw Drums standing beside a cement pillar, his hook raised. He had scraped it down the pillar to get their attention.

“God damn, Drums, couldn’t you have just said hi?” Jeff complained.

“Hi,” Drums deadpanned.

“Never mind that,” Dr. Rough quickly interfered. “What is it, Drums?”

“I been sent to tell ya dat Fatone done managed to burn Abs wit dose death-ray specs. He ain’t dead, though,” relayed Drums, in a bored voice. “Wuzzup wit all dis?” His robotic red eye shifted from the sleigh to the oddly-dressed minions.

“I’ve just been briefing the minions on our next mission,” said Dr. Rough. “And I do believe we’ve found the solution to our current problem…”

For he was suddenly staring into Drums’s single red eye, the eye which he himself had implanted into his protégé’s empty socket. He had grown so used to it that he hardly remembered what Drums had looked like before, when he was the miserable HimTak outcast he’d been when Dr. Rough had recruited him. But now, it was as if he were seeing the eye for the first time.

He cleared his throat and smiled quite fondly at Drums and said,

“Drumzy, with your eye so bright… won’t you guide my sleigh tonight?”


"If I can't find a reindeer, then Drums will guide my sleigh!"
"Aw, hells no, dat's whack!" I cried in dismay.
"But Drums, you've got the red eye to light my way!"



“No. No way. You trippin’, D-Rough. Ain’t no way I be puttin’ antlers on mah head like some effed-up cyborg Rudolph,” protested Drums.

Dr. Rough was still smiling. “Nonsense. We need you, Drums. Even the silliest of children wouldn’t believe in a sleigh without a reindeer. You’ll be perfect. And, of course, if you still need a little… persuasion… never forget that Dr. Rough rewards his helpers.”

And from within a large, burlap sack that lay across the seat of the sleigh, almost as if he had planned this, Dr. Rough retrieved a small package, wrapped in silver paper. He held it out to Drums.

“Wuz dis?” Drums asked suspiciously.

Dr. Rough kept smiling. “Open it.”

Drums hesitated, but his curiosity got the better of him. He ripped the shiny paper with one swipe of his hook, then shook it off with his good hand to reveal a handsome, black leather case. He used the tip of the hook to pry up the top. For a moment, he could only stare, his eyes wide and awed. Then he looked up at Dr. Rough. “Dr. Rough,” he whispered. “Master… it’s beautiful… thank you… thank you.”

The minions watched curiously as Dr. Rough reached into the box Drums still held and pulled out a gleaming replica of a human hand. Shining, bright as moonlight, it looked as if it had been made of molten silver, an exact mold of Drums’s severed hand.

“I’ll attach it before the thirteenth of December, if you agree to be our reindeer,” promised Dr. Rough.

It was an offer Drums couldn’t refuse. That was why, on December thirteenth, he found himself wearing a jumpsuit of thick, matted brown fur, a pair of heavy antlers tied down to his head, and a bulbous clown nose to match his eye. “You’s a mean one… Dr. Rough,” he sang under his breath, flexing the shining fingers of his new hand, now attached seamlessly to his arm, as though he were wearing a dazzling silver glove. “You really… is… a heel. You’s as cuddly as a cactus; you’s as charmin’ as an eel, Dr. Rou-ough! You’s a bad banana wit a… greasy black peel!”

He picked up a small twig on the ground and crushed it into powder.


SO… He dressed me in fur, stuck some antlers on my head.
I didn't feel like no pimp; I'da rather been dead,
But Dr. Rough said, "Too bad!" and made us start packin'
And flew us to New York to put his plan into action.



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