I realize that it's customary, at least for human children, to write to you with a list of their Christmas wishes. I also realize that I'm a day late, so if anybody is writing to you now, it's probably to thank you for bringing them all those nice presents.
I, however, am an elf: born and raised at the North Pole. We both know what that means. I don't receive presents - at least not from you. Apparently I don't even receive reasonable concessions for my brother- and sister-elves. And since I've spent the last few days fleeing the North Pole, Oslo, Rome, and Miami, I'm not feeling especially grateful, either.
All the way around the world in one night, and you still couldn't find me. That must burn - at least a little, am I right? IntSec couldn't keep me there, Twinkle couldn't catch me, and the Redcap who shall remain nameless couldn't kill me. Are you at least a little bit worried, now? You should be.
I'm not asking for much. I just want reasonable working hours, better conditions in the workshop, and basic safety precautions. I don't even want them for myself - you know as well as I do that I'm not coming back. It's not like I'm asking you to stop the sacrifices or give up your immortality. So think about it, would you? I'm offering you a deal.
All you have to do is put an advert in the New York Times - let's say on Imbolc, so you'll have some time to think it over. You give me your word that you'll improve things, and I'll keep my silence and stay gone. Simple as that. Or, you say nothing, and I'll find a way to expose you. Oh, sure, nobody wants to cross you now... but your rep isn't as airtight as you think it is. Too many humans suspect you already. If the word really gets out, they will turn on you. So give it some honest thought, Big Guy.