The Fountain of Truth Read online

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  Later that night, the psychologist awarded Gordon his million-dollar paycheck, and Gordon used the money to better himself, better his investments, and better those in need around him. He also gave the guard the cut he had promised him, which was good because the guard had a new baby on the way, and could’ve really used the help.

  Peter, the artist, earned his twenty thousand dollars and trip to Europe five days later, when he managed to scoop the key out from the log after carving fourteen inches down near the head of the canoe, while forming what would’ve become a seat and footwell. He abandoned his project when he realized he could make something better using better tools, which he could now buy thanks to his twenty thousand-dollar payoff. He also resolved to pitch his next project to museum curators when he was ready to visit the Louvre.

  Douglas, the depressed businessman, earned his free dinner for two a week and a half later, when he finally decided that waiting for the log to erode was foolish, and that he was better off just hacking the thing to pieces. Because he had taken action several days after everyone else had started, he was too far behind to catch up. But his growing thirst from having only one gallon of water left was enough to knock him out of his stupor, and he was diligent after that. As soon as he found the key, he realized that all he really needed this whole time was just a little push. Now that he had it, he thought he’d use his free dinner for two as an opportunity to impress a new business connection and hopefully rise out of his funk. He stole the pencil from the table to commemorate the moment he had embraced his newfound spark.

  Harvey, the angry police officer, was carried out of his cell and put on life support about twenty minutes after he’d passed out. Because the rules did state that he had to walk out of the room, not get carried out, he had to forfeit his second place prize to the next person who did walk out on his own two feet. The rules had also forgone any mention of liability in the case of injury, so Harvey was left responsible for his own medical bills, which included treatment for smoke inhalation and third degree burns. He later lost his job for having been away for so long, and for basically being physically unfit to continue anyway. The fire he had started managed to char the log and burn the needles off of every tree in the room, but it did not reduce any of it to cinders like he had hoped. However, when facility workers came in to extinguish the fire, they cut the remains of the log open to find that the metal key had melted from intense heat. The radio station decided to bill Harvey for damages.

  St. Nick’s Gym

  When he was but a youth, the world had not yet heard of the name of “St. Nicholas.” Not even a whisper or a shout could be heard among the villagers, the townsfolk, or the city dwellers across the land that a man like him lived, much less traveled the globe. Not so much as a rumor nor a fleeting thought had his name written on it. To the world around him, the name of St. Nicholas did not exist.

  No, when he was young, approximately two hundred years of age (or about twenty-five in mortal years), “Jolly” St. Nick, or Santa Claus as he is known today, was an unknown to children, to chimneys, and to the spirit of Christmas the world over. When the kiddies spoke of presents and holiday wishes, writing their requests in intelligible scribble on long scrolls of parchment, they submitted their wish lists to the unlikeliest of Christmas deliverymen, their parents. And in those days of old, when parents were poor, and a good year was a year that no one died, expecting a gift for Christmas was a long-shot, and receiving one was a miracle. Yes, the children would ask for presents anyway, and sometimes they even asked for something fun, like a toy, but alas the Christmas spirit was weak, for the children would wake up on that cold December morning with naught in their stockings but a lump of coal, and not for a lack of goodness, but rather for the good of the oven in which they needed fuel to keep warm.

  No, the name of St. Nick was absent from the lips of all who would one day come to believe. His name was spoken only among those circles of elite who dwelled in the deep north. Yes, he was still known by a select few. But he was not known as the figure of charity that he has become. He was known simply for his niche specialties as a power-lifter of reindeer and a hobbyist toymaker. According to the world stage, these things were not yet that important.

  In those early days, St. Nick did not have a toy workshop, per se, but he did own a gym that was slightly larger than an average bedroom. Because he was reclusive, he kept his gym private, and because the building was so small, he owned only one piece of equipment, a treadmill. But every month he would add another extension to the building that would increase its original size by 50%, and with each extension he would add a new piece of equipment—a weightlifting bench, a leg press, a dry canoe—so that he could build up not only his gym, but his body, too! Of course, he would work out night and day, buffing his biceps, toning his pecs, and sculpting his abs like a champion. He would lift reindeer from his weight bench, push his legs against an iceberg tip tilted ominously over a log, and simulate paddling in the canoe that never moved in order to increase his mass. He would tell himself at the height of his pain, “You can do it, Nick! Never give up!” And he would work out, night and day, until his body was dehydrated, but undoubtedly looking good.

  When summer came, and the ice softened, and the polar bears awoke from their long six-month naps, he would spend his days researching advances in biology, and then use the wooden resources he had around him to build fitness equipment that would maximize his muscle growth. He would hike a hundred miles in the snow toward Canada or Siberia until he found the choicest of conifers in which to chop into logs. Then he would hike a hundred miles back to his gym, dragging the logs behind, until he could dump them into his growing resource pile. Then he would hike a hundred miles to Canada or Siberia again to repeat the process. As winter neared, buff St. Nick would toss a handful of logs into the fire, turning them to coal, and then he would transfer the coal to the oven that he kept in the northwest corner of the gym, and fire any sand he collected along the way into glass. Then he would whittle the wood down to fine-cut planks, using the forward motion of his arms with extra wide strokes, leaning forward and back to maximize the strain on his muscles, until he had enough to build the frame for another new invention in which he could use to build his body. It was in this way that he could craft his home, his equipment, and his livelihood, bettering himself, and his body, and his self-esteem, and it kept him healthy, and it kept him energized, and he would continue to better himself in this way for the next fifty years (or six years and two and a half months in normal mortal years).

  Yes, St. Nick was happy to continue this routine. He didn’t bother anyone, and no one bothered him. But deep down he wasn’t satisfied. Even though he kept his spirits in check, he wasn’t feeling jolly. Every day he’d spend on his workout equipment, he would grunt and sweat and yell at himself for not pushing himself harder, and he would punch his mirror whenever he’d look at himself because he just wasn’t “there” yet. He ate a diet of roots and imported blueberries, and sometimes a reindeer if one died of starvation. But his lean diet didn’t make him feel good, and neither did the “burn” he felt in his muscles. Even when he took his summer hikes to Canada or Siberia and got some fresh air and sunshine, he felt empty inside. And he didn’t know why. So, he continued to build more equipment, continued to push himself harder, and continued to spend many nights screaming in pain at the cramps he’d suffer after each intense workout. I just need to push harder, he often thought.

  In those times when he couldn’t push himself harder, he would retreat to a corner of his gym and whittle a figurine out of his leftover wood scraps. Most of his figurines were just versions of himself, but leaner, buffer, and more distinguished. The first time he built a figurine, he carved it whole from a single scrap of wood. Then he placed it on a shelf that he had also carved out of wood. Over the course of that first year, he would spend his time away from the workout, carving as many as a hundred figurines, each one more defined than the last. But, becaus
e St. Nick could not limit himself to the same old routine without risking a loss in shape—in this case, his creative shape—he spent his second year crafting figurines with moving parts, using interwoven pine needles as joints. In his third year, St. Nick decided to give his figurines color, so he hiked farther south that summer to gather flowers and berries, and then ground them into colored pastes on his return. He carved a small handle out of a scrap of wood and plucked the hairs out of his reindeers’ tails to create a paintbrush. He would continue to improve his toy-making craft alongside his gym-making craft, making bigger and better figurines each year until they could no longer fit on the shelf. Within ten years, he found himself making life-sized mannequins and posting them outside the gym as bouncers, warning weary travelers to stay away. But he was still unsatisfied. He wondered if it was because his mannequins were naked and his own clothes were falling apart. So, he tried cloth-making to go along with his toy-making and his gym-making.

  In the summers when he’d travel south to find his choicest pinewood, flowers, and berries, he would also kidnap a few sheep and bring them back to his gym at the North Pole. He kept a sled on hand to help him transport his growing supply of goods and resources. Whenever the sheep died from the cold, he’d throw their remains onto the sled. This kept him from pulling his back out. Once he’d return to the gym, he would shear the wool off their bodies and fashion it into cloth. Then he would stitch the cloth to other pieces to create a shirt, a jacket, or a pair of socks. St. Nick did not know of the fashions trending in the nations to his south, but he did know what he liked, and he liked the color red. So, he dyed the wool in cranberry juice and fashioned his first set of clothing for himself. Whatever he had leftover, he fashioned for his mannequins. And with his new stylish threads, he felt he had accomplished something wonderful. But he was still unsatisfied.

  At this point, miserable St. Nick didn’t know what to do with himself.

  That’s when he had a visitor come knocking on his door.