The Snowman Who Felt the Heat

Gus was having the worst day of his life. He was absolutely beside himself. The North Pole had been hit by a brutal, soul-crushing heatwave with the temperature at a balmy -11° Fahrenheit. It was wreaking havoc on his fragile composure.

Gus was a decorated member of the North Pole Defense Force, a recipient of the Silver North Star for his heroism during the '99 campaign to quell the yeti uprising. Though he was a North Pole Defensive Unit, Model-1A, whose very existence was predicated on temperatures so far below freezing they had their own special category, Gus was convinced he was melting. His core was a churning pit of anxiety and what he could only describe as “thermal vibrations,” a terrifying premonition of his impending demise, and he felt soft. The signs were all there! But in reality, it was one too many of Mrs. Claus’ sugar cookies.

He stood his ground at the western gate, his two coal eyes wide with terror, scanning the landscape for signs of the apocalypse. He felt the oppressive, bone-chilling cold that he stubbornly insisted was oppressive, sweltering heat. The air was thick with ice crystals, sparkling like a million tiny diamonds, but to Gus’ frantic mind, they were a humid haze, the very air itself a weapon.

The other snowmen around Santa’s village seemed fine, but Gus knew better. They were fools! Naïve, oblivious sentinels standing on the brink of oblivion. He was the only one brave enough to face the truth: they were all doomed.

He turned to his patrol partner, a one-eyed snowman named Frank, whose expression was a perpetual, vacant surprise. “Frank!” Gus shrieked, his voice a dry, crunchy rumble of snow. “Are you feeling this? The oppressive warmth? The slow decay of our very being? Wake up, man! We’re all going to be puddles!”

Frank’s single coal eye stared unblinkingly at the sparkling, frozen expanse of the polar ice cap. He was, to Gus’ great frustration, entirely unbothered.

“It’s an inferno, Frank! An honest-to-goodness inferno!” Gus screamed, a fine puff of snow escaping his coal mouth. He frantically patted his sagging sides. “I can feel my core temperature rising! My ice crystals are… they’re vibrating! It’s like a tiny rave inside my torso, and I am not having fun! We have to warn them! We have to sound the alarm!”

A moment later, a small snowball bounced off Gus’ lower section with a soft thump. It was followed by the muffled, delighted giggling of two elves hiding behind a snowdrift. Gus gasped, a genuine sound of sheer horror. It wasn’t just a snowball; it was a projectile of snow-based aggression, a direct assault on his compromised body in the middle of a global crisis!

He was too dignified to retaliate, but he made a mental note to report them to Head Elf Bernard for a mandatory "reindeer-shoe-polishing" detail and a lecture on the signs of impending global snowpocalypse.

The real problem, Gus knew, was that he was the only intellectual snowman. He was a thinker.

While others were content to simply stand, Gus was constantly pondering the great mysteries of the North Pole... Why do we have coal eyes? Is there a higher purpose to a scarf? Does Santa really know if we’ve been bad or good?

But this supposed heatwave wasn’t a question to be pondered; it was a slow-motion catastrophe he was enduring it all alone. And the fact that he was feeling physically soft and wobbly was only confirming his worst fears, even if the true cause was his regrettable binge of iced shortbread from the day before.

He felt his stick arms droop a little further. His left one trembled uncontrollably. Or maybe they didn't. He couldn't be sure, but in his mind, they were sagging with the weight of his personal torment and the responsibility of being the only sane snowman left.

He was losing his structural integrity, a fact made all the more clear by what he was certain was a genuine drop of water trickling down his side. A genuine, bona fide, liquid water drop! He gasped, a sound not unlike a refrigerator door being opened. He looked at Frank, but the one-eyed snowman was still staring into the middle distance, his expression unchanged.

"Frank, I'm dripping!" Gus hissed. "This is it! The beginning of the end! First, a drop, then a puddle, then a… a memory! A legend of the snowman who melted on the job! And you and I are next!"

Frank remained stoic. Gus envied him. He wished he had been built with Frank’s emotional fortitude, or lack thereof. He wished he had been built with Frank’s imperviousness to his own mind's wild and terrifying fluctuations.

Suddenly, a rhythmic squish-squish-squish cut through the air, which was, in reality, a crisp -34°F. A plump penguin waddled toward him, its sleek black and white coat glistening with a thin layer of perspiration. The penguin’s exertion was due entirely to its brisk walk, but Gus interpreted it as yet more evidence of the oppressive climate.

"Excuse me, Mr. Snowman," the penguin squeaked, "Have you seen a fish? A big, juicy one? I’m starving, and this heat has really worked up an appetite."

Gus stared at the penguin. The sheer audacity of the question in the midst of his personal apocalypse!

"A fish?!" Gus shrieked, his voice rising to an hysterical pitch. "I'm fighting for my very existence, and you're worried about a platter with a sprig of parsley?! We are all going to die! The North Pole is doomed!"

"Parsley is key for flavor," the penguin said, puffing out its chest. "I’m not just any penguin. I’m a refined penguin. I don't just 'go find my own fish.' I prefer my fish served with a side of chilled krill. But since the kitchens aren't running at a perfectly normal, functional temperature, I'm forced to forage. It's an indignity, I tell you."

Gus was furious. Here he was, facing a personal Armageddon, and this penguin was complaining about a lack of fine dining.

"Listen, you flightless bird, you don't understand!" Gus screamed, his voice rising in volume. "I'm an NPDU, Model-1A! My job is to protect this village! My job is to protect you! I don’t have time to be a concierge for your piscatorial whims! Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe my left stick arm is about to fall off!"

As if on cue, his left stick arm, which had been at a perfectly respectable angle of vigilance, suddenly detached itself with a soft plop and landed in the snow. Gus' panicked flinching had finally done what the "heat" couldn't. He stared at it, then back at the penguin.

The penguin stared at the detached arm, then at Gus' now-lopsided form. A single, knowing eyebrow-feather twitched.

"Ah," the penguin said with a nod of profound understanding. "I see. You are, how do you say… de-limbed."

"De-limbed?!" Gus roared, his voice a furious spray of snow. "I’m not de-limbed, you feathered fool! I’m melting! I’m a victim of a thermal catastrophe! The temperature is rising! And you're worried about parsley!"

The penguin, unfazed, waddled closer, its beady eyes examining Gus' wobbly form.

"You know," it said thoughtfully, "I hear that a little bit of salt can help you retain your shape. Maybe a few dashes of the sea salt from the candy cane factory? It's all the rage with the snow-beings on the coast."

Gus was speechless. This penguin was either a complete idiot or a malicious saboteur. He chose to believe the former and bellowed, "Get out of here, you salted-fish-seeking maniac!"

The penguin, its curiosity satisfied, waddled off, leaving a trail of wet footprints in its wake.

Gus, now one-armed and thoroughly demoralized, felt another drop of water trickle down his side. The indignity of it all! His pristine white snow-body was now streaked with dirt from the snowball incident and, worst of all, his own frantic-flinching runoff. He was a disgrace to the NPDF.

Just then, a flash of red and green caught Gus’ eye. It was Bernard, the Head Elf, striding purposefully toward him. Gus braced himself for a reprimand.

"Gus!" Bernard said, his voice tight with an unfamiliar emotion. Confusion. "Are you alright? You've been... shaking and shouting. You look like you just saw a polar bear with a flamethrower."

"I'm fine, Bernard," Gus lied, trying to suck in his sagging middle. The effort caused a small crack to form near his bottom coal button. "Just a minor… thermal redistribution. All under control. I've been... patrolling with a little more gusto, you might say."

Bernard’s gaze fell upon Gus’ missing arm. "Your arm, Gus. It's gone."

"It’s… a new defense posture," Gus improvised, waving his remaining arm for emphasis. "The one-armed-guard salute. It’s very intimidating. Sends a message of defiance against the impending thermal doom!"

Bernard's face, usually a study in calm efficiency, was now a mask of utter bewilderment. "A one-armed salute? Gus, what are you talking about? It's -34°! We've been trying to get the snow-making machines to work overtime, but the elves can't hold their wrenches because it’s too cold."

Bernard squinted at Gus, then sighed. "Look, Gus. You're obviously not feeling well. Your perception of reality is, shall we say, skewed. I think you need to go to the infirmary. Immediately."

Gus, still convinced he was a melting martyr, hobbled toward the infirmary. Inside, a kindly, bespectacled elf named Dr. Pinchwick examined him. Gus described his symptoms with frantic detail: the oppressive heat, the vibrating core, the terrifying onset of liquefaction, the penguin who was too focused on garnish to see the end of the world. Dr. Pinchwick, a seasoned veteran of snowman-related maladies, nodded gravely, listening to every word.

He took Gus' temperature with a tiny thermometer, which registered a perfectly normal sub-zero reading.

He inspected the "water drops," which were just stray bits of powder snow.

The doctor then gently palpated Gus’ middle section, and his brows furrowed. He could feel the soft, yielding, and unmistakably sugary consistency of a snowman who had not been watching his intake of holiday treats.

Dr. Pinchwick leaned back in his chair, stroking his long, white beard.

"Gus," he said, his voice gentle and knowing. "I've seen this before. It's an acute case of what we in the medical field call, 'Snowman Delusional Heat Syndrome,' exacerbated by a secondary condition known as 'Post-Cookie-Binge Structural Relaxation.' The good news is, you're not in any physical danger. The bad news is… you need to chill out, both mentally and with the sweets."

Gus stared blankly. "So… I'm going to die?! You can't let me die, doc! You can fix me, right? You can reverse the melting?"

The doctor chuckled softly. "Oh, yes. I have just the thing. Here's your prescription." Dr. Pinchwick pushed a two small, perfectly formed ice cubes toward Gus on his examination table. "Take two of these, and call me in the morning."

Gus, though confused, felt a glimmer of hope. He carefully placed the ice cubes in his remaining stick hand and walked out of the infirmary, feeling a strange sense of validation. The doctor understood! He was a real hero, suffering from a very real, very dangerous, very-real-in-his-own-mind heatwave. And these ice cubes were the first step to saving them all.

He returned to his post, holding the ice cubes as if they were a sacred artifacts. He stood beside Frank, a proud, one-armed sentinel.

Bernard, having given Gus time to get back and recover, returned to check on him. He found Gus meticulously patting his soft, cookie-filled middle with the ice cubes, a look of grim determination on his coal-blackened face.

"Gus," Bernard said, his voice a little softer this time. "How are you feeling? Did the doctor help?"

"Bernard, it's worse than we thought!" Gus declared, holding the ice cube aloft. "These ice cubes aren't a cure! It's an antidote! The doctor gave them to me so I can counteract the impending thermal cascade! We're not just in a heatwave, we're in a snowpocalypse! The very ice is warming!"

Bernard, who had been hoping for a simple "I feel better," sighed deeply. He knew a lost cause when he saw one. He decided to play along.

"You're right, Gus. You're absolutely right. This is an emergency. The gravest emergency the North Pole has ever faced. My brain is getting... fuzzy from the heat." He fanned himself with a gloved hand. "Your plan... your antidote... what do we do?"

Gus’ eyes lit up with a feverish, frantic intensity. He pointed at the sky with his one remaining arm. "We need more! We need to cool the whole village! It’s our only hope!"

Then, Bernard’s eyes lit up with a flash of inspiration. "The Snow Cone Factory! We'll use the giant refrigeration unit to cool the entire village! It's our only hope!"

Gus' remaining stick arm shot straight up. "A brilliant plan, Bernard! A stroke of genius! A plan worthy of a Head Elf! We’ll save the North Pole!"

Bernard nodded, his confidence returning. "You'll be a hero, Gus! You'll get another medal! The snowman who held the line! The snowman who didn't completely melt! The snowman who… oh, wait. You’re already a bit squishy."

Gus' shoulders, or where his shoulders used to be, slumped. But then, he remembered his purpose—a decorated member of the NPDF. He was Gus. He would not give up. He would stand guard until the very end, even if that end was a puddle of water with a carrot nose and two coal eyes floating in it.

He looked at Frank, his unwavering companion. "Frank," Gus said, his voice filled with a newfound sense of purpose, "I’m going to stand my ground. I’m going to stay put. I’m going to be a hero. And when this is all over, I’m going to personally throw a snowball at that parsley-loving penguin."

Frank, for the first time, seemed to respond. A tiny, almost imperceptible sliver of a smile appeared on his one-eyed face. Or maybe it was just a crack. Gus couldn’t be sure. But in that moment, he felt a kinship with the silent sentinel.

They were two snowmen, standing firm against the cruel, cruel tyranny of Gus' own imagination and his inability to resist a good sugar cookie. And he would not melt without a fight.