A cold wind started to roar in from the north as Cupid and Prancer stared down at the lifeless body of Santa Claus.
“What do you mean ‘dead’, Prancer?” Cupid asked.
“What do you mean what do I mean?” Prancer responded. “I mean no pulse, no heart beat, no breathing, no nothing. The big guy is kaput. No more. He is an ex-Santa Claus.”
Blitzen had walked up and heard the two reindeer talking. “Maybe he’s pining,” Blitzen said.
“Pining?” Cupid said.
“Yeah, you know, pining for the fjords. Santa’s Norwegian or something, isn’t he?”
“He’s not pining,” Prancer said. “He’s dead.”
“Isn’t there something you can do?” Fear had crept into Cupid’s voice and made it shrill. He gave Prancer a hopeful look. “Don’t you know CPR?”
Prancer thought for a moment. “Well, I know all the words to ‘Proud Mary’ and there was that one time the Elf Band and I performed ‘Born on the Bayou’ at the Mardi Gras party. Remember that? Man, that was great.”
“That’s CCR, you moron, not CPR!” Cupid shouted at Prancer. The fear in his voice had been replaced by anger. “You told me you were a trained medic.”
Prancer shrugged and backed away a few steps from the obviously agitated Cupid. “I am, sort of,” Prancer told him. “Last month I binge watched ‘E.R.’ and I’ve seen every episode of ‘Grey’s Anatomy’. That Patrick Dempsey really is dreamy.”
“Watching TV does not make you a trained medic!” Cupid’s voice was even angrier now. “Oh, dear God, we are so fu...”
“All right, settle down, dumb asses.” The voice came from behind them. It was Vixen and she was carrying a box marked with a red heart on its lid. “This is a defibrillator. We’re going to save Santa’s life.”
Vixen shoved the box into Cupid’s hooves and told him to hold on to it until she needed it. Then she went to the sleigh. She pulled out a large pair of scissors that had been tucked in her harness and proceeded to cut open Santa’s coat.
“Whoa! Whoa!” Prancer screamed. “Santa will kill you when he finds out you cut up his coat like that.”
Vixen looked over her shoulder. “It’s no big deal. He’s got like twelve of these or something.”
“But they must cost a fortune,” Cupid said.
“He can afford it,” Vixen said. “I heard that Santa is one of the richest men in the world, possibly the richest. He invested early on in Amazon and Apple, he’s got oil deals with Putin, and you know what else? Trump owes him money. That’s why Santa wanted to kill him.” Vixen turned to back to concentrate on cutting away Santa’s coat. When she was done the pasty white torso of Santa Claus was revealed.
“Is that a tattoo of Mrs. Claus on his chest?” Cupid asked.
“Sure looks like her,” Vixen said.
“She doesn’t seem to be wearing any clothes,” Prancer said. “And is that a whip in her hand?”
Vixen shuddered and said, “Let’s concentrate on the matter at hoof. Cupid, give me that box.”
Vixen opened the box, removed the defibrillator, then set it down on the floor of the sleigh. She grabbed defibrillator pads in her hooves and said softly, “I hope this works.” She placed a self-adhesive pad on the upper right chest of Santa, then the other pad on his left side, just below the breast.
“Clear!” Vixen said to the two reindeer.
“What does that mean?” Prancer asked.
“It means get your dumb furry asses away from me and Santa.”
The reindeer backed away. Vixen hit a button on the machine, looked at a reading on its digital display, then hit another button. The force of the shock lifted Santa’s chest temporarily. Then Santa lay still again. His eyes remained closed.
Comet came running up to the three reindeer. He was in charge of communications with the Claus Compound back at the North Pole. Specifically, his job was keeping Mrs. Claus apprised of the big guy’s whereabouts and behavior.
“Mrs. Claus keeps calling,” Comet said. “She’s wondering why we’re so late getting back.”
Prancer and Cupid exchanged glances.
“She doesn’t sound angry so much as worried,” Comet said.
“Tell her we had engine problems and Santa is working on it,” Prancer said.
“You know, she’s not stupid,” Comet said. “How is it that reindeer would have engine problems?”
“Well, then tell her we’re having reindeer problems and Santa can’t talk to her right now.”
Comet looked over at the sleigh. “Is the big guy gonna be all right?”
“I don’t know,” Cupid said. “Vixen is doing what she can.”
The wind stopped roaring, then died down altogether. All the reindeer were quiet. They didn’t move, so the sleigh bells didn’t jingle. It seemed as if the whole world was silent.
Meanwhile, back at the offices of the Pearly Gates…
Horace swiveled in his chair and looked across his desk at Santa Claus, who sat wordlessly looking up at the images on the screen.
“So, Mr. Claus,” Horace said, “do you still think your trusty reindeer have abandoned you?”
Santa shook his head. “I can’t believe Vixen cut that coat. I loved that coat.”
“More than your life itself?”
“Point taken. I can get another one, I guess.”
“You already do have others.” Horace smiled at Santa.
“That’s not true, and all that crap about oil deals and…”
“You do remember that we know everything about you.”
“Oh, yeah. Okay, I have other outfits. And oil deals. You know, Vladimir’s not such a bad guy to do business with. Just stay on his good side, else you end up disappeared. I like the cold, but Siberia is no place to live.”
“And your little lady seemed kinda worried about you,” Elvis said. “Priscilla was like that, too. Shouldn’t have let her slip away, but she had such a suspicious mind. We were caught in a trap…”
“I do hate to interrupt, Mr. Presley,” Horace interrupted, “but I believe Mr. Claus is ready to return to his home.”
Indeed, Santa Claus was standing, looking impatient. “I guess things aren’t as bad as I thought they were. I just get a little down sometimes, that’s all. Seasonal affective disorder, I think.”
“Are you sure it’s not your sugar addiction?” Horace asked. “Refined sugar in the amounts you eat it can affect one’s moods.”
“And let’s not forget all that hooch he drinks,” Elvis said to Horace. “All that white lightning’s not good for a man.”
“Yeah, okay,” Santa said. “When you two busybodies are done telling me how much I suck can you send me back down to Earth?”
“Of course, Mr. Claus,” Horace said. “Mr. Presley, if you would be so kind as to escort Mr. Claus to the transporter.”
“Sure thing,” Elvis said as he got out of his chair. “Let’s went, Santy Claus.”
Elvis brought Santa Claus to a small room. A young woman with short bobbed hair wearing an old fashioned aviator suit, sat in front of a control panel with numerous switches and lighted buttons. Just beyond that was a platform upon which shone a lone spotlight.
“Now, don’t forget what I told you,” Elvis said as he put an arm around Santa’s shoulders. “You’re getting a second chance. So be a little nicer to everybody. Be kind to the reindeer. They work hard for you, and so do all them elves you got down there slaving away. And show Mrs. Claus a little tenderness once in a while. She gets weary you know.”
“Oh, please,” Santa said. “I’m sweeter than honey to all those people. And show Mrs. Claus a little tenderness? She’ll take it as a sign of weakness and try to kill me.”
“Santa, remember what Horace said about us knowing everything about you?”
“Oh, yeah. All right, all right. I’ll be good.”
“A little naughty is okay once in a while,” Elvis said with a wink. “Just stay out of the North Pole Bordello.”
Santa let loose with a roaring “Ho! Ho! Ho!” as he shook hands with Elvis, then stepped into the spotlight on the platform.
“Okay, Amelia,” Elvis said to the woman at the controls. “Let ‘er rip.”
The woman smiled and said, “Okay, Elvis,” then began pushing buttons and flipping switches. Within seconds, there was a whooshing noise that grew louder and louder as the image of Santa standing on the platform grew fainter and fainter until there was nothing more to see. The whooshing noise stopped. Santa was gone.
Back on Earth…
Santa’s eyes shot open. He lifted his head and glared at the reindeer.
Santa tried to scream but found his voice barely came out in a hoarse whisper. “What in the wide, wide world of sports is going on here?” He looked down at his bare torso and his cut open clothing. “My coat? What the hell did you do to my coat? And what are these sticky things on my chest? What the hell have you flea bitten varmints from Hades been doing to me while I sleep?”
“You weren’t asleep, you big, fat ingrate,” Comet said. “You had a cardiac arrest and Vixen saved your life. You’d be dead without us.”
“You’re the ones who are going to be dead.” Santa found his voice was a little stronger now. “Hooking me up to a car battery and making me flop around like a fish out of water. When I get through with you guys, you’ll be nothing more than fresh meat for the timber wolves. Why, when I get the robots to replace you…” Santa stopped shouting because he was hearing a voice singing in his head: “We can’t go on like this…”
“Oh, yeah, you’re right, Elvis,” Santa said in a low voice. “I was going to turn over a new leaf and try to be a little nicer.” He paused. “Okay, okay, a lot nicer.”
Confused, the reindeer all looked around at each other. “Elvis?” Cupid muttered.
“I think the old man’s lost his marbles,” Vixen said.
“I don’t see any leaves,” Prancer said.
“You’re not very bright, are you Prancer?” Cupid asked him. Prancer shrugged.
Vixen pulled the pads off of Santa’s chest. Santa winced but said nothing, only grinned. Prancer and Cupid helped Santa sit up. Then Santa stood on wobbly legs alongside the sleigh.
Santa looked around at the reindeer surrounding him and announced, “I love you guys.”
Donner looked at Dasher, who was standing next to him. “Is he talking to us?”
“Must be drunk again,” Dasher said. “You know he gets mushy when he’s got a few bottles of gluhwein in him.”
“Yeah,” Donner said. “We probably shouldn’t have stopped at the Christkindlmarket in Chicago.”
“Oh, it’s not the gluhwein talking,” Santa said. “I’m a new man now. I promise to treat you all better.”
“You gonna cut loose with some of that oil money?” Donner asked.
“Heh heh, you heard about that, eh?”
“Yeah, we saw the report on CNBC.”
“I thought I cut off the cable television to your stables.”
“You did. So we stole your satellite dish.”
“I was wondering what happened to it.” Santa shrugged. “Oh, well, never mind. You can keep it and you’ll all get raises. I’m going to spread the wealth from now on.”
“Has Santa turned into a Communist?” Dasher whispered.
“Shut up, else he might change his mind,” Donner said.
Vixen helped Santa fasten his jacket for the flight back home. The reindeer got themselves hitched up again to the sleigh as Santa settled into his seat. Santa shouted out “Ho! Ho! Ho! On Dasher! On Dancer! On…well, you know who you are. Let’s do this!”
Reindeer, sleigh and fat man took off from the snow covered ground and into the clear night sky. In what seemed like mere minutes they landed at the North Pole. With ease and dexterity the reindeer pulled the sleigh into their hangar. Mrs. Claus stood off to one side, arms crossed, one foot tapping with great impatience.
Santa jumped out of the sleigh and ran to her. “Ho! Ho! Ho!”
“Don’t call me names,” Mrs. Claus said.
“I heard you were worried about me,” Santa said to his wife.
“You did?” she said as she glared at the reindeer. “Which one of them ratted me out?”
Smiling, Santa embraced Mrs. Claus. “It’s okay to show concern, Mrs.,” he told her. Then he pulled her close and gave her a great, big kiss.
“What has gotten into you, old man?” she asked him.
“Why, I’m filled with the Christmas spirit! On our trip I came to the conclusion that I need to improve myself. I’ll try to be a better person, Mrs. Claus, to you and the reindeer and all the elves as well.”
Mrs. Claus rolled her eyes. “What happened? Did you get visited by three ghosts or something?”
“No, but I did meet Elvis and a nice English fellow in a tweed suit. He had a movie screen behind his desk and we could see what was happening here on Earth.”
“Oooooh-kay.” Mrs. Claus furrowed her brows. “Were you smoking hash again? You know that gives you the craziest dreams.”
“Ho! Ho! Ho! No, Mrs. Claus, no hallucinogens. Well, okay, I had a little peyote, but just a little. Not enough to make me crazy.” Santa grabbed his wife by the shoulders and kissed her again. “Mrs., why don’t you go in the kitchen and start baking those cinnamon crisp cookies I love so much? I’ll be there in a little while.”
Baffled and befuddled, Mrs. Claus could do no more than simply look at her husband and wonder what was happening in that complex mind of his. “Okay, I’ll go start on the cookies. But bear in mind, sooner or later I’ll find out what you’re up to and then there will be hell to pay.” She wheeled around and went off toward the entrance to their house.
Santa smiled. In the corner of his eye he could see Jimmy, the elf union leader, striding toward him from the far side of the hangar. On any other occasion the sight of Jimmy, a rough and tumble elf from Detroit, would cause Santa to stop smiling, but not this time. Santa knew why Jimmy was here: the elves would go on strike now, the busiest time of the year, unless they got a pay raise. The elves had been working hard, and they hadn’t gotten a pay hike in, well, centuries really. Before the union leader could say a word, Santa said, “Jimmy, tell the elves they’ll get more money, and plenty of it. In fact, the pay raise will be retroactive to the first of the year.” Normally Jimmy was a constantly cursing potty mouth, but this news left him speechless. He was so surprised he didn’t even question Santa’s sanity. Jimmy walked away to tell the elves the news, his mouth still hanging open in shock.
Just then, a snowball hit Santa right on his big belly. As the snow fell away, Santa could see, and smell, that what hit him was really a ball of reindeer poop covered in snow. Santa brushed it off his tattered jacket and chuckled. He looked out the large hangar door. The reindeer were running wild in the snow, laughing, throwing snow poop balls at each other, wrestling, and playing all sorts of reindeer games.
The smell of baking cookies wafted over from their house. Santa turned and started walking to the home he had shared with Mrs. Claus for centuries. He thought of the many Christmases they had shared, and the hard work of the elves and the reindeer, and the good times at all the Christmas parties, and all the other joyful moments that filled his life.
“This isn’t a bad life at all,” Santa thought. “Heck, you could even say it’s a wonderful life.”
The End.
“What do you mean ‘dead’, Prancer?” Cupid asked.
“What do you mean what do I mean?” Prancer responded. “I mean no pulse, no heart beat, no breathing, no nothing. The big guy is kaput. No more. He is an ex-Santa Claus.”
Blitzen had walked up and heard the two reindeer talking. “Maybe he’s pining,” Blitzen said.
“Pining?” Cupid said.
“Yeah, you know, pining for the fjords. Santa’s Norwegian or something, isn’t he?”
“He’s not pining,” Prancer said. “He’s dead.”
“Isn’t there something you can do?” Fear had crept into Cupid’s voice and made it shrill. He gave Prancer a hopeful look. “Don’t you know CPR?”
Prancer thought for a moment. “Well, I know all the words to ‘Proud Mary’ and there was that one time the Elf Band and I performed ‘Born on the Bayou’ at the Mardi Gras party. Remember that? Man, that was great.”
“That’s CCR, you moron, not CPR!” Cupid shouted at Prancer. The fear in his voice had been replaced by anger. “You told me you were a trained medic.”
Prancer shrugged and backed away a few steps from the obviously agitated Cupid. “I am, sort of,” Prancer told him. “Last month I binge watched ‘E.R.’ and I’ve seen every episode of ‘Grey’s Anatomy’. That Patrick Dempsey really is dreamy.”
“Watching TV does not make you a trained medic!” Cupid’s voice was even angrier now. “Oh, dear God, we are so fu...”
“All right, settle down, dumb asses.” The voice came from behind them. It was Vixen and she was carrying a box marked with a red heart on its lid. “This is a defibrillator. We’re going to save Santa’s life.”
Vixen shoved the box into Cupid’s hooves and told him to hold on to it until she needed it. Then she went to the sleigh. She pulled out a large pair of scissors that had been tucked in her harness and proceeded to cut open Santa’s coat.
“Whoa! Whoa!” Prancer screamed. “Santa will kill you when he finds out you cut up his coat like that.”
Vixen looked over her shoulder. “It’s no big deal. He’s got like twelve of these or something.”
“But they must cost a fortune,” Cupid said.
“He can afford it,” Vixen said. “I heard that Santa is one of the richest men in the world, possibly the richest. He invested early on in Amazon and Apple, he’s got oil deals with Putin, and you know what else? Trump owes him money. That’s why Santa wanted to kill him.” Vixen turned to back to concentrate on cutting away Santa’s coat. When she was done the pasty white torso of Santa Claus was revealed.
“Is that a tattoo of Mrs. Claus on his chest?” Cupid asked.
“Sure looks like her,” Vixen said.
“She doesn’t seem to be wearing any clothes,” Prancer said. “And is that a whip in her hand?”
Vixen shuddered and said, “Let’s concentrate on the matter at hoof. Cupid, give me that box.”
Vixen opened the box, removed the defibrillator, then set it down on the floor of the sleigh. She grabbed defibrillator pads in her hooves and said softly, “I hope this works.” She placed a self-adhesive pad on the upper right chest of Santa, then the other pad on his left side, just below the breast.
“Clear!” Vixen said to the two reindeer.
“What does that mean?” Prancer asked.
“It means get your dumb furry asses away from me and Santa.”
The reindeer backed away. Vixen hit a button on the machine, looked at a reading on its digital display, then hit another button. The force of the shock lifted Santa’s chest temporarily. Then Santa lay still again. His eyes remained closed.
Comet came running up to the three reindeer. He was in charge of communications with the Claus Compound back at the North Pole. Specifically, his job was keeping Mrs. Claus apprised of the big guy’s whereabouts and behavior.
“Mrs. Claus keeps calling,” Comet said. “She’s wondering why we’re so late getting back.”
Prancer and Cupid exchanged glances.
“She doesn’t sound angry so much as worried,” Comet said.
“Tell her we had engine problems and Santa is working on it,” Prancer said.
“You know, she’s not stupid,” Comet said. “How is it that reindeer would have engine problems?”
“Well, then tell her we’re having reindeer problems and Santa can’t talk to her right now.”
Comet looked over at the sleigh. “Is the big guy gonna be all right?”
“I don’t know,” Cupid said. “Vixen is doing what she can.”
The wind stopped roaring, then died down altogether. All the reindeer were quiet. They didn’t move, so the sleigh bells didn’t jingle. It seemed as if the whole world was silent.
Meanwhile, back at the offices of the Pearly Gates…
Horace swiveled in his chair and looked across his desk at Santa Claus, who sat wordlessly looking up at the images on the screen.
“So, Mr. Claus,” Horace said, “do you still think your trusty reindeer have abandoned you?”
Santa shook his head. “I can’t believe Vixen cut that coat. I loved that coat.”
“More than your life itself?”
“Point taken. I can get another one, I guess.”
“You already do have others.” Horace smiled at Santa.
“That’s not true, and all that crap about oil deals and…”
“You do remember that we know everything about you.”
“Oh, yeah. Okay, I have other outfits. And oil deals. You know, Vladimir’s not such a bad guy to do business with. Just stay on his good side, else you end up disappeared. I like the cold, but Siberia is no place to live.”
“And your little lady seemed kinda worried about you,” Elvis said. “Priscilla was like that, too. Shouldn’t have let her slip away, but she had such a suspicious mind. We were caught in a trap…”
“I do hate to interrupt, Mr. Presley,” Horace interrupted, “but I believe Mr. Claus is ready to return to his home.”
Indeed, Santa Claus was standing, looking impatient. “I guess things aren’t as bad as I thought they were. I just get a little down sometimes, that’s all. Seasonal affective disorder, I think.”
“Are you sure it’s not your sugar addiction?” Horace asked. “Refined sugar in the amounts you eat it can affect one’s moods.”
“And let’s not forget all that hooch he drinks,” Elvis said to Horace. “All that white lightning’s not good for a man.”
“Yeah, okay,” Santa said. “When you two busybodies are done telling me how much I suck can you send me back down to Earth?”
“Of course, Mr. Claus,” Horace said. “Mr. Presley, if you would be so kind as to escort Mr. Claus to the transporter.”
“Sure thing,” Elvis said as he got out of his chair. “Let’s went, Santy Claus.”
Elvis brought Santa Claus to a small room. A young woman with short bobbed hair wearing an old fashioned aviator suit, sat in front of a control panel with numerous switches and lighted buttons. Just beyond that was a platform upon which shone a lone spotlight.
“Now, don’t forget what I told you,” Elvis said as he put an arm around Santa’s shoulders. “You’re getting a second chance. So be a little nicer to everybody. Be kind to the reindeer. They work hard for you, and so do all them elves you got down there slaving away. And show Mrs. Claus a little tenderness once in a while. She gets weary you know.”
“Oh, please,” Santa said. “I’m sweeter than honey to all those people. And show Mrs. Claus a little tenderness? She’ll take it as a sign of weakness and try to kill me.”
“Santa, remember what Horace said about us knowing everything about you?”
“Oh, yeah. All right, all right. I’ll be good.”
“A little naughty is okay once in a while,” Elvis said with a wink. “Just stay out of the North Pole Bordello.”
Santa let loose with a roaring “Ho! Ho! Ho!” as he shook hands with Elvis, then stepped into the spotlight on the platform.
“Okay, Amelia,” Elvis said to the woman at the controls. “Let ‘er rip.”
The woman smiled and said, “Okay, Elvis,” then began pushing buttons and flipping switches. Within seconds, there was a whooshing noise that grew louder and louder as the image of Santa standing on the platform grew fainter and fainter until there was nothing more to see. The whooshing noise stopped. Santa was gone.
Back on Earth…
Santa’s eyes shot open. He lifted his head and glared at the reindeer.
Santa tried to scream but found his voice barely came out in a hoarse whisper. “What in the wide, wide world of sports is going on here?” He looked down at his bare torso and his cut open clothing. “My coat? What the hell did you do to my coat? And what are these sticky things on my chest? What the hell have you flea bitten varmints from Hades been doing to me while I sleep?”
“You weren’t asleep, you big, fat ingrate,” Comet said. “You had a cardiac arrest and Vixen saved your life. You’d be dead without us.”
“You’re the ones who are going to be dead.” Santa found his voice was a little stronger now. “Hooking me up to a car battery and making me flop around like a fish out of water. When I get through with you guys, you’ll be nothing more than fresh meat for the timber wolves. Why, when I get the robots to replace you…” Santa stopped shouting because he was hearing a voice singing in his head: “We can’t go on like this…”
“Oh, yeah, you’re right, Elvis,” Santa said in a low voice. “I was going to turn over a new leaf and try to be a little nicer.” He paused. “Okay, okay, a lot nicer.”
Confused, the reindeer all looked around at each other. “Elvis?” Cupid muttered.
“I think the old man’s lost his marbles,” Vixen said.
“I don’t see any leaves,” Prancer said.
“You’re not very bright, are you Prancer?” Cupid asked him. Prancer shrugged.
Vixen pulled the pads off of Santa’s chest. Santa winced but said nothing, only grinned. Prancer and Cupid helped Santa sit up. Then Santa stood on wobbly legs alongside the sleigh.
Santa looked around at the reindeer surrounding him and announced, “I love you guys.”
Donner looked at Dasher, who was standing next to him. “Is he talking to us?”
“Must be drunk again,” Dasher said. “You know he gets mushy when he’s got a few bottles of gluhwein in him.”
“Yeah,” Donner said. “We probably shouldn’t have stopped at the Christkindlmarket in Chicago.”
“Oh, it’s not the gluhwein talking,” Santa said. “I’m a new man now. I promise to treat you all better.”
“You gonna cut loose with some of that oil money?” Donner asked.
“Heh heh, you heard about that, eh?”
“Yeah, we saw the report on CNBC.”
“I thought I cut off the cable television to your stables.”
“You did. So we stole your satellite dish.”
“I was wondering what happened to it.” Santa shrugged. “Oh, well, never mind. You can keep it and you’ll all get raises. I’m going to spread the wealth from now on.”
“Has Santa turned into a Communist?” Dasher whispered.
“Shut up, else he might change his mind,” Donner said.
Vixen helped Santa fasten his jacket for the flight back home. The reindeer got themselves hitched up again to the sleigh as Santa settled into his seat. Santa shouted out “Ho! Ho! Ho! On Dasher! On Dancer! On…well, you know who you are. Let’s do this!”
Reindeer, sleigh and fat man took off from the snow covered ground and into the clear night sky. In what seemed like mere minutes they landed at the North Pole. With ease and dexterity the reindeer pulled the sleigh into their hangar. Mrs. Claus stood off to one side, arms crossed, one foot tapping with great impatience.
Santa jumped out of the sleigh and ran to her. “Ho! Ho! Ho!”
“Don’t call me names,” Mrs. Claus said.
“I heard you were worried about me,” Santa said to his wife.
“You did?” she said as she glared at the reindeer. “Which one of them ratted me out?”
Smiling, Santa embraced Mrs. Claus. “It’s okay to show concern, Mrs.,” he told her. Then he pulled her close and gave her a great, big kiss.
“What has gotten into you, old man?” she asked him.
“Why, I’m filled with the Christmas spirit! On our trip I came to the conclusion that I need to improve myself. I’ll try to be a better person, Mrs. Claus, to you and the reindeer and all the elves as well.”
Mrs. Claus rolled her eyes. “What happened? Did you get visited by three ghosts or something?”
“No, but I did meet Elvis and a nice English fellow in a tweed suit. He had a movie screen behind his desk and we could see what was happening here on Earth.”
“Oooooh-kay.” Mrs. Claus furrowed her brows. “Were you smoking hash again? You know that gives you the craziest dreams.”
“Ho! Ho! Ho! No, Mrs. Claus, no hallucinogens. Well, okay, I had a little peyote, but just a little. Not enough to make me crazy.” Santa grabbed his wife by the shoulders and kissed her again. “Mrs., why don’t you go in the kitchen and start baking those cinnamon crisp cookies I love so much? I’ll be there in a little while.”
Baffled and befuddled, Mrs. Claus could do no more than simply look at her husband and wonder what was happening in that complex mind of his. “Okay, I’ll go start on the cookies. But bear in mind, sooner or later I’ll find out what you’re up to and then there will be hell to pay.” She wheeled around and went off toward the entrance to their house.
Santa smiled. In the corner of his eye he could see Jimmy, the elf union leader, striding toward him from the far side of the hangar. On any other occasion the sight of Jimmy, a rough and tumble elf from Detroit, would cause Santa to stop smiling, but not this time. Santa knew why Jimmy was here: the elves would go on strike now, the busiest time of the year, unless they got a pay raise. The elves had been working hard, and they hadn’t gotten a pay hike in, well, centuries really. Before the union leader could say a word, Santa said, “Jimmy, tell the elves they’ll get more money, and plenty of it. In fact, the pay raise will be retroactive to the first of the year.” Normally Jimmy was a constantly cursing potty mouth, but this news left him speechless. He was so surprised he didn’t even question Santa’s sanity. Jimmy walked away to tell the elves the news, his mouth still hanging open in shock.
Just then, a snowball hit Santa right on his big belly. As the snow fell away, Santa could see, and smell, that what hit him was really a ball of reindeer poop covered in snow. Santa brushed it off his tattered jacket and chuckled. He looked out the large hangar door. The reindeer were running wild in the snow, laughing, throwing snow poop balls at each other, wrestling, and playing all sorts of reindeer games.
The smell of baking cookies wafted over from their house. Santa turned and started walking to the home he had shared with Mrs. Claus for centuries. He thought of the many Christmases they had shared, and the hard work of the elves and the reindeer, and the good times at all the Christmas parties, and all the other joyful moments that filled his life.
“This isn’t a bad life at all,” Santa thought. “Heck, you could even say it’s a wonderful life.”
The End.
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