Santa slithered through pine needles and half-frozen puddles. There was no decent cover so he had to flatten himself to the earth. When he reached the hip high wall surrounding the compound, he crouched, breathing heavily.
His beard was entwined with twigs and mud, but he made sure to adjust his hat to a more jaunty angle. He kept repeating, “Ho! Ho! Ho!” softly to himself. It became a hypnotic chant, a soothing reassurance as to his mission.
He peeked over the header bricks and saw a vast expanse of asphalt between him and the complex. Fortunately there were cars and trucks. Santa rolled over the wall then sprinted between vehicles, trying to race as fast as his girth would allow. He knew there were surveillance cameras, he’d chosen a route where he’s be in the periphery of vision and hoped for a sleepy security team.
“Ho, Ho, Ho. Ho, Ho, Ho….”
As he neared the entrance he cursed. Revolving door. He’d known it was there, but it would slow his approach. So undignified, too. He raked out his beard as best he could, straightened up and waved with his black gloved hands. The beaming smile would reassure.
He strode with dignity to the dark tinted glass, pushed and shuffled through the circular sweep then gazed upon his goal, the golden throne occupied by a magisterial pretender with yak hair beard. Santa approached from the side. His quarry did not see, kept looking down and ahead at the stream of deceived youngsters.
Children near the doorway thronged to Santa. He patted their heads and proclaimed a stiff, tight, “Ho! Ho! Ho!” as he kept staring at the faux St. Nick surrounded by stunted, anorexic, High School girl elves.
Parents started pulling their children back from Santa. He could not understand why they would keep their boys and girls away from him. Suddenly the truth arrived: they were fully under the usurper’s spell.
Enraged at this revelation, he rushed, arms straight out, toward the dais upon which the imposter sat. As he vaulted up, Santa pulled back his right arm, cold-cocked the cheap huckster, yanked off his beard and tossed the unconscious rogue down the opposite side of the dais, shouting, “And to all a good night!”
Santa sat upon his throne. The throne was magic. They would see his right to possess it, the goodness and Christmas cheer which emanated from his being. He spread his arms toward the children, who all drew back despite his love for them.
From the sides he could see security approaching, rushing now from every direction. He held his right index finger to the side of his nose… to no discernible result. He gripped the armrests. He was one with the chair. As the first guards arrived and began to pry his arms from the throne he thrashed wildly. Santa kicked and spit, tore his arms loose and began striking wildly.
Two of the security team drew stun guns simultaneously. Santa shrieked, “Don’t Taze Me Bro Ho Ho Ho Ho Ho….” as two sets of barbs shot into his chest. A shuddering fire ran through him, then blessed sleep. Jumbled dreams of sugar plum fairies and gaunt goth elves. He must be ready for the twenty-fourth. The children must get their toys!