In a panic, you mindlessly hide in the first place you can think of. You run down the stairs to the demonic-looking door—the door holding your Father locked up. It’s not where you want to be, but where else was there? You cower into some of the bushes and weeds down there, trying to meld into the shadows.
You hear the fireplace shatter apart in the other room as Santa arrives. Sounds like your traps had no effect, sadly.
You hear deep thuds as he walks around, looking for you. You hear the swish of his Spank Stick as he moves. And then... silence. You shake in fear and shut your eyes.
You slowly open your eyes. In front of you stands the holly jolly man himself, and he looks PISSED.
“Spunk,” Santa says softly, “I know you could be so very good. I know you want to, and that you can’t. But rules are rules, and they must be upheld. You’re on the naughty list. In fact, you’re on there 38 different times; I don’t even know how that’s possible. You know what that means, don’t you?”
With tears in your eyes, you nod slowly. Santa’s season greetings are coming, and it feels way better to give than receive. And you’ll be receiving, all right.
“Well, my boy, it’s best we begin. I have 38 gifts for you, and it shan’t be pretty. Merry Christmas.”
With a swish and a crack, the holiday pain begins.