The fireplace explodes into fragments—Santa is here!
The flaming debris lights him in a halo, and you swear you can hear an angelic choir singing. The light glints off his red coat like blood. He’s magnificent. He’s powerful. He’s Jolly Old Saint Nick.
In one hand, he has a sack of toys for all the good girls and boys. In the other hand, however, he has his own special Spank Stick—just for you.
“Ah, little Spunk,” Santa says, “you are brave this year. However, you have also been very, very…. NAUGHTY!”
You try to form up some courage. “You don’t know that! I tried to be a good little virus! Maybe… maybe it can be a Christmas Miracle, and you can spare me?”
Santa pauses, then laughs with deep Ho Ho Ho’s, his laughter echoing through the frosty night. He begins to walk toward you, leaving footprints of ash from the fireplace behind him like snow.
“Spunk,” he says with a twinkle in his eye, “you know it doesn’t work like that. There are rules to this, a path I must follow, or it will all fall apart. Christmas magic is a fragile thing; once lost, it cannot be mended. You’ve been naughty, so you have a special gift.”
He holds up his special Spank Stick, and it glows red hot with Santa’s magic. On the roof above, you hear the reindeer hooves stomp around and their beastly snarls. You hear the jingle bells, their tinkling booming in your ears.
You lunge forward, biting onto Santa, but it has no effect. Under his coat, you can feel his arm is as solid as steel—pure muscle. That was your only chance, but it was useless. With a whistle and crack, you feel blooming, hot pain. Christmas has come.