Marty Mistletoe was meant to be learning about trigonometry. In fact, if he’d paid more attention in class, a rather nasty future architectural accident resulting in the deaths of over two hundred civilians could have been avoided, along with a rather lengthy jail sentence for Marty. But like all the children of Yuleville, Marty was too busy thinking of Christmas.
Marty was engaged in daydreams of extravagant presents, cocoa, elves, and extravagant presents. He found his reverie interrupted by the booming voice of Principal Gingerbread over the loudspeaker.
“Children, I’m afraid a grave national tragedy has occurred.” said the mournful principal. Silence and apprehension filled the classroom. “The…the town tree has burned down.”
“Why couldn’t it have been the orphanage?” screamed Marty, with tears in his eyes. The rest of the students shared in his grief, and in Yuleville Middle School, there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth.

Word of the burnt tree spread, rather appropriately, like fire. Due to the recent tragedy, the students of Yuleville were sent home early to cope. Marty Mistletoe told Mrs. Mistletoe, who in turn called Bonnie Bells. Bonnie Bells, with a compulsion for gossip bordering on mental illness, informed the rest of the disturbingly close-knit families of Yuleville. In some communities, there would be a vague sense of dissapointment. InYuleville, several angry mobs were forming.

Mayor Frost’s reelection campaign rested on one fact: keeping Christmas running smoothly. As long as the proles of Yuleville got their candy canes and songs, her job was safe. But now the holiday terror was back, and she was the target of political backlash that no amount of corruption or ineptitude could catalyze. Frost didn’t know why Yuleville had been targeted by the enigmatic terrorist: all reports said that he’d died during the 2002 Tinsel riots.
On the best of days, Mayor Frost was a case study in the negative effects of anti-depressants. The seemingly endless chorus of complaints over an interrupted Christmas had pushed her over the edge. She rang a tiny bell that summoned Jolly F. Igor, her secretary.
“Jolly. Code black.”
“The Uber-scrooge, Mistress?” said Igor with shock. “Shall I open the emergency line to-”
“NO!” shouted Frost, admonishing Jolly with a slap. “Do not disturb his slumber! We must handle this ourselves.”
Of course, by “we”, Frost meant “you”. After all, as the town’s administrator, Mayor Frost had a duty to personally inspect the many prozac-filled pharmacies of Yuleville, far away from the danger. It was up to Jolly to save Christmas.

It’s easier than commonly believed to find an abandoned bunker in post Cold War America. You simply had to know where to look. For the man that had received hyperbolic titles including “Uber-Scrooge”, “The Holiday Terror” and “The Giftless One”, finding such a bunker by the Yuleville Mall was a simple manner. It was also simple to locate a stockade of firearms, devices, and explosives widely considered illegal under every meaning of the word. The simplest part of all was devising the plan: with one action, setting up a series of dominos that would culminate in nothing else but the end of Christmas as the world knew it.
He dressed in a black suit that seemed to melt together, and walked in a way that gave him the appearance of sliding like a shadow. When he smiled (which he always was), one could see that he had a disproportionate number of unduly sharp incisors.
If the shadow was right (which he always was), the mayor would delegate her holiday-saving duties to Jolly Igor before even conceiving of calling for help. And if he understood Jolly Igor, the ineffectual toady wouldn’t give up against anyone who threatened his annual off-key caroling. The shadow’s plan relied on a specific reaction on the part of the mayor, and Jolly’s blundering could throw a red and green wrench in it.
He’d simply have to act quickly.

Jolly decided that good old-fashioned mob action was the best solution. He realized that organizing the irate citizens of Yuleville into a cohesive force should be more than enough to deal with any wannabe-Grinch, regardless of hyperbolic titles.
To attract the necessary manpower, Jolly had replaced the town tree and surrounded it with the one thing the people of Yuleville couldn’t resist: presents. The smaller angry mobs of Yuleville soon surrounded the tree as one meta-mob, all eager to both contribute and take from the consumerist pile. Their rapid response made Jolly’s already swollen heart grow three sizes.
Even Jolly himself wasn’t immune to the present-receiving fervor. He quickly isolated the gifts intended for him, and resolved to open them before beginning the rough business of forcibly bringing cheer to the holiday terror. He tore through the wrapping paper of three gifts with child-like fervor, before reaching a rather curious package. It was wrapped like the others, but the paper was a dull gray. The tag had no name on it, and simply said “Merry Christmas”.
The oddest thing of all was that the present was ticking.

Mayor Frost received news of the explosion ten minutes later. Jolly was now a smoking pile of ash. After his failure, there was no alternative. She had to call her superior.

The Mayor had never dared use the emergency line to the North Pole before now. As she looked into Santa’s rosy cheeks and even redder eyes, she could see why.
“Hello little girl.” said Santa through the video screen.
“I’m thirty-six, sir.”
“You’re all little to me. Like ants. What emergency warrants this disturbance? You don’t want to be on my special naughty list, do you? You know what happens to people on my special naughty list, little girl.”
“Code Black.”
There was a long pause as Father Christmas digested this information.
“Ho ho ho, so he’s not dead. Thank you for calling me, little girl.” said Santa with all the bouncy mirth of his television imitators. “You’ll be on the nice list this year. For the last time, of course.”
“What?”
“Well it’s Christmas Eve, and there’s no time to waste with a thorough search. Can’t disappoint all the good little boys and girls, can we? But I can’t let him go free. To protect Christmas, your whole town must be destroyed.”
There was another long pause.
“Does this mean no presents?”/

The shadow looked upon the ruins of Yuleville with a razor-filled smile. The fat man in red was as predictable as ever. He just had to push a little bit further.
The bunker had been a great investment. As Yuleville was blown to smithereens, he’d simply waited undisturbed with a cup of cocoa, whistling a jaunty tune about Halloween. The shadow was a rather big fan of Halloween.
The time for waiting was over. Now it was time for business.
The shadow left his bunker with the essentials: a small lunch, a warm pair of gloves, a black sword, and a sack full of explosive surprises. He’d made his own list, and the elven soldiers occupying Yuleville were all quite naughty. The naughtiest of all was General Blitzen. Somehow, on one day every year, the reindeer creatively managed to exceed all of humanities brutal wartime excesses. If the shadow was right (which he always was) Blitzen would be coordinating the occupation from Town Hall, where Mayor Frost was probably making a rather poor case for her continued existence.

Sgt. Gerald Gumdrop was the fifth elf in his family to join Santa’s Chrismas Cheer Enforcement Extermination Regiment (CHEER), and proud of it. He’d served with gusto in several campaigns, and had earned a commendation for his service in the Tinsel Riots of 2002. He’d told high command a tall tale about personally kicking in the door to the Giftless One’s hideout during the riots, and had received a lofty promotion to Blitzen’s personal guard as a result.
As an elite guard, he prided himself on his vigilance and quick reaction time. Because of these qualities, Sgt. Gumdrop was the only member of his squad to notice a green ornament roll down the hallway, and the only soldier to jump out of the way in time when it started ticking. Unfortunately, for all his sharp skills he could not move quickly enough to prevent the shadow from permanently ending his merriment with a longsword.
The shadow, with the sack of incendiary presents slung over his back, slashed through the door to Mayor Frost’s office with one swift motion. General Blitzen wasn’t caught unprepared, and had already bound the Mayor in wrapping paper for use as a hostage. This was a tragic miscalculation: the shadow wasn’t particularly invested in her living to see Christmas morning.
Blitzen glared at the intruder. “You’re not just getting a lump of coal this year, monster. We’re gonna stone you to death with coal, stuff you with coal, bury you with coal, and then used your coal-crammed tomb for a Yuletide bonfire.” said the reindeer General with venom. There were probably numerous potential witty comebacks, but the shadow settled for beating Blitzen into unconsciousness with the sack (with a sharp grin, of course).
Capturing a reindeer general. He had hoped it would be this easy, but didn’t truly expect it. He couldn’t complain: sometimes good things simply happened to bad people.

“Fuhrer Claus, we have another message from Yuleville.”
“Patch it through Lt. Elfsworth.”
A face Santa had never wanted to see again appeared on the view screen. He had his traditional suit on, but appeared to have obtained a hat and sack in grim parody of Santa’s stereotypical garb. Behind him, Blitzen struggled futilely against wrapping-paper bonds.
“Merry Christmas, Mr. Claus. You seem to have misplaced one of your deer in Yuleville. Good thing I was around to find him, It’s almost the big day!” said the shadow, with his unnerving smile wider than ever. “I suggest you pick him up. Personally.”
Santa drove his red-gloved fist through the view screen.
“Lt. Elfsworth. Prepare the Dreadsleigh. I have a feeling it’s going to be a red Christmas.”
The Dreadsleigh was Santa’s personal Airship, designed to rain death upon his foes during the long-forgotten war of three Santas. Santa’s jolly fists and the Dreadsleigh had been more than enough to overcome the rebellions of Kringle and Father Christmas. Now he, alone, ruled Christmas with a smile, a list, and an iron fist. The shadow was on the very top of the naughty list, and needed to learn a lesson in Christmas spirit.

With eleven of his twelve reindeer generals, the Dreadsleigh managed to reach Yuleville airspace within an hour. Each General increased the speed of the Airship by an exponential value: to have hope of delivering gifts to good (and rich) children, Claus needed Blitzen. Even with all the Dreadsleigh’s firepower, the Giftless One had him at a disadvantage.
Lt. Elfsworth raised his small left hand. “Sir! We have visual on the Uber-Scrooge. Candy-cane missiles are ready on your order.” “Hold your fire.”
The shadow was simply standing and grinning in the town square, next to the newly-burnt community tree. His black sword hovered casually over Blitzen’s neck. He acknowledged the arrival of the Dreadsleigh with a rude gesture.
Santa was no fool: the fury of the Dreadsleigh could not be unleashed without harming Blitzen. He’d have to confront his nemesis in person. In moments, the Dreadsleigh half-landed, half-crashed into the ground before the shadow. Santa emerged from the Dreadsleigh, with his red and green maces in hand.
“Ho, ho, ho.” earnestly laughed Santa, with no trace of irony. “What in Frosty’s name made you think this was a good idea?”
“I grew tired of our little game, Claus.” hissed the shadow. “The workshop is impenetrable, I had to draw you out. I knew your people watch Yuleville closely.”
“Is there no Christmas in your heart? None at all?”
The shadow cut off Blitzen’s head.
Santa moved at a speed unnatural for an obese geriatric. The shadow could only slide quickly enough the avoid the first mace, the second struck him in the side, cracking several valued ribs. He stumbled backwards, and fell into the snow.
“You’ve slowed down! Nothing gives a man pep for killing like a nice plate of cookies and a glass of milk. You’ll be dead before you can apply that advice, I’m afraid.” said Santa, following the statement with his signature laugh.
The smile, impossibly, widened even further. “My fingers are faster than ever.”
Two gleaming ornaments hung onto the back of Santa’s coat. Both ticked softly.
“Merry Christmas Mr. Claus.”

At the north pole, Mrs. Claus was knitting. Not for any domestic purpose, but because it helped her plot. She was always plotting, and therefore always knitting. She usually demanded absolute silence at all times to facilitate both. Because of this, she was initially quite perturbed when a sobbing Lt. Elfsworth ran screaming into her sub-workshop.
“M-M-Mrs. Claus, Santa is dead!”
Mrs. Claus needed a moment to let this fact sink in. Then she smiled.
“Perfect.”

12/25/2008
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