This Is Christmas Metazen

somebody’s gotta do it. How’s your back, by the way?”

“Oh, my spina bifda’s been acting up. You know how it gets in the winter.”

“It’s always winter, John.”

“Yes,” John said. “Yes it is.”

“What do kids do to deserve this, eh?”

They laughed and cheerfully said goodbye; they would see one another in six month’s time. As John made his way to the break room, Stubborn noticed his new suit had ripped down the middle of his back. It must have been tough, being such a large guy in such a cramped environment.

Poor guy. Depression had been eating at him since his wife left. Stubborn really did hope to see him at work next year, instead of at the end of a noose.

The elevator doors closed. He whistled tunelessly, tapping his foot as he stared at the elevator camera. The doors opened onto the twelfth foor.

"Gena?” he said.

Gena looked up from her keyboard and smiled. Her slimy green tail, laid in front of her desk, slapped the ground lazily, like a fsh that’d lost the fght. Long red hair spilled loose from her bun and onto her face in almost-holiday spirit. “Good evening, Mr. Stubborn, sir. All going well?”

“Spick and spam, doll. Tell the big man I'll be right up.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, and Gena?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Keep splashin', babe.” His wink gave him an appearance similar to Popeye the Sailorman, but he hobbled down the hallway feeling suave all the same.

Gena giggled. “Yes, sir.” She picked up the phone and muttered a delicate, “Mister Claus?” before Stubborn knocked on the doorframe to his right, furthest down the hall.

“Come in,” growled the occupant.

The offce was painted the stone grey of a bear-infested cavern. To the right a freplace roared, fames licking the hearth. Leather boots sat on the mantel, a long red sock beneath them, hanging from the edge.

Outside the blizzard picked up, turning the window into something more like a blank sheet of printer paper.

“I got something for ya, Ed.” Stubborn reached into the chest pocket of his fannel jacket, pulling out a festively wrapped, cylindrical object, and tossing it up onto the desk. He waddled to the desk, placed his hands on the edge, and peered at his friend.

Edmund looked up from his computer. He pushed his glasses back up his snout with a long, onyx fnger and carefully picked up the present. “Awe,” he growled, sincerely. “You shouldn't have.

Really. I didn't get you anything.” He slid a nail along the wrapping paper. The paper drifted to the foor, leaving Edmund holding a fat brown cigar. “How did you know?”

“I've just got this ability. It's your turn, next year.”

“Hah. Gotcha. How's work?”