This Is Christmas Metazen

“Can you believe this!?” he shouted from his chair, mouth full of chewed food.

“NORAD’s claiming I’ve already started. They never even ask for a call! I hate those guys!” A lump of what was probably mostly mashed potato landed on his desk.

“Mr. Claus, sir?”

Santa Claus held up a hand and wiped his mouth with a napkin with the other. He swallowed and turned off his monitor. “Terribly sorry, Stubborn. Just trying to get down something healthy before the big night. Cookies make me sick if I haven't had a proper meal frst. Tried it one year.

Ended up in a family's toilet.” He patted his thin abdomen.

“You'd better hurry up, sir, if you don't mind me saying, sir.”

“Oh, yes, of course. How much time do I have?”

“Not much, sir. Twenty minutes.”

“Hm,” he said, and was silent. He picked up his long brown list and forked a head of broccoli into his mouth.

Stubborn had been in Santa's offce twenty times in the passed ten years, since his promotion; twice a year. He felt dangerously close to the man, as if he was his own father, and he treated Santa as respectfully as if he had beaten him as a child, though it was the furthest thing from the truth. He was promoted because Irresponsible had fnally shown his true colours and nearly ruined Christmas. The pain and disappointment of so many children had forced Santa to waterboard him until he resigned, because he didn't have the heart to fre the poor soul.

He lasted three seconds.

Santa furrowed his brows and moved back to the top of the list. His eyes trailed downward until he hit that spot again, and he began to cry.

“Sir?” He sobbed and sniffed in reply, head in hands, long hair spilled onto his face, into his mouth.

Stubborn waddled over to the desk, stood beside his boss. “Sir?” He tossed the clipboard away and placed a hand on his knee. “Sir?” The sobbing gradually weakened, until, fnally, Santa Claus sat upright and stared at the list.

“I've lost another one, Stubborn. Every year...”

“I'm sorry, sir. I didn't realize--” “It hits me so hard. Every. Single. Time. I can't handle it.”

“What's his name, sir?”

Santa wiped the tears from his eyes and blew his nose with the used napkin. He sounded like a trumpet. “Sarah. Her friends told her I don't exist. How rude is that? Honestly. What a thing to say about somebody you’ve never met, and what a horrible way to fnd out! I should have at least been the one to tell her!”

“I'm sorry, sir.”

“So you've said, old friend.” He sat in his leather chair in silence, staring at the desk. He smiled, then, and threw his arms in the air. “No matter! More important matters exist. Pass the list.”

Stubborn retrieved the clipboard and handed it to his boss. “You see, sir, everything has gone according to plan. Check marks on every page.”