They descended from the north in what was now known to be an annual migration. They infiltrated homes and attacked numerous places of business and seemed to be standing on every street corner. There was no escape.

When they finally retreated to their Arctic home, they left behind nearly total devastation. Their ritualistic sacrifice of baby Jesus was the worst part of all.

We’d been on the expedition for months when we encountered our first Frost Giant. He was massive, as large as twelve men put together and three stories tall. He set upon our horses first, breaking their backs and swallowing them whole while the men fled in panic. His hair was thick with rime and his clothes–let’s call them rags–hung off him like cheap Christmas ornaments.

Once the creature was done with the horses, he began on the men. His laughter filled the valley with thunder, but all I could think about was how he needed a proper bath.

Brian wasn’t sure how it happened, whether it was the Christmas wish just before his father’s death, or the aftereffects of some magical spell uttered generations before in his attic, but every night, when his mother wasn’t around, his toys came alive.

His life was now a living hell. He didn’t mind the work itself, but the beatings and tongue-lashings were, to his mind, excessive. If only the toys would tell him what they wanted in a calm manner, he’d finish everything without complaint.

Every year, for reasons of geography and religious practice, children all over the world are ignored during Christmas. Certain men and women, let’s call them the Christmas Cheer Brigade, are determined to see to it these children never miss out on Christmas ever again.

You see, they know that nothing ruins Christmas cheer quite like the knowledge it’s being propagated by large corporate interests. Billionaires are not stupid.

With a heavy thud, Kirby threw a thick file onto the desk, joining the mounds of paper already stacked higher than the tip of his hat.

Santa sighed again. Lawyers had ruined everything.