BONUS: How The Brayden Stole Christmas

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'Twas the night before Christmas, and Santa wasn't having a funky-fresh time, and that would be an understatement.

To be fair, having to work only one day a year was a pretty cushy job, but he hated every second of it. Having to juggle 38 different time zones—Thank you, Kiribati—dodging anti-air missiles—Thank you, Israel—and having to drink and eat enough cookies and cream to defecate an entire Hershey Bar per minute... Well, it stresses out a man. Let's just say that at the end of the day, getting shot in the face by Tim Allen sounded like a better fate than trying to slip an iPad into a stocking.

But at last, it was time to wrap up the night in the worst place possible: America.

One would think that the birthplace of "The War Against The War On Christmas" would be more receptive to jolly ol' Saint Nick, but it's far from that. They see a white-haired man dressed in red coming down the chimney to give away presents, and the first thing they think of is less "Present Time" and more "Filthy Comunist trying to spread propaganda," followed by friendly shotgun blasts to the face. Which, again, for Saint Nick, it seemed more and more attractive by the minute.

The whole line of thought is stupid onto itself, as everybody knows that Santa is not a comunist, but an Anarcho-Capitalist. You don't wanna know what happened with the last elf who tried to unionize that sweatshop of his.

And yet, a job is a job. Serves him for punching Arius in the face. Yeah, that happened, fun fact. Saint Nick actually slapped a bitch so hard, he had to be jailed.

Where were we? Ah, yes, the night before Christmas and all that jazz. Santa was already aching all over, hat singed from accidentally flying through a fireworks show, thigh aching from the bite of a hillbilly's dog who thought he was there for his prized turnips. Turnips are not a prize, they are a punishment for carrots who think they fancy but they nasty. Get the hell away with that spicy earth.

A somewhat forgotten fact of Santa is that he not only gives gifts to the nice kids, but gives coal to the naughty kids. But since coal prices have been going up thanks to clean energy regulations—Thanks, Obama—Santa was giving Olaf Funko Pops, since they're worthless and could be bought easily in bulk.

And that night, tucked away in a flowerfield in the middle of a quaint little town built by one Athanasius Finch, stood hidden the biggest naughty boy of all the land.

This boy had been the naughtiest there was, even beating Carlisle Jenkings of 3rd Essex Street, London, who punted a pug on the nose and made a Fortnite dance at it while calling it a slur, making him one of the most heinous kids around.

What did this boy do to deserve to be on the naughty list? The list was as long as the naughty list itself! Arson, kidnapping, racketeering, gambling, assault, battery, assault with a battery, breaking and entering, public indecency, threatening letters sent to a prominent member of 1D, calling all Jonas Brothers cucks on Twitter, and all that was just the day before. This was truly a very, very bad boy. He was going to get the most Funko Pops in the world, and unlike coal, he wouldn't be able to sell them. Who the hell wants an Olaf Funko Pop?

That is, if Santa could find the Christmas tree in the first place. This particular bad boy's house looked like a maze. Room after room of weird and bizarre rooms, like the Small Room, full of tiny furniture, or the Big Room, filled with the same furniture but big, or the Biggie Small room, filled to the brim with furniture with Biggie Small's face plastered all over. Saint Nick's Santa senses were tingling, telling him there was a tree nearby, but couldn't exactly say where.

It wasn't until he found a room that said "Tree Room" where he found... well, you know.

What Santa didn't realize was that the two "ee" were sticky notes plasted over the sign. If you were to remove them, you would find a rather different room.

A trap. It was a Trap Room. A fact Santa realized pretty soon when he was unloading the Funko Pops and suddenly found himself popping his skull open thanks to a conveniently-placed mallet to the back of the head.

At least, that's the last thing Santa remembered. When he woke up, he was surrounded by darkness. He then realized he had his eyes closed, and opened them up. He was still surrounded by darkness. He briefly considered whether he became blind or not when a light actually blinded him for a second. It didn't do much in helping him realize where he was, but it was nice to know he wasn't blind.

Yet.

The crunching sound of an intercom snapped in out of his stupor, sounding far, cold, and ominous, as if something very wrong was about to happen. That was until the voice of a softboy twink came through them.

"hey, daddy xmass," said the bored, almost ironic voice. "glad to have you with us, you fat fuck."

Santa's head was spinning out of control, still trying to figure out what was happening. "What? What's this? Where am I?"

Out of the intercom came an exasperated sigh, followed by the voice, now in the tone of a girl trying to explain what TikTok is to a war Veteran. "you're in the ultimate magic championship, you dingus. imagine a fight club, but for magic beings."

The rest of the lights came in, except for a lonely, dark corner. Santa could see he was in a dank room, with concrete floors and concrete walls. No way in, no way out, save for a latch on the ceiling. There were multiple cameras installed on every corner of the room, softly beeping and tracking his every move.

"What? What is this? Don't you know who I am?" yelled Santa, now more sure of his footing. "Release me at once, you fiend! I have gifts to deliver!"

The intercom cracked alive once more, and out came a dry chuckle. "i know who you are, fat boy. santa claus, kris kringle, pere noel, weihnachtsmann, noel baba. we know all about you. and i'm afraid the only thing ya gonna deliver today is a world of hurt."

"What do you mean?" exclaimed the jolly fat man.

"ever seen mad max 2?" said the voice from the intercom. "basically that. two people enter the thunderdome, only one gets out. we bet on who wins, daddy gets a cut, we all win. except, you know... the one who doesn't."

Santa was about to speak again, but the voice cut him up. "don't worry, fatso. daddy ain't gonna leave you hanging. i'll give you something to defend yourself with."

The latch on the ceiling opened up, and something fell to the ground with a dry thud. A thud Santa had heard may times that day.

There, in front of him, was an Olaf Funko Pop, looking at him through dead, corporate-mandated eyes.

"'i'ill say something cheesy like 'may the odds be ever in your favor' or some bullshit ya nonsense, but, truth is, the odds are 3-to-1 against you. just... ya know, try and not die as fast? k, thanks."

The last light lit up, illuminating the last corner of the room. A beast of cristal wings, distended mouth with rows of rows of jagged teeth, and white eyes screamed out of nowhere. It flew towards the ceiling, scurrying in all fours while drooling uncontrollably.

"hey, did ya know that teeth fairies also take bones in a pinch when they can't get their grubby little hands on some baby molars? kinda wild, innit?"

But Santa couldn't hear anything over the grinding of bones.

Nobody knows what happened that day, but next Christmas, when kids woke up to find presents under the tree, they instead found themselves missing one teeth.

And the taste of blood in their mouths.

Happy Holidays!

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