Not-So-Merry Christmas
'Another,' Santa grunted, jabbing his head in the direction of his empty beer mug. The bartender, whose nametag read 'Bill,' dutifully obeyed.
'Why so glum?' Bill asked, sliding the draft to the big man.
Santa didn't reply, so busy was he shelling peanuts.
'It's almost Christmas, pal,' Bill tried. 'That must cheer you up.'
How little Bill knew! This should have been Santa's jolliest time of year. Instead, he was on the run, hiding out in the most unlikely of places, constantly looking over his shoulder for those murderous, blood-thirsty Elves.
'You wouldn't believe me.'