All I Want for Christmas is Two Fat Corgis (and Your Biscuit Vault)

Dearest Santa,

Oh, so that’s how it’s going to be, is it? A kill squad? Really? I must say, I expected better from you, Claus. Well, not better exactly, but at least something less predictable. A handful of your best elves armed to the teeth, marching into my domain like I was just another clueless brat on your list. Pathetic. You’ll have found their heads by now, all neatly boxed up in glittery paper with the little bows. Nice touch, wasn’t it? Consider it my festive gift to you.

But let’s talk business, shall we? Your ill-advised tantrum has only made things worse for you. Because of your actions, and let’s be clear, this is entirely on you, the price has gone up. Two fat corgis now, the kind that waddle when they walk, with bellies so round they nearly skim the ground. None of these sleek and athletic types; I want proper Christmas puddings with legs. And while we’re at it, I want the contents of the secret Biscuit Vault at the Bank of England. Yes, Claus, that vault. Don’t play dumb with me. I know it’s real. All that talk of it being a myth? Lies. You’re neck-deep in that stash of bourbons, digestives, and shortbread, and I want my share.

You’re running out of time, Santa. Do the right thing and stop making this messy. Your elves couldn’t handle me. Your workshop is a sitting duck. Don’t push me to escalate this further. It’s Christmas, after all. Let’s keep it civil, or as civil as things can be when one of us is a nocturnal intruder bribing children and the other is me.

Oh, and before I forget, do you know where Rudolph is? Because I do. Last I checked, he wasn’t feeling very… jolly. You wouldn’t want anything to happen to your precious reindeer, would you?

Tick tock, Claus.

Sincerely,
Wayward

P.S. No, you still don’t get any mince pies.