Now he plops down a sooty chimney. Under a blue-lit tree, hardened twins with slingshots shoot a chestnut at his beard.
“Sociopaths!” Santa yells. Children aren’t kind anymore—their lists, long, technical, and expensive. He drops lumps of coal like turds from his backpack. “Ho ho,” he growls, hurling himself up the chimney. The little monsters tug his ankles. Santa kicks, propelling upward, hip popping painfully, retirement glowing like a North Star.