The metallic peephole suddenly opened and a dark eye peered inside to inspect the interior of the small cell built under the main building.

Everything looked calm: the food tray lay on the floor, as full as it was when he had given it to the convict, and the man walked in circles within the walls of the closed room.

"You have to eat something, old man, sooner or later," the guard said, but the man inside didn't reply and kept on circling. The young black-haired, short Sergeant shook his head, then closed the peephole again and moved away.

By looking in at his watch, he understood that the time had come to go upstairs and make his daily report to the Warrant Officer. So he walked the length of the tunnel leading to the door and took the elevator, reaching the office where he was expected.

As the Sergeant went in he bowed respectfully to the superior who sat at his desk. On the left he noticed several military dossiers, one on top of the other. The attentive eyes of the high-ranking military officer immediately motioned to the one that had just arrived.

"Sgt. Jhang reporting as ordered, Warrant Officer Lyong!"

"Just relax and have a seat, Sergeant Jhang," the other replied. He had a few greying hairs and was about 50-years-old, as far as the subaltern knew.

As the elder man grabbed the first dossier, the documents inside easily flowed among Lyong's long fingers and were looked through very quickly. Then he stopped and stared at Jhang. "The papers say here that the new one was found with a flashy red costume on."

"Yes, sir!" the Jhang confirmed immediately.

"And he was driving an ancient sleigh full of strange parcels and many presents, is this true?"

"Yes, sir!" the Sergeant repeated in a decisive tone.

"What about the fact that the fat man was caught while in flight in midair?"

"I couldn't explain it, sir. You should ask the fighter pilots who first happened upon him…"

"Well, no reason to bother the North Korean Air Force headquarters. After all, since they brought him here, the convict is our problem and my personal responsibility," Lyong stated.

"Of course, sir!"

"Did you discover what kind of unknown fabric his costume was made up of?"

"No, sir!"

"Did you shave him?"

"Yes, sir, but his strange whitish beard grew back again, and at a very fast rate, incredibly…"

"Did he reveal anything about himself and his task in this part of the glorious NeoDemocratic People's Republic of North Korea?"

"Not yet, sir…but he will, sooner or later"

"Anything else?" the superior asked the slender guard.

"Well, there's something peculiar…at times the convict has a hearty laugh."

"What kind of laugh?"

"He blurts out muttering, 'HO,HO,HO'."

"Maybe a sort of coarse laughing, he is going into hysterics as he knows that nobody can rescue him."

"Probably, sir."

"Frankly, I don't understand such people, be they spies or illegal immigrants, I can't imagine why they think they can trespass across our border and get away with it, without any penalties…"

As the old, bearded man scratched at his paunch, while looking disheartened at the stony wall that surrounded him on all sides, he considered that he had gotten into a mess. He knew better than to cross the Russian Sea of Okhotsk in order to reach South Korea's coast and the Far East, but he was late and had a lot of Christmas presents to deliver that night, so he simply thought that by going that way he could get to his destination right on time. But those modern North Korean fighters had run into his course in the sky — as he had entered the airspace of that country that was completely isolated from the rest of the world— and they had heavily damaged his sleigh, forcing him to land in the end.

Then the long interrogations began, night and day, and since the beginning, they hadn't left him in peace. They wanted to know everything about him, what kind of gifts he had aboard his strange vehicle or if he was a spy on behalf of some foreign country.At times he believed that such military officers were a bit insane, but he had no way to escape that prison by now.

The thing that most worried him was that the longer he stayed in that place, the fewer the presents he would deliver in the end. It was really a pity, and all because of his imprudence and underestimating of the many human conflicts on Earth, after all.

The individual was well aware that the Earthlings had long ago gotten used to turning to other false Santa Claus figures, like the many people dressed in red and white costumes with absurd white beards, that filled the innumerable malls in towns here and there, giving presents to the children - but they weren't the real thing, of course.

Many young boys and girls were going to miss their Christmas gifts this year, it just seemed.

Later in the evening, as Sergeant Jhang passed outside the room the bearded man was in, he started his usual inspection of the many cells in that wing of the building's basement. As the young warder walked along the tunnels he reminded himself of the names of the ones that were being held as convicts inside.

'The first one on the left is said to be a Japanese Oni of the Mountains, the next one is a Haetae — a legendary monster from China — and now comes that strange individual who entered our country by a flying sleigh, Santa Claus maybe…'

He looked a bit pensive and then told himself: 'The world is really full of weird people, indeed. Who knows what our Great Leader wants to get out of them all, using his cruel methods, anyway…'

The TV this morning said there was a 60% chance of scattered showers – and it looks as though all of that 60% is falling in the city block I'm walking through. It could have been snow – that light, fluffy stuff that gives such a festive air to events like the 'SantaCon' I've come to see, but NOOO. Instead its 66 degrees without a Santa in sight.

People are skating on the ice rink one story below me at 4th Street live – and I'm sitting at a table on the 2nd story drawbridge connecting the now defunct cowboy bar with the out-of-business comedy club. All of this waiting for 300 Santas to show up would be bearable with a Budweiser in a bottle or a coffee-nudge (Yes! Whipped cream and cherry please!) – but as I said, the clubs around me are dead, kaput, out of funds, gone bye-bye.

I do have a wonderful view of 4th Street South – looking past the Seelbach, past Eddie Merlots, past Cunninghams – cars only though, no people. A girl just fell hard on the ice rink – this could be more fun than I thought! Another little kid is down – all that's missing is the tears. Boom! Those knees won't be the same for a while. I love ice rinks and amateurs.

I recheck a social media outlet – yeah that one - and it says that SatanCon will converge at 1 PM..wait, no it's SantaCon – darn my dyslexia. It's okay, I've been through four marriages – I'm used to being lied to.

I move downstairs to a bowling alley with a clear view of the skating rink, grab a beer, and start counting red hoodies, since no Santa suits are in sight.

1 blonde teenage girl with a pink backpack and red hoodie. Young dude walking past with Big Balls – no, really – mesh bag full of volley balls. Bleach blond girl (suicide blond, dyed by her own hand) walks past the bar window wearing a red hoodie. 8 year old in red coat makes my list. Red sweater yuppie headed into Soft Rocks Café. Shout out to red hat, black dude.

Boy and girl racing on the ice – she's down – nice!

Old guy swaying on the ice… no it's just some drunk stumbling along. 20-something guy in a red coat. Old white guy in U of L red coat & cap – Go Cards!

Once again life has proven that any holiday function is best viewed from inside a bar. The bartendress delivers another malty libation and I tell her, "It's almost 1:30 PM and I feel like a Jewish kid on Christmas morning – no Santa Claus."

She laughs and tells me I'm odd – yeah, I get that a lot.

So later I'm riding home on the bus, carrying two rolls of wrapping paper I bought at a drugstore. Together they look like a double-barreled shotgun, and I'm trying not to scare anyone (Look out! – she's got a rifle made of wrapping paper!) and I overhear this guy at the back of the bus. I don't turn around because that shows disrespect (I should know – I'm the one usually sitting as far back as I can go).

He's talking to another dude and says, "All my nephews are in jail. One's in for 25 years, another for 20 years. He had nineteen on the shelf but he just couldn't make it through – and the cops hauled him in for breaking parole by being gone for 7 days and all those 19 years on the shelf just rolled over on him. One of my sister's boys blew a man's brains out in broad daylight – broad daylight! But me and mine are doing okay."

"Dats good man, dats real good," says the other guy.

"Yeah, I'm 47 and both of my kids are in college. You know that feels good." His voice trails off a little and he says, "It's like with my dad – he was a seal and I got my urge to travel from him – itchy feet ya know."

"Yeah man, I feel ya."

"But he always used to tell me, 'There were times when I was attacked in some 3rd world country and I didn't have time to bleed and I didn't have time to cry – but I always had time to get on the plane going home. You know what I'm saying?"

"Yeah dude, I know."

"That's what it's all about –finding out where home is and keeping that inside you – keeping home in your mind so you'll always know which way to go to get home." And I start thinking this guy might be like Santa at the back of the bus and I want to make up this mythology like I saw one of the SantaCon guys on the bus and he renewed my sense of the meaning of Christmas – but I don't look back because it would be disrespectful to look at Santa Claus as he's riding on a bus.

I get off the bus and head to my apartment, and throw all my bags on the bed, when my youngest boy calls and says everyone is going out to see The Hobbit and I should come too. And I grab my keys and my credit card because I know I'll be paying for a few tickets besides my own – but you know, that's okay, because Santa At The Back of the Bus reminded me that home can be a theater, or Dennys at two-in-the-morning, or a one room apartment – that home is people, the people we love.

As I sit down later with my clan watching the RPG trailers, I think about Santa at the North Pole, sitting with his feet up by the fire, with Mrs. Claus beside him, and a border collie at his feet. I figure that me and Santa - we have something in common: we know where home is, and we'll always find our way back – even if it means trudging through the Arctic Circle to get back there.

On the flowing, snowy hills of the North Pole, a mangy, scraggly reindeer, stumbles outside Santa's Toy Factory. Through the wintry snowdrifts, a snowwoman glides towards him, sliding to a halt as she begins to speak.

"Well, it's Christmas time, "I love it so, where the sing-a-lings, bring ting-a-lings down below. And every fat bottom, a-hole who beats his mate, doesn't beat her quite as hard, around this date.

It's the season when relatives visit for good cheer; in hopes their arse won't be seen again, until some time next year.

Santa knows he must deliver every gift, where ever the star shines its light or lose his magic, his workshop and his manhood, all three…on Christmas night."

The reindeer and the bosomy snowwoman, hasten to the workshop window. Hunkering down, they peer in through the ice, streaked pane.

"Look in there," the snowwoman said pointing, "Santa is having North Pole problems. Let's watch and listen."

"Is something wrong with Santa?" Mrs. Claus inquired. She was an overflowing, fat, glacier of a woman, but today, she was radiant. "Did one of you gay little effs, grind up male enhancement pills into Santa's peppermint brandy?"

The effs were a secret cloning experiment designed to create automatons that would work for no money in Santa's sweat; I mean "toy" shop. The first five creatures named Aaa through Eee were failures, in so much that they had a mind of their own and talked back to Santa, after which he had them ground into reindeer chow. The effs were his newest creations.

"Choir practice again?" the toothless, tooth sprite asked, spitting in every direction as she spoke.

The eff'n trombonist remarked, "You know I'd do her, but she's kinda lookin' like trailer trash."

The eff'n drummer replied, "Well sure, if you'd been bitch slapped as much as she has…I mean, you're suppose to have exact change when goin' on tooth recoveries."

Mrs. Claus inquired, "Whatever happened between the tooth sprite and her husband Herbie, the eff'n dentist?

The eff'n drummer said sadly, "She was always up his pooch, wanting to scarf' up teeth he had pulled." He shook his head slowly, "She was just using him."

Santa hurries in, wand in hand.

"People…people, set your butt's down!"

Just then, Little Mona Loo, who had teeth, but no more than two, walked up in front of Santa and pointed toward his belt. "Santa, your stick is in your pocket."

Santa looked at the conductor's wand in his hand and then at the protrusion filling his red trousers. Mona Loo looked up into Santa's bloated, red face and asked ever so sweetly, "Why Santa…why?"

He made a quick exit.

"Mrs. Claus, we're going to need to strap the North Pole down so I can go about my business."

Mrs. Claus inquired wide-eyed about the weather, "Are we expected to be covered in white sometime soon?"

"Ahhhh…well…you definitely! But I'm sure we're talking about two different things." A momentary glance downward and she understood. She took him by the hand or at least she thought it was his hand, and led him to their seldom used bedroom.

A small, bald headed boy, walked toward the workshop door with a warm dish of vodka for the reindeer standing watch outside.

"Here you go, Smirnoff. Come get you daily fix!" the boy called out. The painfully thin, beloved, alcoholic animal, shuffled over. "Are they still callin' me names?" the reindeer asked, sounding like he had a stopped up snout.

The boy looked puzzled, "Well…yeah, but no more than usual."

"What are they sayin?" the reindeer asked wheezing.

"Well they're singing, "Smirnoff the red snout reindeer…

"Okay, okay, I know the drill," Smirnoff said pitifully. "Do ya think you will kick the football this year, Harley?"

The downcast boy said, "She says it's all been a huge charade! Then she hauled off and kicked me in the nuts. Said she was just saving time…rats!"

"We're a couple of misfits, aren't we?" the wobbly reindeer said.

"Speak for yourself!" Harley said in a halted, little boy's voice, "I'm still hoping to be accepted, in the North Pole chapter, of the Hair Club for Boys.

Frigid, the ammonia fragrant, yellow-bottomed snowwoman, turned to the now sloshed reindeer and wistfully ruminated;

"Slithering around every pine and silver-garland, tangled vine, snaked a pickpocket of some renown, who had stolen Christmas from a previous town.

From the gifts of a little town's who's who, to the honey pot of a cuddly bear too, this green pickpocket creature, slithered so slithery, that his method of theft was still quite a mystery.

Spotted on the toy factory roof, busy about his thieving and silently aloof, he crawled head long into the chimney flew and was through before anyone knew."

The snowwoman who had been watching the scene stopped speaking with a sudden gasp!

A hand reached up the chimney, grabbing this thievin' creature by the whiskers, pulling him the rest of the way in as he began screaming. The green, pickpocket thief had actually crawled down the wrong chimney into Santa's bedroom. Santa, in his red thong underwear and wearing little else, suspecting this prowler to be a suitor for his missus, began beating the livin' doodee out of his long, furry, green hide.

The abdominal, androgynous no man had been working out and so it was easy for it to drag the remains of the pickpocket, better known as "The Pinch" to the meat grinder to make a reindeer feast of eggs with green ham (close enough).

"Mommy is hot," Mrs. Claus remarked as the over passionate, pot bellied, white whiskered man stood in front of their bed.

And you know what they say…that Kriss Kringle's "jingle jangle" grew three sizes that day!

And as white blanketed the North Pole that night…he came…somehow, he came…he came just the same!

No one but the powers that be, know St. Nick gets retired and replaced every 100 years. This year St.Nick XXVth is conducting his last run. Age and technology have taken their toll not to mention the changing demographics that have discombobulated the usual routes used for the last few centuries. His replacement has been picked. He has no clue as to whom. Like the pope, the selection is done in complete secrecy

Nick's sled is fitted out with cloaking, shielding and mass shrinking devices that allows for his huge cargo, in addition to the Time Freezing Clock that without, would in normal time, make his run totally impossible.

Nick is downing Baileys and coffee to stay awake. His catheter is in place. Hey, when you gotta go, ya gotta go and can't stop at the nearest bar or tree and take a leak. At the close of his route, Nick has finished a bottle or two. He isn't keeping count. It's his last run.

He was about to head back to the Pole but chanced to look in the freight box and realized that he missed a new subdivision in NJ. "Damn, I hope the new guy has an updated GPS and plotting. He's going to need it. AI," he called out to the Directed Encased Energy Ramjet, "fire up the thrusters and come about 180, cloaking on, running lights off, shielding on, tree top level, utility pole avoidence." He was sober enough for that and 100 years of training didn't hurt.

"Yes sir," the AI responded. "Coming about 180."

His job completed and always prepared, Nick pulled out the reserve bottle of Baileys. He drank it down. Then in a somewhat blitzed state noticed a sign, Nick's North's Bar and Pole Dancing. His brain only recognized Nick's North's Pole. "I don't ever remember putting THAT sign up. AI , landsthere. Keep sloaked and shrielded. I gottaseewhat'sgoingonhere" he commanded in a very slurred voice.

The sled, invisible and shielded, was backed into a number of times by some of the more drunken bar patrons. They of course saw nothing and gave it no other thought until Christmas morning when they viewed the ass end of their smashed vehicles and wondered how that happened. Most thought they hit a big pot hole at the time.

Christmas eve at the bar was not that unusual to have a few patrons come in dressed as Santa. Nick XXVth was Greco-Roman wrestling big, about 6'13 _ and drunk. A waitress-elf dressed in mistletoe and a two strategically placed ornaments came over and said, "Hey Santa honey, what can I DO for You?" She looked him up and down.

Another dressed in much the same outfit came over to the big guy and said, "Santa baby, you bring me my Bently I asked for?" And kissed him on his fire red cheek

"I don't ever remember seeing either of you at the shops," he said playing with the ornaments. "And You two I would have remembered." He sounded sober then.

"Oh Santa, I've seen you before," they both said. "And I have been a very good girl," said the first one. She gave him a big wet kiss and sat on his lap. "What will it be? It's Christmas and I'm in a giving mood."

Number two came around from behind and gave him a big hug.

Nick, quite drunk, placed a few gold coins on the table and was about to take a bite of that forbidden fruit when in came what can only be described as a woman equal in height to Nick. She was visibly pissed off and pointed to Nick. "Nick you besotted bugger. You should be home by now. I had to come looking for you."

"Oh shit, his wife," said one dancer.

"Of all the days to screw off, your retirement day." She knocked the first tart off his lap, flung the other across the room and threw Nick over her shoulder. She left 12 gold coins on the table to cover any damages and lugged the big guy out.

"AI on! Cloaking Off! DEERS ON, prepare for lift off," she commanded. The sled responded and lit up appearing like a circus carnival. She threw Nick in the back, covered him and got on to the drivers seat mumbling, "I've been following you for a while to get a feel for the job. Then you began to wander and wobble and I knew things weren't right. I saw you land here, a bar of all places. You're totally drunk on the job. You were about to be taken for a ride by those two. You can hardly walk no less fly."

"Theyrerrr my friens and theyerr, hic, our elvers, they told me."

"Right!"

"Id's the Nort spole. I wis one of my lobving elbes. She told me so," he managed to slur back. "And who the hell," burp, "are you?"

"It's not the North Pole, it's a bar in NJ you old fool. And I am your replacement. Now shut up, we're going home." She was fuming.

"You're my replacement? You'rer kinda cute. What do yu slay we do a mile sligh? Whattt'sss's you name?" He made a grab for her.

"Nicolina." Then she said, "I hate to do this but …" Then she socked him and knocked him out.

By the time they returned to the factory at the Pole, Nick XXVth was awake and hung-over. He looked at Nickolina. "So you're for real; not a nightmare," he said rubbing his jaw.

She laughed, "Of course I am. I'm Odina Sinterklaas the First. Santa to everyone else. You just have to believe and have faith. Now I'm going to get you to bed. It was your last trip and brother, it was a doozy. You'll sleep it off and tomorrow no one will be the wiser. It's my present to you. Sleep tight and to YOU, a good night."