Work Text:
The hoard of Santa man’s stood. Exhausted. Tired. The day spent appealing to the masses, having countless children sit on their laps took far more of a mental toll on the men than they ever could imagine. Seeing one child sneeze and wipe their snot onto their camo-patterned shorts, only to subsequently sit on ‘Santa’s lap’ had scarred the mall santa that was paid $18 an hour for life. All the mall santas stood, on a plane of existence, staring into the soulless, seemingly jolly eyes of the other Santas. Each Santa knew they were a fake. Lying to themselves that they spread Christmas cheer, knowing that every child that took a picture with them would eventually learn that they sat on the lap of not a happy kind man who generously gave presents to them each year, but a stranger.
There the Santas stood. Not knowing how or why they were there until a spotlight turned on. The resounding noise of the light turned the santa’s towards the noise.
There stood the Santa. One with a suit that had the perfect fluff on the edges. The satin belt. The festive man stood proud, with the milf mrs. Claus next to him.
Every man kneeled down to the santa. His power too great. His jolly Christmas aura penetrated the souls of every fake santa stuck in the eternal hell that was santa life. The spotlight further pronounced the contours of his face. The fat of the holy santa's face truly was the christmassy -est christmas. His smile was truly joyous.
This was the man that spent 364 days holed up in his conglomerate and ate other family’s cookies. His stanta superiority was seen by all.
With ‘All I want for christmas is you’ flowing through their veins, every santa listened to their superior, his voice booming with merry power.
“Chin up kings, your hats are falling.”
Hearing those glorious words caused every mall santa (whom shall now be called Santa satellites) grasped their bright red crowns, the symbol of Santa being.
His words shook the Santa satellites to their very core. Together, each satellite adjusted their hats from their unkempt states. Lifted their heads, facing the true santa in all his glory. Eyes kept wide, despite the bright light that Santa basked in, to ensure that the view of the grace of Old St. Nick would be forever burned in their memory.
Those efforts were of most importance, and the combined emotions of awe and fear that the glorious view of santa would vanish in front of their eyes were valid. As soon as their god appeared, St. Nick, Milf Claus, and the spotlight from the heavens vanished with the jingle of bells.
Slowly but surely, the Santa satellites rose from the ground. Born anew. The true santa, the one from the tales, the one that coincidentally seemed to visit families that had figures that could afford presents for their children, had ignited a flame within them. Or more adequately put, a cheer within them