It was Christmas Eve, the holiest night of Santa Claus’s career. For centuries, he had slipped down chimneys without so much as a wrinkle in his coat. Rain, snow, sleet, even the occasional dragon-shaped weathervane had never slowed him down. His record was perfect. Untouchable. And tonight, with his reindeer waiting on the roof and the stars glittering above, Santa fully expected things to go as smoothly as ever.
He should have known better.
The trouble began when Santa pulled out his trusty gadget, the Jolly Quencher 3000, a sleek, magical bit of high-tech wizardry designed for one purpose: instantly snuffing out the fires below so he could descend safely. The chimney glowed with an inviting orange warmth, but that was nothing the Jolly Quencher couldn’t handle.
Or so Santa thought.
With a confident chuckle, he pressed the button. Instead of a reassuring poof of magic, the device gave a feeble beep-boop… followed by a sad electronic whiiiiiine. Sparks fizzled across its candy-cane casing.
“Now that’s peculiar,” Santa muttered.
He tapped the side. Boop. He smacked the top. BEEP! He shook it like a snow globe. The Jolly Quencher groaned in protest and belched out a noise that sounded suspiciously like a hiccup.
Then came the smoke.
The fire below, far from being extinguished, puffed up the chimney in a burst of soot that singed Santa’s beard and left his rosy cheeks even rosier. He coughed, waved the smoke from his eyes, and glared at the gadget as though it had betrayed him personally.
“For eight hundred years, not a single problem,” Santa grumbled. “And tonight, of all nights…”
He gave the Jolly Quencher one last whack. It emitted a pitiful doo-wop like a broken toy trumpet. Clearly, it was done.
Santa sighed. “Well, if you want a job done right…”
He turned to the windows.
Sliding down a chimney was second nature, but climbing through a window? That was uncharted territory. Still, Santa was nothing if not resourceful. With a grunt, he hoisted one red-booted leg over the sill, followed by his belly, which, despite decades of careful cookie management, was not particularly well-suited to squeezing through narrow openings.
It was a battle. His belt snagged. His hat fell off and dangled comically over his eyes. At one point, Santa became wedged so tightly that he had to wriggle like a fish caught in a net. Finally, with a loud THUMP, he tumbled onto the living room floor in a pile of soot, snow, and jingle bells.
The crash woke the family’s cat, who arched its back and hissed at the intruder. Santa waved sheepishly. “Ho ho… don’t mind me.”
Gathering himself, he brushed the soot from his coat (which only smeared it further), picked up his hat, and got to work. Despite the fiasco, the gifts were carefully arranged beneath the twinkling tree. Stockings were stuffed. A toy train was placed just so, circling the presents with a cheerful chug-chug-chug.
When all was done, Santa straightened, proud despite the chaos. He had triumphed. Not gracefully, but triumph was triumph.
Climbing back out the window proved no easier than the way in. He knocked over a lamp, sneezed up another puff of soot, and scraped his boot on the sill. But at last, with a grunt and a final shove, he was back on the roof, the night wind cool on his singed cheeks.
Rudolph gave him a look that was half-concern, half-amusement.
“Don’t start,” Santa said, brushing off his coat.
The sleigh was ready. The reindeer stamped impatiently. Santa climbed aboard, gave the reins a tug, and with a mighty leap, they soared into the sky.
Below, the little house glowed warm with Christmas cheer. Above, Santa chuckled to himself, weary, smudged, but undefeated.
“Next year,” he muttered, “I’m upgrading to the Jolly Quencher 4000.”
And with that, he flew off into the night, leaving behind the faint sound of jingling bells and the unmistakable smell of singed beard.
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Part IV: The Creation of Man
