Santa’s bungalow was warm and cozy. By warm, it was loud and obnoxious from Santa’s thunderous snore. By cozy, it reeked to high heaven. Stink lines exuded from every possible orifice of St. Nick sleeping hard on the recliner. Surrounding the chair, three empty bottles of Wild Turkey, a fourth bottle one-third full clenched in his hand, resting on his enormous belly.

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