Santa Claus woke up in a cold sweat from disturbing dreams in where he was visited by the spirits of Christmas past, present and future. Each vision warned him of the perils of continuing his path of gratuitous benevolence. At first, he thought it may have been the dessicant, a hygroscopic substance used as a drying agent, he accidentally swallowed while eating packaged seaweed.
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.