The Northern Exposure

“You’re a good friend Cornelius. The best in fact. A different life, a different time. Things would have been different for you and me.”
Cornelius catches Santa in his arms. Then holds him at arm’s length looking into his eyes. He can’t tell if they’re his tears or Santa’s tears glistening in his eyes. “Maybe.” Then Cornelius thinks to himself. “Gutless bastard.”

Roger is sitting at the kitchen island. Cup of coffee in one hand, one of LaShonda’s cigarettes in his other. A throw from the sofa wrapped around him. A slipper is dangling off his foot, swaying. The clock behind him says 6:12. He begins to witness the “Walk of Shame” of last night’s guests.

Playing dumb Santa asks, “Whatever do you mean Cindi?”
“C’mon! You know damn well what I mean. There’s a great chance that the baby will be 5/8 human and VERY little Elf.” Cindi is getting angry at this point. She knows Santa is playing dumb and she’s in no mood to play parlor games. She launches the final bombshell, “regardless who the father is the baby is going to resemble your family more than mine.”

Santa had shit his pants. “Loco” chili, prune bars and apricot nectar now painted the inside of Santa’s Depends.

Brendan can feel Yukon’s hairy stomach against his smooth surfer’s back. It is a wiry, tickling feeling. Turning around he hops and plants his perfectly round ass onto the counter and simultaneously locks his lips onto Yukon’s. Brendan tastes meat for the first time in his life … and he likes it.

“She has breasts,” Mrs. Claus hisses. “Boobs. Stripper boobs!”

Standing there in a t-shirt, jock and socks he shouts and points “bring a sled around that far outcrop over there as soon as you get clear!! Pick me up!”
“You’ll never make it! They’ll get you for sure. It is suicide!!”
“No it is not, it’s Christmas!!” Brendan shouts just as he’s about to jump.

“There’s a lot Santa doesn’t need to know,” he mumbles as he shoves a Blarney Stone into his mouth. Sweet, peanuty goodness sprays Cindi’s face. “Me eating a black-market cookie isn’t going to bring down his precious empire.”

Santa comes outside and grabs Mrs. Claus’ arm taking her aside. “You won’t get away with this.”
“I already have.”

She puts down both pen and fork, pours herself another glass of wine and lights another cigarette. Slowly sipping and puffing away, she realizes that she’s lonely. She has no real friends here. Never really has, especially since she started offing Elfettes.