Scrooge Visits Santa

"Open up, old man! I'm freezing my nuts here! Damn snow!" The loud banging woke up Santa, who came in late last night. Add in a hangover, and you get the picture.

Santa stood up from his comfy and warm bed, grumbling under his breath (more like cursing his visitor). Who the hell would knock at his door at... 7 AM? on Christmas of all days.

Santa dragged himself towards the door, the banging getting progressively more loud and aggressive.

Someone needs to cool down a bit. Oh, wait, they're kind of doing that.

Santa finally opens the door, and, lo and behold, Ebenezer Scrooge's forever frowning face is what greets him!

Merry Christmas, indeed.

"Eb, old friend, long time no see! Come in, come in," Santa ushers the man inside, preparing mentally for what is probably going to be the most exhausting visit he's had in a long time.

Santa hoped that his helpers didn't take all of the booze home. He's going to need it if he wants to survive the surly man.

They sit down by the fire. Scrooge sighs gratefully (rejoice, rejoice!) as the warmth works its way through his freezing body.

Are bitter, cold-hearted people even capable of feeling cold? Isn't that kind of a given for them?

Winter is winning. Stranger things have happened.

In fact, one such strange thing is happening right now.

Scrooge is smiling with content.

Scrooge. Is. Smiling.

Santa stares in disbelief.

He stares some more.

Santa thinks he's either still hungover or in some kind of twilight zone. Because there is no possible way that this is real.

Scrooge notices that it's too quiet. He opens his eyes and sees Santa just staring at him, not moving a single muscle.

"What's the matter? You haven't decided to kick the bucket yet, have you? Snap out of it, man!"

Santa blinks at the sound of the man's voice and snaps out of his daze.

"Ah, sorry there, Eb. I haven't fully woken up yet. Would you like something to eat or drink?" Santa remembers being somewhat of a host.

But no earthly laws or customs apply to a man such as Scrooge, so it's not as if he's insulting the other man by forgetting his manners.

"Coffee is fine. I already ate before I came here. I'd rather drink something stronger than coffee, but, as you well know, I now have people who...care for my health."

"Are you saying you don't want to worry them?" Santa grins at the scowling man.

"Just shut up and make the damn coffee."

Santa raises his hands in mock surrender and turns to the cupboards.

A few moments later...

Santa and Scrooge are just sitting around the crackling fire, sipping their coffee, when Scrooge decides to break the silence.

"Alright, now that I'm warm and have some coffee in my system, I'll tell you why I'm here. I'm here to discuss the lack of my Christmas present."

Well, that was unexpected. Santa almost choked on his coffee.

It wouldn't do well for you to die, Santa. Think of all of the children that are awaiting their presents every year.

Think of all the cookies that might go to waste.

And, most importantly, think of your alcohol stash. Those elves can drink you under the table; imagine leaving all of the liquor to them because you couldn't swallow your coffee properly.

This is a historical moment, old man. Pull yourself together!

Scrooge is actually complaining about the lack of his Christmas present?!

Nothing is ever simple with this man, is it?

Santa sighs quietly before replying, "The lack of your Christmas present? I thought you didn't want any."

Scrooge is glaring at the confused Santa, trying to burn a hole through him.

Murder doesn't work that way, sir. Not in this story at least.

"Well, aren't you a lousy author? I should've had some sort of superpower by now! After all that bullcrap I went through in my original story, it's only fair!" Scrooge yells at the author.

Uhm, excuse me, but aren't you supposed to take it up with Santa? You know, no present for you under the Christmas tree and all that? You can argue with the author some other time.

"Tch, whatever. I'll deal with you later. Now, Santa, I'm a reformed man. I've been kind to my employees (yes, I have more than one); I've been nicer to them and to other people. I'm all flowers and rainbows. I even adopted a puppy. So why, after those three lunatics invaded my privacy, haven't I gotten anything this year? Am I still on that "naughty" list of yours?"

A grown man asks if he's on the "naughty" list. It happened, yeah.

Where's that whiskey again? Santa's going to need it. It won't help his incoming headache, but it'll at least help him stay (somewhat) sane.

The author agrees. The author also suggests not giving Scrooge any alcohol. It might make things even worse.

A sober Scrooge is already a handful; imagine a drunk one (or better yet, don't).

And just then, Santa remembers. He's definitely screwed.

Ignorance is bliss.

"Well, old man? Care to explain, or do I have to take drastic measures?"

You being here, in Santa's cottage, the first thing in the morning on Christmas is already drastic enough, Scrooge.

"You again! Shut your trap and wait for your turn! It was you who had made me come see this old fart on Christmas in the first place!" Scrooge barks at the poor author.

The author can't confirm or deny it. Why is it always the author's fault?

"If you actually had some decent ideas for the stories you write, you wouldn't be in this kind of mess right now, would you?" Scrooge asks.

The author liked you more when you were a selfish, stingy, old bastard.

Let's get back to Santa, shall we?

He remembered the reason why Scrooge didn't get his present.

"Uh, sorry, Eb, you see, I kind of... forgot to review my "naughty or nice" list this year! You were never on any of those, so..." Santa trails off, knowing that Scrooge could figure out the rest.

What happens after this reveal is up to you, dear reader.

Merry Christmas! <3