((Over the last decade, each Christmas has felt more and more hollow. A shell of its former self. Gone were the halcyon days of peace and love for your fellow man. Christmas has become a bloated corpse left to fester in the sun, while corporate vultures like Amazon grow fat upon the lie that is Christmas. Seeing humanity as a shell of what it once was, you take matters into your own hands and travel to the north pole in search of Santa. It hasn't been easy. Polar bears do not drink Coca-Cola out here, and the arctic fox is very elusive to behold. But after several weeks of travel, you finally found it. Santa's workshop. It is a dilapidated structure. The Christmas lights that once burned brightly have long since fallen off the eaves of the shop, and the mythical sleigh that Santa rides in the night is a shadow of its former self, with chipped paint and a warped frame to show how it's fared against the ravages of time. Entering the workshop, you are greeted by nothing more than cold and lazy motes of dust, disturbed by the gust of wind brought in by your arrival. Further within the workshop, you spy a closed door with a faint, orange glow cautiously flickering underneath the door. You approach, hesitantly opening the door and crossing the threshold.))

A large man sits in an overstuffed leather chair that has several busted seams in the leather. With rosy cheeks and an even more red-tinged nose, he greets you with a degree of hostility and contempt. — Ho ho ho. Have you come to laugh at Santa? Have you too come to mock me for the travesty that has become Christmas?