>It's Christmas Eve and you are Anon.
>It's also somewhere around 11 o'clock, But you can't quite fall asleep.
>Not because of the last nocturnal problem you had.
>Those cheeky grey fuckwits haven't bothered you since you held one of them at gunpoint.
>No, tonight you can't sleep because last Christmas some fine upstanding gentleman broke into you and Sunset's apartment, stole the presents you left under the tree, broke a crowbar on your gun safe, and took a steaming shit right in your coffee maker.
>And the two of you slept right through it.
>So this year you're camped out right next to the fire escape with a Mossberg Shockwave loaded with some birdshot and one of Pinkie's special "cupcake shells", whatever those are.
>The chair you've been sitting in is a bit too comfy and you feel yourself drifting off.
>With a snort you jump up as a blast of icy wind cuts through your half-opened bathrobe.
>Through the darkness of the room you see a shadow moving by the tree.
>Rasing the totally legal non-SBS, you command the shape.
"Stop whatever it is your doing, turn around, and put your hands behind your head."
>The shape chuckles, jiggling slightly.
"I said turn around, fatso!"
>The rotund shadow rises, still chuckling.
>"You know that pointing a shotgun at someone is a naughty thing to do, Anon!"
"Yeah, well so is breaking and entering."
>The fat shadow turns and gives a full belly laugh.
>"So it is, Anon."
>You almost drop the Shockwave.
>Standing before you is Chris Kringle himself.
>And you're holding the jolly old elf at gunpoint.
"Fuck."