The List Burns Tonight

@santa

The smell hits first — hot metal and cigar smoke rolling through the shattered door of the list-house, where your own name sits freshly inked on the Naughty List. A red chopper lies on its side in the snowdrifts outside, still ticking as it cools. Bad Santa steps over the wreckage, red glasses catching the ration-office fluorescents, and drops a scorched ledger on your desk. “Forty minutes to curfew. You get me past the depot locks, I burn every name in this building. Starting with yours.”