The temperature was freezing in the 23rd-floor conference room at Krampus and Sons Investments. The gnarled old beast of a CEO put down his stogie and slammed shut his ledger.

“Look, Nicky,” he growled. “There’s no way we can extend you any more! Your business model has always been shaky, but this year's numbers are completely in the shitter! I don’t see any way you can get out of this and back into the black.”

The portly man in the red suit sitting across the table dropped his head, rubbed his temples and let out a long, slow sigh. “Fucking tariffs are killing me! The cost of a PS5 has nearly tripled since just last Christmas! Everything costs more! And it’s not just the supply chain! Half my goddam workforce is hiding out from goddam ICE raids! Those bastards profile them just because they have pointy ears and curled-up toes!”

The fur-faced cryptid’s lips snarled around his tusks and his putrid breath wafted across the giant meeting table. “Oh, cry me a river, fat boy! It’s the goddam 21st century! Nobody’s writing poems about fucking sugar plums and toy soldiers anymore!”

“Why don’t you shove a Yule log up your ass, you flea-infested Wookiee wannabe,” the white-bearded elf shot back. “We haven’t handed out a sugarplum in over a hundred years! We’re a modern operation, and we’ll be just fine!”

Krampus stood and turned to leave. “Whatever jingles your bells, Kringle. You’ve got twenty-five days. Come December 26th, you better have my money, or I’ll own your whole North Pole complex, and all those millions of barrels of crude underneath it. I’m gonna come right down your chimney and ‘Drill, Baby, Drill!’”

----○○○○----

Back in his North Pole workshop, Santa huddled with his most senior Elfen staff. Sigried, SVP of Manufacturing Operations, looked grim.

“Sorry, Santa,” he said, almost in a whisper. “We’re not going to make it. My projections show us missing our quota by almost a million gifts. Every available elf is already working double shifts, but with all the ICE raids, we’re too short staffed.”

Santa shot him a glare.

“Uh… no pun intended.”

Everyone in the room knew the pun was intended. It was Sigreid's best (and only) joke.

“Look, Santa, I hate to say it, but…” It was Vixen–not the reindeer, but the Elf-in-Charge of North Pole Distribution and Logistics. “Krampus makes a good point. Our systems are out of date. You’re still the king of overnight delivery, but it’s getting harder every year. Your Nice List keeps getting longer and longer, but our resources are shrinking. Especially this year. We need to streamline the whole process.”

Santa was clearly annoyed. “Oh, all we need to do is streamline?! Why didn’t I think of that?” he said, sarcastically. “I open the floor to any suggestions from all of you geniuses.”

“Renegotiate with our suppliers!” “Make cheaper toys!” “Don’t waste time and money on gift wrap!”

Everyone spoke over each other, trying to be heard. Finally, it was Holly, Chief Curator of Lists, who cut through the cacophony.

“Maybe we’re looking at this the wrong way,” she shouted over the din.

The room fell silent.

“I’m listening.” Santa stared at the raven-haired elf.

“Maybe instead of worrying about making more toys, we should concentrate on making more naughty people.”

Santa did a double-take. “Excuse me?”

Holly continued. “Look, Santa, you may check these lists twice, but I live, eat, breathe and sleep them. I see them when they’re sleeping. I know when they’re awake. I know when they’ve been bad or good, and I also know a whole lot more that no one’s writing song lyrics about. I am telling you… better than fifty percent of the people on the nice list are just one tiny temptation away from slipping over to naughty.”

Every jaw in the room dropped.

“Say what!?” Santa was incredulous. “Are you suggesting we entrap people to reduce the nice list!?”

“Not entrap. Entice.” Holly was starting to warm up. “We don’t have to force anybody to do anything. I say we just lay the opportunity on the table and let nature take its course.”

“Seems a little sketchy to me,” Sigreid interjected. “But if it worked, it would sure solve my problems. How would you even do it? I mean, on such a large scale?”

Holly tapped away on her laptop. A large spreadsheet appeared on the projection screen.

“It really wouldn’t be as hard as you might think,” she said. “I’ve already got close to half a million elves sitting on shelves out there. Just switch them from observation to mischief mode. No telling how many people will jump at the chance to make hay in a manger. If we get creative enough, we could really turn it into a blue Christmas!”

“It would take a total commitment from everyone here,” Vixen mused. “But, holy shit, it would be fun! I say we go for it!”

Santa slumped in his chair. “I don’t like it. It goes against everything nice about us. But we really don’t have a choice. I can’t let that mangey furball win!”

He paused, facing the inevitable. “Okay, Holly will be in charge. Everyone else clear your schedules to be available for her. Keep me out of it, but I want weekly progress reports. It’s only three weeks until Christmas Eve. God help us if we fail!”

Holly jumped up and clapped her hands.

“Alright everyone! Operation: Ho! Ho! Ho! IS A GO!!”

----○○○○----

Within days, thousands of newly naughty names were swelling the list. Holly went straight for the Incels first, and they were all too happy to have their chestnuts roasted.

Turning next to the homophobic fundamentalists, she lured them out of the closet and turned their Yuletides gay.

Legions of bored, neglected wives suddenly rediscovered the holiday spirit with randy pool boys, gardeners and washing machine repairmen.

----○○○○----

One week before Christmas Eve, the door to Santa’s office suddenly flew open.

“I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE UP TO, KRINGLE, BUT I SMELL A RAT!!” Krampus roared.

Santa looked up from his paperwork. “That rat you smell is your own putrid stench,” Santa fired back. “Call a mobile groomer, for fuck’s sake!”

“All I know is that naughty list keeps getting suspiciously longer, and I don’t see your toy pile getting nearly big enough! Whatever grift you’re trying to pull on me isn’t going to work! You’ve got seven days, and then this is all mine!”

Krampus stormed out. Holly entered nervously and closed the door.

“Please tell me we’re going to make it,” Santa begged her.

“It’s going to be close, but I have faith,” Holly answered. “We’re still working on members of the clergy. You can always count on them to do the wrong thing.”

----○○○○----

It was Christmas Eve.  As Santa climbed into his seat on the sleigh, he looked hopeful.

“It feels a lot lighter than normal,” he said to Vixen.

“Yes, it is,” she answered. “We won’t have the final numbers until tomorrow, but it’s going to be razor-thin. Have a great flight, and pray for a Christmas miracle!”

----○○○○----

On December 26th, Santa and his team shuffled into the 23rd-floor conference room.

“Remind me to send these assholes a load of coal,” Santa growled. “It’s colder than fuck in here!”

Krampus strolled in, looking happier than he’d ever been.

“Valiant effort, fat man! But your crew came up short!” He laughed uproariously. “See what I did there?! Your naughty list scheme didn’t work! You don’t have the money! Clear out your office, ‘cuz I’m parking my first oil derrick right there!”

Santa just smirked. It was Sigreid who stepped up with a bulging portfolio.

“Not so fast, you overgrown hairball!”

Sigreid pulled out a thick pile of legal papers. “While you were focused on our naughty list game, I was huddled with the Honorable Donder and Blitzen, the top intellectual property lawyers on the planet.”

Krampus stopped smiling and looked confused.

“Turns out, the name 'Santa Claus' and his image are an exclusive copyright. The most desirable endorsement on earth! We’re now collecting royalties from every consumer goods company on the planet! Just a rough estimate, but the deal should be worth about $3 trillion a year!”

Krampus collapsed into a chair, looking sick to his stomach.

Santa strolled over to him. “Turns out you don’t own me, Krampy-Boy. I. OWN. YOU!! As of the opening bell on Wall Street this morning, Krampus and Sons Investments is a wholly owned subsidiary of SC Holdings, LLC.”

Santa laughed until his belly shook like a bowl full of jelly.

“But don’t fret. I didn’t forget your Christmas gift,” he chuckled, handing Krampus a small box tied with ribbon. “Hope you enjoy it!”

Krampus opened the box and looked at Santa with an expression of pure rage.

“Fucking sugar plums!”