[ WP ] After a screw up occurs at the post office , Santa starts receiving damned souls while Satan is stuck with thousands of wish lists .

Santa locks himself in his office, one hand placed around a bourbon, another over his damp cheeks. `` All those people. Tom. Johnny. Sylvia. Why did I have to make the naughty list? What have I done?'' Out of the screams and gnashing of teeth outside his office, he swears he could still hear them as he heard them before, as if they were still children in their pajamas, dazed and sleepy, smelling of their mother's alcohol and wearing their father's bruises, lost and knocking from outside their homes looking in. 
 
 Meanwhile, Satan skims through a long parcel as fast as he could. Everything in hell burns. Right now, one end of the paper catches fire, as if it were a dynamite wick. Actually, everyone in hell is blowing someone else's birthday candles. When he finally brushes off the ashes from his lap, he smiles. A trip to Disneyland. A free flavored Popsicle from the doctor. A bald barbie doll. Such pathetic wishes. So pathetic he could n't help but smile again, this time bigger, this time without the malice of an object shaped like a scythe. But then again, he would n't complain. It simply felt good to feel like an angel again.
