![]() ![]() There he sat, covered from head to toe in red velvet that was none too fresh and none too clean, thanks to the boozy sweat of the previous wearer. So much for never leaving a man behind, he thought. How had he gotten wrangled into this position again? Which was part of the reason he couldn’t believe he was here at The Mall of the Smokies, being the damn Santa. To say he was a bit bitter about the holiday season was an understatement. It sucked when you spent the holidays alone. Back when he was a kid and everything about Christmas had still seemed so magical. There had been a time when Joe hadn’t dreaded Christmas so much. So Joe played his role, ho ho ho’d, and smiled for the camera while the brat on his lap asked him for a pony. The photographer’s words were more of a warning than a cue to get ready for the second picture. If he really were Santa, he would give her coal in her stocking and a letter advising her parents to put her in the naughty corner. ![]() ![]() Now, after she’d pulled on his Santa beard during the picture, he knew better. The kid was maybe five years old, had blonde hair, blue eyes and dimples galore. Joe looked at the small spawn of Satan currently sitting on his lap and held in the urge to growl. If one more kid tried to pull his beard, he was going to roar. ![]()
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