Mistletoe, Tequila and Not so Saint Nick

Malloreigh. Smoking Santa. Digital image. Flickr. Flickr, 22 Dec. 2007. Web. 06 Jan. 2016. <https://www.flickr.com/photos/malloreigh/2182583206/>.

With cheap beer pouring down his fake beard sat a heavily drunk and obese man. His name was Nick; he was dressed in a dirty, covered-in-vomit costume of Father Christmas. His swollen face with dark bags under his eyes had an expression of total apathy. You could also have noticed that Nick's body was completely numb, and so was his brain, since every time he tried to drink another shot, he poured  half of it on his already wet trousers. This sad man was sitting under the dusty mistletoe and quietly whispering the lyrics of  “Last Christmas” song. Earlier today, Nick was like any other fake Santa that worked at the mall: he creepily sat kids on his lap and listened to their wishes. But he was one of a kind who truly loved his job and every time he said, “Ho, ho, ho,” it warmed his heart. However, every year Nick noticed that fewer and fewer kids believe in Father Christmas, people don't kiss under the mistletoe anymore, and he decided that there is no more point of being Santa since people just don't care. Nick decided to spend his Christmas Eve alone, drunk and in a cheap bar. But as he was ready to consume another shot, suddenly everything around him changed. He only caught a last glimpse of the mistletoe…

Nick woke up in a room that was completely made out of ice. In front of him sat a happy, old man with a long grey beard and lively eyes: he was the real Santa. Father Christmas smiled at our drunk Santa with a fake beard that now hung around his neck as a hairy necklace.

The real Santa spoke to Nick, “I know Nick, it must be heartbreaking for you to see that people don’t believe in me anymore, but you are doing such an amazing job. I want to say that at times I looked at you and got inspired and excited for Christmas myself. Please, don’t give up on people, and on Christmas. Please, give it one more…”

“Sir, maybe one more shot?” an old man, with a grey beard and lively eyes was asking him. The voice was buzzing in Nick’s ears. He opened his eyes and he was still at the bar. Nick’s eyes started to water and a tear slid down his wrinkled face; he knew that all he saw were hallucinations of a drunk. He looked at his blurred reflection on the dirty bar table. His heart tightened: he knew that this was his last Christmas and that he would never celebrate it again. It was late. Most of the people left the bar, and Nick sat alone under the flickering light. He was quietly crying and making out with the bottle of the cheapest tequila under that same dusty mistletoe.