My Girlfriend is Santa Claus & Together We Must Stop the Christmas Apocalypse Based on a True Story

Between lessons came some downtime, and going thirty hours without any sleep, Peter decided to spend his brief rest laying down in front of one of the workshop’s many fireplaces. The wooden floor was not the most comfortable place to lay, but the heat radiating onto his hands and face and seeping into his bones were good enough. He closed his eyes and took deep calm breaths. Then his phone rang. It was the Snow Witch. Tears and gasps cried out from the call.

“Peter! You have to help me!”

“What’s wrong?” he said with little interest. He feared, correctly, that this would be the start of a long and exhausting conversation.

The Snow Witch choked and cried bitch tears through a rambling, illegible flurry of tragedy. She spoke of greenhouse gasses, of rising temperatures, of Al Gore, and methane laced cow farts, and ice caps vanishing to nothing, and poor, cuddly, little polar bears swimming and swimming in search of ice but finding no place to rest, until they succumbed to exhaustion in the ocean’s depths. The Snow Witch spoke of all the horrors of global warming, that grim, invincible enemy, with his bony finger ever cranking up the world’s thermostat. She spoke of doom— a horrible, tropical fate— a world where a single snowflake would never again fall. Peter put the call on speakerphone, so he could listen hands free, and the Christmas elves passing through the room eased their haste, and looked towards Peter and the mournful phone call with confused and worried faces.

“Peter, honey. I’ve been watching the temperature and an hour ago it was -15°, but now it’s -14 ½°. I’m scared tomorrow it’ll be even warmer. Can you stop global warming for me?”

“I would totally love to end global warming for you. But the thing is, it’s more of an international issue that requires the cooperation of the entire world to—”

“You won’t even try to stop it for me?! You really don’t care if I live or die! You’re awful! You never do anything for me!”

This comment was particularly hurtful to Peter, as he had just sacrificed a good night’s sleep for her, a sacrifice that he was particularly proud of, and she had already forgotten it. So Peter resurrected himself from the floor and sleepwalked over to a small desk with an Underwood typewriter from the 1890s. With eyes half closed, and occasionally taking dictation from the Snow Witch, Peter typed a very poorly worded letter to the president of the United States.

And because he had the knowledge that this letter might never be read, and if it was read it would never be followed up on, Peter’s letter quickly grew insane, irrationally angry, and punctuated with death threats for the commander in chief, which the Snow Witch cheered on with great merriment, finding the whole display very romantic. For what girl wouldn’t find presidential assassination in her honor romantic? A sane one, perhaps? In the end, his letter looked something like this:

Dear Mr. President,

You worthless, weapons dealing, sack of Pizzagate shit. Stop embezzling tax dollars into your Swiss bank accounts for two goddamn seconds and fix global warming before my beautiful Snow Witch girlfriend melts into a puddle! Drop what you’re doing right now or my girlfriend and I will come down there to Washington D.C. and assfuck you to death with razor sharp icicles. Yes, this is a death threat, Mr. President! And no, we are NOT fucking around. Let’s see how well your retarded army of Ospreys and Warthogs can protect you when their engine intakes are frozen shut from four months of nonstop blizzards, motherfucker. Let’s see how important the US Petrol Dollar is after we bury the senate under 40 meters of ice! We have had it with all these looters and polluters! We know where you live! An avalanche of white phosphorous and mustard gas will rain down over the White House! We will massacre you! The screams of your family burning alive will usher in our new perfect world of endless winter! Fuck around and find out!

XOXOXO,

Peter S.

He read the letter back to her, working himself up into an anti-American fury towards the end despite his sleepiness, and the Snow Witch’s tears turned to sniffles, then calmed to peaceful melancholy.

“Thank you, Peter. You really do care about me. You’re such a great boyfriend.”

“Well… I try.”

The Snow Witch then requested he write similar letters to all one hundred senators, claiming that it would only take him a few hours. After a long, never ending goodbye, with both Peter and the Snow Witch listening for one another to hang up, and then asking if they had hung up or not, and then saying goodbye once again, and then waiting even longer for the other person to hang up first, Peter stood up from the typewriter. Was he seriously going to write a letter to each and every idiotic senator from his home country?

Would the Snow Witch ever find out if he didn’t? A part of him said to just forget it. It was a pointless task— a fool’s errand. But he thought a moment about his responsibilities as a boyfriend. If he truly loved her, then he would write the letters, even though they were dumb and pointless. So he sat back down at the typewriter and cranked a page of paper into the Underwood’s carriage. He wrote to everyone from Aaron Anderson of Arizona to Zachery Zouzaphone of Zyoming. He stuffed all the letters into envelopes, slathered his tongue across the glue and put them all with the outgoing mail.

Peter clapped his hands together and said, “There. Global warming solved.”

But no sooner had he finished his exhausting endeavor to send out death threats to every single US politician than he spotted an blonde elf tiptoeing around from shadow to shadow, as if trying to avoid someone, and he waved to her. She cautiously approached Peter and whispered to him, her hand covering her mouth, “Are you here to play snapdragon?”

Peter had no clue what she meant, but he said that snapdragon was his favorite game, so she grabbed his hand and pulled him away, off into the darker regions of Santa’s workshop, away from the assembly line, away from the warmth of the fireplaces, into the less frequented and more forgotten halls. Together they smuggled themselves into a dusty and shadowy room so full of secrets Peter decided that it was far too late now to ask what snapdragons was, as it would only out him as an imposter.