A tiny bead of sweat dripped down from his jolly red cheeks. The elf pulled his sparkling white gloves back, tightening over his forearm. “Steady is the hand that guides the sword,” he whispered with a chuckle.
“Stand down, little one,” the dragon thundered, thrusting out its wings to their full expanse. It was nearly twice the size of a commercial airliner, and three times as miserly. “You will surrender that sack, or I shall relieve you of it.”
Santa pulled a Scottish Claymore from the bag and settled into position. “Not today, Mushu. I wasn’t always a toy distributor.”