Santa Claus sat in his leather chair—the same one he'd occupied for the better part of three centuries—staring at his computer screen with the kind of confusion typically reserved for instructions written in Elvish. The North Pole's Wi-Fi connection crackled and stuttered as the video call connected, and there, pixelated and smug on his monitor, appeared Reginald Frostbottom III.
Reginald looked like what would happen if a spreadsheet gained sentience and invested in expensive cologne. His suit was immaculate, his smile was sharp as a letter opener, and his eyes held the warmth of a tax audit.
"Santa," Reginald began, not bothering with pleasantries, "we need to discuss your performance metrics."
Santa felt something ancient stir in his chest—a mixture of confusion and offense that had been dormant since the invention of the assembly line. "My performance metrics? Reginald, I've been running Christmas for—"
"Exactly," Reginald interrupted, shuffling papers that Santa could somehow hear through the screen. "Running it. Operationally, yes. But efficiently? Not even close. Your 'magical approach' doesn't scale. Your 'Christmas spirit' doesn't integrate with our new algorithms. And frankly, your resistance to modernization has become a liability."
Santa's white beard trembled slightly. "Reginald, Christmas isn't about spreadsheets. It's about joy, about bringing happiness to—"
"It's about quarterly earnings reports," Reginald corrected coldly. "And your outdated methodology is hemorrhaging money. That's why, effective immediately, I'm terminating your position as Head of Christmas Operations."
The words hung in the digital space between them like icicles waiting to fall. Santa's mind struggled to process what his ears had definitely heard. Centuries of service. Billions of children. Countless Christmas mornings. Gone. Via Zoom call.
"You're... firing me?" Santa heard himself ask, his voice smaller than it had any right to be.
"I'm modernizing," Reginald said with a thin smile. "You have until the end of the week to vacate the premises. Your severance package is being processed. Goodbye, Santa." The screen went black.
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