Santa took a deep swig of the martini and set it down beside the sink. He looked at himself in the mirror. "Now let's get out of all this crap," he said. Starting just below his right ear, he peeled the beard off slowly, then contentedly scratched the mildly irritated skin underneath. Then he unzipped the fat suit and stepped out of it.
Standing nude before the mirror, Santa flexed his massive pectorals and slapped the rippling muscles of his belly. "That's more like it," he said. He polished off the martini with a sigh and headed for the shower.

Later that night, Santa was awakened by the buzzing of the comlink on his endtable. He pushed the beautiful young elf girl's head off his chest and hit the answer button.
"Yeah?"
"Santa?" It was the voice of the President of the United States.
Santa was unimpressed. He was used to calls such as this. "Who the hell else would it be?"
The President cleared his throat nervously. "Santa, something big has come up. Code purple."
"Purple, huh?" He got out of bed with a groan. "Tell the Pentagon I'm on my way."

In a heavily shielded room far beneath the Pentagon, Santa Claus sat at a massive table surrounded by generals and government officials. The President of the United States sat opposite him. The far wall of the room was dominated by an enormous viewscreen. There was an uncomfortable silence. At last the President spoke.
"Santa, we're in trouble. As you know, Code Purple indicates that an American pop-culture icon has gone bad."
Santa shuddered. Of all the nightmarish scenarios envisioned by the boys in the intelligence community, Code Purple was the worst. "Who is it?" he asked. Probably Madonna, he thought. Or Kevin Costner.
The President gestured, and the giant viewscreen lit up. "We got this image from one of our super-secret spy satellites in stationary orbit over Southern California," he said.
"Oh, my God," said Santa. "It's Walt Disney's brain."

Santa's head was still reeling from the briefing as he piloted his sleigh back to the North Pole. Walt Disney was one of the few people on Earth whose popularity rivalled his own. And Disney was technically dead, to boot. It was a difficult situation. Who could have imagined that Disney's brain, kept in cryogenic suspension since his death in 1968, would have gotten freezer-burned and turned evil? Or that it would have developed telekinetic powers and was at this moment psychically controlling the CEO of the Disney Corporation, Michael Eisner, forcing him to create an army of genetically engineered Disney characters with which to enslave the world?
At last the lights of the North Pole landing strip came into view through the clouds. I need reinforcements, Santa thought.

Santa sat behind the big desk in his office and hit the comlink. "Get me Menschentodt!" he barked. Kurt Menschentodt was the head of Santa's special forces unit, Kringle's Kommandoes.
Soon the burly elf was standing at attention in front of Santa's desk. He was dressed head to curly toe in black. "You have employment for us, sir?" he asked in a quiet Germanic voice.
Santa Claus leaned back in his leather chair, which creaked ominously. "Let's just say we have an exterminating job ahead of us," he said. "We have a few mice to kill."
He dismissed the assassin after a brief description of the problem. Now his mind turned to thoughts of relaxation. That cute little elf in accounting with the big hooters, he thought. Yes. He started humming "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" as he reached for the comlink.

Santa huddled with Menschentodt and a hundred-and-fifty combat-hardened elves behind the cars in the Disneyland parking lot. He carried his favorite weapon slung over his shoulder: a TW B-4000 electronic pulse-rifle with a tac-nuke grenade launcher and a computer-driven laser scope. He was stripped to the waist, and his bulging muscles gleamed in the Anaheim sun. He brought a pair of Swiss-optics military binoculars up to his eyes and scanned the entrance to the theme park. A tall, lone figure moved there, dressed in an old-fashioned black suit and stovepipe hat. Santa handed the binoculars to Menschentodt.
"It's the Abraham Lincoln robot," said the elf.
The Lincoln robot had by this time gotten close enough to their position for them to hear it. "War is a futile endeavor," it said in sonorous tones.
Menschentodt whispered, "They used Royal Dano's voice for that thing."
"Yeah," Santa muttered. "And from what I hear, they never paid him for it, either." He stood up and unslung his rifle, leveling it at the approaching ex-president.
"A nation divided against itself cannot stand," said the robot.
Santa Claus bellowed, "Come on, boys! It's just another politician!" and shot Lincoln in the knees. The stately figure fell flat on its face and lay there, quivering.
With a mighty battle yell, Kringle's Kommandoes vaulted over the hoods of Toyotas and Fiats and rushed the Disneyland gate.

Santa crouched behind a pretzel vendor's cart near the submarine ride to catch his breath. The smell of burning puppets from 'It's a Small World' still stung his nostrils. The battle for Main Street had been vicious. His troops had been attacked by an entire platoon of Goofies. The Goofies were lousy shots, and it should have been simple enough to pick them off, but they moved so clumsily that it was difficult to tell when one had been wounded. His troops ended up shooting most of them seven or eight times. It had not been good for morale.
Menschentodt came running up and crouched beside him. He had one of Donald Duck's legs tucked into his belt as a trophy.
"We found out where their command is holed up," he gasped, out of breath. "Fantasy Land. 'Mr. Toad's Wild Ride.'"
"That's right around the corner from 'Alice in Wonderland,'" said Santa. He cocked his rifle. "Let's go."

They burst through the drawing room of 'Mr. Toad's Wild Ride' with guns blazing. Mickey Mouse jumped out from behind a bookcase, spraying them with fire from an AK-47. Santa calmly took aim and blew Mickey's head apart, sending one round black ear sailing through the air like a bloody frisbee.
On the way inside the ride, Dumbo lunged at them brandishing a machete with his trunk. Menschentodt put a hole in his stomach big enough to drive a '67 Buick through. He turned to give the thumbs-up sign to Santa when Dopey caught him in the chest with a fire axe. Santa whisked a broadsword off the gore-spattered floor and beheaded the menacing dwarf. Then he kneeled beside his dying friend.
"I...I think this is it," wheezed Menschentodt, a bubble of blood forming in the corner of his mouth.
"Don't be ridiculous," said Santa. "You've pulled through worse than this. Remember the Argentine campaign? Or the time you took that bullet that was meant for me back on Zanzibar? Or..."
But by that time Kurt Menschentodt was dead.
"Elves," said Santa, disgusted. "Look at 'em crosseyed and they croak." He returned to the fight.

Wading through a torrent of bullets and belching flame, Santa and his elves came at last to a massive steel door. It looked impenetrable. Santa sat down on the floor and started prying the heel of his boot off with the point of a bayonet. It came loose, and he withdrew from the cavity within a couple of ounces of high-yield plastic explosive. He handed it to one of the Kommandoes.
"I always carry that for emergencies," he said.
The elf placed the wad of explosive at the base of the door, inserted a detonating device, and dove for cover. There was a bright flash of light, a loud "crump!" sound, and the door was gone. Santa was first through the breach.

What greeted Santa Claus' eyes was not in the least what he had expected. Micheal Eisner sat unpeturbed at the head of a long wooden table, flanked on either side by a row of grim-faced men wearing business suits and power ties. Each had a briefcase in front of him. In front of Eisner was a glass jar with a human brain floating in it. Santa raised his rifle to end this reign of family-oriented terror. Eisner merely smiled.
"You are hereby ordered to cease and desist all hostilities against Michael Eisner and all employees and genetically engineered creations of the Disney Corporation by order of the Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals of the City of Anaheim, California," intoned one of the men in business suits.
"What?" said Santa.
Eisner stood up slowly. "Santa Claus," he said, with a malicious glint in his eye, "I'd like to introduce you to a few friends of mine."
Santa's stomach sank. He didn't stand a chance, and he knew it.
They were the infamous Disney lawyers.

Santa sat morosely on his throne. There were more kids than ever today. It was only ten o'clock, and already his lap was sore and his back hurt. He turned to the pimply-faced kid playing an elf on his right and said, "Tell management I'm taking a coffee break."
The kid stared at him, then shrugged. He probably doesn't even speak English, thought Santa. None of these assholes at EuroDisney does. He made his way to the access tunnel leading to the cafeteria.

Clutching his styrofoam cup in his hand, Santa sat at a booth as far away from the cash register as he could get. I can't believe it, he thought as he sipped at the bitter black liquid. Santa Claus optioned by Disney. My God.
A teen-age girl in a fluffy Donald Duck sweater approached him carrying a small, spiral-bound notebook. Her nametag read "Suzie."
"Oh, Santa," she gushed. "I'm your biggest fan! Santaland is my favorite part of the park! Could I please have your autograph?"
Santa took the notebook from her and opened it up to the first blank page. I wonder what kind of tits she's got under that sweater, he thought. He glanced at the previous page. It was signed by Robert Goulet. He signed the book with a halfhearted flourish.
"I will have my revenge," Santa said suddenly. The girl visibly started, then backed away mumbling thanks. Santa Claus paid her no mind. "Revenge," he repeated.
His coffee slowly got cold.