Santa, Baby

Santa wipes his brow, taking a break. Out behind his workshop. Elves refuse to help. Understandable. Prefers to do this work by himself anyway.

Most of the reindeer graze here, because no snow settles on the cemetery. Maybe it's the fertile ground causes their magic. Noone really knows. He sure doesn't know.

Speaking of fertile, the elves sure are. Good thing too, or Santa killing them off might have undesirable consequences. Still thousands of the randy little motherfuckers, scurrying 'round the shop, getting into all sorts of mischief.

Besdies, Santa has to blow off steam somehow. Stress of the job.