#x mas

The Santa beard itched, the velvet coat was stifling, and the faint, unsettling scent of old prop dust was already winning the war against the Cardinal's cologne.

Cardinal Copia stood center stage, fighting to maintain a beatific, jolly smile for the camera—a smile that felt increasingly strained with every ticking second of this Sinsmas obligation.

"A touch more... wicked joy, everyone!" the Cardinal instructed, throwing his gloved hands out in a pose of forced benevolence.

"This isn't just a holiday photo. This is a statement! The Ministry wants the perfect blend of yuletide cheer and pure, unadulterated marketing potential. Let's give them Sinsmas, Ghost style!"

Behind him, the seven Nameless Ghouls—a formation of shimmering, gold-sequined turtles—were radiating the thick, tangible resentment of highly effective band members forced into highly flammable knitwear.

In front of the set, near the camera set up on its tripod, Plushia was perched on a big, sturdy stool, his small, black camera clutched in his tiny felt hands.

He slowly lifted one tiny felt arm and made a precise "tilt" gesture with his hand, pointing toward the group.

Copia caught the signal immediately. "Aether, could we perhaps tilt the mask? A subtle look of Sinsmas anticipation, if you please?"

Aether slowly, deliberately, tilted his mask down about an eighth of an inch, then settled back into his previous posture, crossing his arms.

The silence that followed was heavy and metallic.

Copia let out a quiet sigh into his synthetic beard, smelling mothballs again. He wiped a small bead of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, careful not to smudge his black eyeliner.

"No, no, that won't do," he chirped, regaining his resolve. He was going to get this right.

He was determined.

"The goal is 'Humbug, but make it marketable!' Now, Ghouls, let's try the pose with the aggressive jazz hands, shall we?"

Cardinal Copia clapped his gloved hands together.

The seven figures in gold sequins lifted their hands.

The resultant "jazz hands" were neither jazzy nor aggressive; they were a collective display of slow, stiff, metallic finger wiggles that looked more like seven very reluctant spiders struggling to climb a wall.

Plushia, perched on his stool, issued a series of frantic, squeaky clicks from his little camera. He swung his tiny felt arm dramatically, indicating they needed more oomph.

Copia sighed, recognizing the visual deficiency. "More passion! Think of all the sins you haven't committed yet! Dewdrop, arch your back! Phantom, your hips need to pop! Rain, look less like you're waiting for a dental appointment!"

This continued for ten punishing minutes. Plushia, operating as a miniature tyrant, guided the group through a ridiculous series of required poses: "The Sequined Squat," "The Defiant Disco Point," and "The Melancholy Mime-in-a-Turtleneck."

The Ghouls looked less demonic and more like highly awkward interpretive dancers, their golden sweaters shimmering with every ridiculous, forced movement.

Slowly, however, a shift occurred in the Cardinal.

Watching the sheer absurdity of the scene—the gold knitwear, Plushia's furious tiny directions—something clicked.

Copia started to genuinely chuckle, the sound muffled by the Santa beard but still audible. His frustration began to melt into a bizarre sort of professional pride.

"Sí! Yes, yes, that's it, everyone! We're almost there!"

...

Suddenly, Copia had a realization. The Ghouls' forced, ridiculous poses were not the perfect picture.

The problem wasn't the clothes; it was the direction.

Copia pulled the velvet lapels of the Santa coat into a sharp, commanding V-shape.

He planted his feet wide, settling into a stance of pure, unadulterated, kick ass confidence.

He leaned forward slightly, holding both gloved hands up, palms open and fingers splayed, as if conjuring the spirit of Sinsmas itself.

His gaze was sharp and centered, his whole body emanating a powerful, stern energy that belonged on a world stage, not in a cheap, yet overly pricey, holiday calendar.

He was still Santa, but he was a Santa who owned the intellectual property rights to the Pole and demanded results.

He ran a quick, careful finger under his black eyeliner to ensure no smudging.

"Forget the jazz hands!" he declared, his voice ringing with renewed conviction. "We keep the sweaters! We keep the suit! But we scrap the cheerful nonsense. Plushia, dear boy, zoom in on my pose! Ghouls, just hold still and be yourselves! This is the shot! This pose, Ghouls, is Sinsmas!"

The response was silence. Seven gold-sequined figures did not move. They did not pose.

Rain slowly, deliberately, put his hands back down, a gesture that spoke volumes of metallic, turtlenecked defiance.

Copia's magnificent posture crumbled.

He dropped his arms and brought his hands together in a dramatic plea, pushing the stiff Santa beard up slightly to give the Ghouls full view of his most desperate expression: puppy dog eyes.

He sank to his knees.

"Per favore!" he whined, his voice high and wounded. "Please! Just this once? For me? My career depends on this calendar! I can't afford to lose my Ministry soda machine rights!"

The Ghouls remained motionless. Copia realized his ego wasn't enough.

"Very well," he sighed, standing upright again. "You don't have to do it for me, but..."

He reached slowly into the deep pocket of his velvet Santa coat and pulled out a small, gray bundle: his pet rat, Rosina.

Copia gently held Rosina up to his chin, the gray creature nestled safely against the white trim of the suit.

He and Rosina simultaneously gave the Ghouls the full, heartbreaking force of their puppy dog eyes, amplified by the quiet squeaks Rosina made.

A collective, massive sigh escaped the Ghouls.

It was the sound of utter defeat.

Slowly, reluctantly, their golden-sequined bodies relaxed, settling into the poses that were their true selves.

"Thank you, my angel," Copia whispered to Rosina, kissing her tiny head before carefully slipping her back into his coat pocket.

Restored and determined, Copia snapped back into his pose. "Plushia! Get the shot! Now!"

Plushia clicked his tiny felt hands together, then swiftly pressed the shutter button on his camera.

...

Cardinal Copia was now in his sharp, red cardinal attire, seated in the Ministry's stark white employee break room.

He smiled, holding a steaming mug of coffee as he looked at the Sinsmas photo that was in the annual calendar.

The image was perfect: Copia, centered in the Santa suit, radiating stern, powerful confidence.

Flanking him, the seven Ghouls in their gold sweaters looked utterly miserable, yet perfectly still—the embodiment of "Humbug, but make it marketable!"

Rosina, perched contentedly on his shoulder, squeaked softly.

Copia gently stroked her fur. "I agree, my darling. It turned out perfectly. Now, let's see what month features--"

Copia flipped through the calendar pages, pausing, then slowly pulling the whole calendar closer to his face.

On the page for March, where a Ghoul was supposedly featured, the metallic head was cleanly replaced by a small, fuzzy, printed picture of Plushia's head.

He flipped to June, then to September.

Every Ghoul body in every subsequent month had been meticulously decapitated and replaced with Plushia's tiny likeness.

"Huh?" Copia tilted his head, utterly confused.

He looked back at the glossy print of his Sinsmas photo and let out a huge sigh of relief.

At least his successful group shot was safe.

He slowly turned in his seat.

Plushia was sitting innocently on the break room table, a bottle of industrial-strength craft glue and a tiny pair of scissors resting neatly beside him.

Copia stared at the evidence, a slow smile spreading across his face.

He chuckled, shaking his head.