Good morning, Santa Claus. I trust you slept well — all guests at the Mason compound lie upon the finest high-thread-count sheets, pillow-top mattresses that cradle and cushion, and even double egg crates for additional luxury while slumb’ring.
And don’t worry about oversleeping — as you seemed very tired, I thought it best to instruct my servants not to wake you. You see, I wanted you to be rested, refreshed and invigorated, of sound mind and body and in perfect condition to fulfill my lone Christmas wish.
What do I want, you ask? An interesting question with an all-too-simple and satisfying answer, Mr. Claus:
I want you … to die.
Look into my eyes, Claus. See deep into my soul. Do you not understand? LOOK AT ME!
Surely my dispassionate gaze has chilled you to your very core. Mine has been a life of grand accomplishment, unthinkable pleasures and, at times, uneasy alliances. Such a life of leisurely luxury has allowed me to accumulate a vast fortune, as well as the time to pursue more … fantastic endeavors, such as the dark science of alchemy and the mystic art of telekarate.
Yes, it’s karate times telekinesis. Ha. Of course you wouldn’t understand. Your compatriots didn’t, either.
The Easter Bunny. Frodo Baggins. Andre 3000. El Chupacabra. Zach Galifianakis, from The Hangover on DVD. All of your fellow supernatural figments of contemporary popular culture scoffed at the notion of telekarate. That was before I vanquished them — first in Mortal Kombat for Genesis, then in mortal combat for reals — and stole their lifeforce.
Amid the easy perfection that is being Roger Mason Jr., one prize has eluded me. But no more. Here you are, trapped in my underwater castle, with only one way to escape.
That’s right: I am your Apocalypse, and I am come. Face me, Claus. Stare into the cold, dead eyes of your reckoning.