Stephen and Shirley sat in the glow of the Christmas tree lights, opening their gifts to one another. Bing Crosby sang on the stereo; the air was filled with the aromas of mulled cider and pine needles.

"What a perfect Christmas," Stephen said. "Snow on the ground, holiday movies on TV, my beautiful wife by my side. Perfect."

He grinned as he unwrapped his present from Shirley, already knowing what it was. Knowing because he'd only asked for one thing, and knowing because the gift's weight and shape meant it could only be ....

His smile faded as he removed the last shreds of wrapping paper. "What the heII is this?"

Shirley frowned. "It's your bowling ball, I thought you wanted —"

"Are you stupid?" Stephen said, glaring at her. "How silly of me to ask, of course you are. Sometimes I forget what a stupid woman I married."

He laid the ball on the couch and stood with shocking swiftness, his fingers wrapping painfully around her arm as he hauled her to her feet.

"I specifically asked for the red glitter swirl design with the gloss finish!" he bellowed, his face inches from hers. "You got me red marble instead. You idiot!"

He pushed her backward, raising his fist as though to strike her ... but he didn't. From outward appearances Stephen Grant was the perfect husband: the successful owner of a local business, a prominent member of the Martinville municipal council. He and his wife lived in a perfect house on a perfect street, and he knew better than to blacken one of Shirley's perfect eyes. He only left bruises that could be concealed by the clothes he picked out for her every morning.

"Thanks for spoiling my Christmas," he said, snatching up her unopened gift. "I'm returning this necklace. If you can't be bothered to give me what I specifically asked for, then I don't see why you deserve to wear this. Now then, where did you buy the ball?"

"Pete's Pro Shop," she whispered.

"Pete's! That's an hour away! Why didn't you buy it at Wiley's Sporting Goods?"

Disgustedly, he picked up the ball. "Where's the receipt?"

"The shopping bag is in the kitchen," Shirley said. "The receipt's in the bag." She listened as Stephen went to the kitchen and placed the ball in the bag. Then he stormed upstairs and slammed the bedroom door.

***

Shirley was making him breakfast when he came into the kitchen.

"Sorry about last night, darling," he said. "I was angry that you couldn't follow my simple instructions, but it's not your fault, is it? God gave you beauty, and you can't be blamed that he left you somewhat lacking in the brains department."

He kissed her forehead.

"No time for breakfast," he said, picking up the shopping bag from the pro shop. "Don't forget we're having the Paulsens over for lunch. I'll expect my trophy shelf dusted by the time I get back."

He whistled a Christmas song as he sauntered out the door.

Shirley calmly went into the living room, where she pushed a button on the answering machine.

***

Stephen was still whistling when he opened the door of Pete's Pro Shop. The overhead bell jingled.

Pete's son Earl was behind the counter, lacing some bowling shoes. "Morning, Steve! How'd you like the new ball?"

"The little lady got me the wrong finish," Stephen replied. "If you want something done right, do it yourself, eh?"

"Aw, don't be too hard on her," Earl said.

"I didn't even tell her it was wrong," Stephen said, smiling hugely. "Thanked her and gave her a big kiss. She thinks I'm just here to get the finger holes drilled."

"Got your receipt?" Earl said. "You know how my old man is about exchanges. Gotta follow the policy."

"No problem," Stephen said, fishing the receipt out of the bag and handing it to him. Earl brought it to the cash register, looked at the receipt again, and frowned.

"What's this?" Earl said.

"What's what?"

"This receipt. This is from Wiley's Sporting Goods."

"You're kidding," Stephen said. "She told me she bought the ball here. You said yourself that she bought it here."

"This isn't a receipt for a ball ... it's a receipt for a gun."

Stephen snatched the receipt away. It showed that Shirley had used her credit card to purchase a Colt handgun at Wiley's Sporting Goods a week before. At the bottom, his wife had written Call the house in blue ink.

Mystified, Stephen flicked open his cell phone and dialed his home number. The answering machine picked up. It was his wife's voice.

"Hi, you've reached Stephen and Shirley's house, except now it's just Stephen's house. Stephen's at the pro shop, which gives me just enough time to pack my bags. Martinville's most perfect resident is a wifebeater, and this is one wife who has finally had enough. If this call is for Stephen, leave a message after the beep. If this is a member of my family, I'll contact you when I'm in a safe place. I don't think Stephen will come after me, but in case he does, I've got a new gun and I'm prepared to shoot 'em off, if you know what I mean."

There was a long pause. Stephen stood very still, the blood draining from his face.

"Oh, and darling," his wife's voice said. "If you're looking for your bowling trophies, you'll find what's left of them at the bottom of the swimming pool. Have a happy New Year, you miserable piece of —"

BEEP!

“Hey you, I want to return this.”

“I see sir, and what is the reason for the exchange?”

“This just doesn't work for me. It has to be the lamest thing that anyone has ever given me.”

“Well let's see it. Hmmmm, this is our 'Peace on Earth, good will to all.' This is a very popular gift.”

“For Beauty Pageant contestants maybe. Peace on Earth is for the weak, let them have it.”

“Actually it is the meek who will inherit the earth.”

“Meek, weak, what's the difference?”

“Quite a bit --”

“I don't care. I don't want it. How am I going to make any money if everyone is at peace?”

“If you're at peace, you don't need money.”

“Don't need money? How will the world get along if no one needs money?”

“Very well I imagine.”

“If no one wants money, what is going to drive the economy? How can I sell cars and televisions and new fashions if people have goodwill. They need to compete. They need to want to be better than their neighbour. Nothing is better for business than some good old fashioned competition.”

“You could sell a lot of guns and bombs --”

“Now you are getting it. It's hate that drives the world. The more hate there is the more money there is to be made. The best is if people hate themselves.”

“It seems such waste, all those poor people desperately unhappy with who they are.”

“That's not a waste, that's opportunity! People will buy anything if you tell them it will make them happy.”

“But you can't buy and sell happiness.”

“Of course not, I don't want them to really be happy, then they won't spend any money.”

“So you lie to them.”

“Better than that. I get them to lie to themselves. 'If only I had a bigger car. If only I was better than the guy down the street. If only, if only, if only! Man I love those words!”

“If only you could think of others...”

“Pardon?”

“Sorry, just talking to myself. So what would you like in exchange for 'Peace on earth and goodwill to all'? We have some very nice 'Clean environment' or perhaps some 'Health'?”

“You have got to be kidding me! Clean environment, who cares about the environment? That won't make me any money? I'm all about profit.”

“But what kind of world are you giving to your children?”

“Bah, if my kids want a clean environment, let them deal with it. Now health... Do you mean health as in health care or health as in people aren't sick?”

“Health as in people are well.”

“Oh no, I can't have that. I don't mind selling stuff that supposed to make them well, but if they really are healthy, who will buy my drugs?”

“I see, then you won't want universal education either.”

“You got that right, smart people are terrible consumers.”

“So what do you want?”

“Well if Peace and Goodwill are bad for business, obviously War and Hate are good. That's what I want.”

“Do you want just that or the complete set?”

“Set?”

“The four Horsemen of the Apocalypse: Conquest, War, Famine and Pestilence.”

“You guys are good. I hadn't thought about the profitability of hunger. I'll take it. This is something I can really use to make money.”

“One warning, sir. You can't exchange them. If you take them, you are done.”

“Exchange them? Are you nuts? They're perfect.”

“This is your last chance. Are you certain you wouldn't rather have the 'Peace of Earth---'?”

“Heck no! Bring on the death and destruction...... This is going to be so good.”

“Here they come.”

“No, NO, not me you fools, them, get them!”

“Dear me, I should have warned you that they are no respecters of class or creed or nation. They will destroy whatever they see, and they see everything.”

“NOOOOoooooo............”

“Next.”

“Hey, I want to exchange my gift. Some fool tried to give me the gift of contentment. I don't want to be content, I want to be rich!”

“Mama! Look what Grandpa got us! A kitchen!”

Large sheets of wrapping paper drifted to the ground as my children began dancing around the four foot tall box. “Look, Mama, it’s even got a phone with it!”

“That’s nice,” I said with a tight smile. I mentally calculated the hours I would be spending that night assembling this newest place my egg beaters and colanders would be squirreled away to.

As soon as the kids moved on to another large box, I slipped the kitchen into my van with a heavy sigh. “Some assembly required,” the side of the box taunted me. Packaging for childrens’ toys was rarely honest enough to declare, “So much assembly required you’ll wish you’d picked up something else at a garage sale instead.”

That night, after tucking in the girls, I tore open the box and dumped the contents onto the ground. About five dozen pieces greeted me, all connected with plastic rails. After the better part of an hour I had two large piles next to me: One of viable parts, and another of scrap plastic. Then the real fun began: assembling all of these items together. I squinted at them, trying to make out their part numbers embossed on the inside of each them and digging through the massive pile for each connecting item. The whole time I grumbled about how I'd much prefer to be spending my time: reading my new books, soaking in my new bath salts, wearing my new robe, or any combination of the above.

Two hours later my irritation became fury: I was short about fifteen screws of one type and ten of another. Not only that, but my living room had become an obstacle course of pieces in various stages of assembly, the sticker sheet had affixed itself to my butt, and my brand new screwdriver set was beginning to look just a tad bit stripped.

A quick search on the internet led me to the store that sold this monstrosity, and so, armed with their phone number, I made a call:

“Hello, I’ve got a kitchen set that's missing a few screws...”

“Bring it in,” a bored sounding woman on the other end of the line ordered.

“Yes, but you see, it’s in pieces all over my living room, and-”

“We’ll also need the box and all the original paperwork.”

“But-”

“Thank you,” the woman said, as she hung up on me.

I looked at my living room floor: a pile of plastic rail in one corner, the box propped up as a visual guide in another, a dozen or so neat stacks of “things that will eventually go together.” A plastic frying pan rattled with my one remaining screw. Two manual screwdrivers, one electric screwdriver, and the wire cutters were balanced on top of the fake cooktop. The base and oven were connected firmly to each other and easily five times the size of the box they came in.

With a sigh, I dialed the store back.

“Hello, I was assembling a toy and seem to be short a few parts-” I told the person on the other end - a different employee this time, and one sounding no less enthusiastic than the first.

“Pack it back up and bring it in, and we’ll be happy to exchange it for you,” she told me.

“Yes, but you see, I just want the parts, I don't want to exchange the whole thing, and-”

“Do you have a receipt?”

“Well, um, no... but I just want to-”

“We’ll need the item or the receipt to pull parts out of another package. Our service desk closes in fifteen minutes. Thank you for shopping at -”

This time, I was the one who disconnected the call. Thinking perhaps they were less than helpful because a woman had called, I handed the phone to my husband.

After explaining the situation, I heard him say, “But I can’t get it back in the box... No, I don't want a new one. I want this one... No, we're not saying it's defective... Our PROBLEM is the fact that we’re short a few screws... No, we’re not bringing it back... What do you mean, you can’t help us, then?!... No, YOU have a nice day!” He slammed the phone down, and said, in a perfectly even tone, “You’ll have to take all that back apart.”

“Fine,” I said angrily. “You take it back apart, then.” I threw down the screwdriver and stomped off to bed.

The next morning, I walked downstairs to find the kitchen, assembled but listing dangerously to one side. “What did you do?!” I wailed to my bleary eyed husband.

“I put it together.”

“With what? Nails?”

“Um, actually...”

I reached over and gave the side of the kitchen a shove. It collapsed sideways. “You call that assembled?”

We spent an hour pulling out screws and nails and shoving the parts into the box. I helped my husband load it up to return to the store, and then braced myself for when the kids woke up and found themselves kitchenless. I had just finished my first cup of coffee when the phone rang.

“Hey, I was cleaning out the back of my truck,” my father said, “and I found a handful of screws. You didn’t need them for that kitchen, did you?”

He finished his last letter of the day with a sweeping stroke from a brilliantly ornamented fountain pen. After settling it back into its holder, he stood and retrieved his coat from the back of his chair. As he turned to start putting it on, his office door flew open with a start, crashing into the wall it was set in with a thunderous retort that echoed into the ceilings above, so far up as if to be invisible. The force rattled some ancient pottery precariously perched on a marble dais. A scrawny looking man stalked toward the desk.

"I'm sorry, my son, do you have an appointment?", God asked the man.

"Don't give me that 'my son' malarkey! You two-bit deity!", the man hollered back. Settling in front of the vast desk with his palms upon the surface, leaning toward God, who had sat back in his over stuffed leather chair.

It dawned on Skip now to look around at the strange decor in which, apparently, the creator of existence decided to spend his days in. Rich dark woods with intricate designs, baroque details and furnishings. He felt like he had stepped into Indiana Jones' office.

"..... I would have pegged you as more austere," Skip said at last, raising his finger now as he addressed the omnipotent one, who folded his hands across his paunchy torso, shrugged, and looked on curiously.

"You know why I'm here," he said, feeling rather silly at his dark insinuation. This was, after all, the all-powerful creator.

"I want out," he said, "of all of it, this piddling life you've given me, this cosmic joke of a lot in this world, all of it gone, take it all back," he concluded.

He felt rather insulted as God checked his watch, "Are you finished my son?" he asked quietly.

Feeling enraged now, Skip barreled onward, "Oooooooh, in a hurry are you?! No time to answer for your actions eh, big man? Everyone else what gets depressed with their daily misery and offs themselves gets sent to Hell, but levy some grievances against the creator and suddenly he's got no time to listen!" he shouted, "Well if I wasn't so ticked off I'd pray, but I'd much rather my hands choke that stack of dimes you call a neck, you twit!"

"Look," God said coolly, "I have a party to get to, if you could just-"

Skip made a mock gesture of surprise and humility as he backed off the desk, eyes wide, "Deary me! A party, Heaven forbid you're late," breezing past the irony of his casual sarcasm, "of course, it's Jesus' birthday! It always is this time of year. It also happens to be Skip Hannigan's birthday as well, but does that mean anything to anyone? Never!"

He grabbed a sharp gold pen from one of the holders on the desk, and brandished it at God, "you tell him to choke on his frankincense and myrrh, and if he wants to fight about it, I'll shove this gold pen some place no wise man could find!" he stabbed the pen weakly into the desk; it fell over and rolled off the edge with a clattering noise. Skip eyed it briefly before kicking it away.

God decided he had had enough, standing up straight now and growing to an enormous height, towering over Skip, who curled his hands into fists and puffed out his scrawny chest.

"You're very lucky I am a curious entity, Skip Hannigan, for if I were not, you would be riding a lightning bolt to the darkest depths of Hell right this moment, now speak your grievances and pray them fit, or suffer my wrath," his eyes flashed red, lightning smote an archway, "and bear in mind that I already know the outcome of this event, so you better try harder than that!" he finished, his face severe with anger.

"It's my whole life!" he shouted at his creator, "Nothing but a joke! My parents disowned me when I became a cheerleader! My sweetheart dumped me when I joined the chess team! My first wife died of shock when we won the lottery! My rotten son stole most of the money! He started a company that bought the one I worked for and fired everyone! My house was destroyed by a freak highway convection tornado! What does that even mean!? What does any of it mean? Was I just born to suffer!?" he shouted, as his small fists pounded his God's ankles.

"Yes," God called down to him, "is there anything else you'll be needing today?"

Defiant, and defeated, Skip called back, "Yes, do you think you could hook me up with Mary? She seems like a goer!"

Incensed now, God pulled his arm back. A black lightning bolt materialized that shot forth toward Skip, who fell upon the ground laughing at his victory before turning into a black scorch.

Dusting his hands after a job well done, he sat back on his chair as Jesus walked in, tapping his watch impatiently, "Why did you give him what he wanted, anyway?" he asked his father.

"I don't think I did," God said, striding around his desk, "unless he wanted to be reincarnated as a hermaphroditic prostitute in a Calcutta slum...", God grinned as he clapped Jesus on the shoulder, both sharing a hearty laugh as they exited the office.

Great Aunt Margaret waved goodbye as she got on the Dial-A-Ride bus. She
was the last guest to leave of the twelve that stayed the night and the
only one who had been invited for Christmas. At ninety years of age, she
had retained a lithe figure. Snow white curls framed a soft wrinkled
face and her bright smiling eyes disclosed a sharp wit, independence and
humor. She had insisted that she could get home on her own, declining
Grace's offer to drive her. Grace loved her aunt dearly and was sad to
see her leave.

Her husband's two sisters and husbands along with seven mis-behaved
children had shown up uninvited with sleeping bags and beer. They were
not unwelcome but Grace had wished they had called to warn her. The
gifts they gave were usually inappropriate and it was a given that she
would have to return some of them.

Closing the door, Grace turned to view the wreckage of her living room.
A large greenish Kool-Aid stain glared out of the beige carpeting, where
a nephew in a tantrum, had poured out his drink because he wanted
something else. A few toys and other gifts peeked out from among the
wrapping paper that was strewn across the dimly lit living room.

Christmas was over and Grace was grateful to her husband Tom, for
suggesting that he take the children to the movies, giving her the few
hours she needed to return her house to normal and allow her some alone
time.

It seemed a blessing to feel the quiet after the mind assaulting yells
of the men watching football and the bustling chatty women, each with
fool proof suggestions of how the ham should be baked and wild children
playing. Grace had taken her own two children aside and instructed them
to be polite when they opened their cousin's presents. Both had grinned
and nodded remembering past Christmases.

Grace knew she would soon have to busy herself in the kitchen, but the
living room was first. After filling two large trash bags and scrubbing
the stain, all that remained were the unwanted and forgotten gifts,
which seemed a bleak lifeless pile of goods with the tree lights
turned off and Christmas day passed. A sudden urge prompted her to open
all the window blinds and allow the winter sun light to flow in and
bring warmth back to the room.

Once the living room was cleaned, she went to the kitchen, which now
resembled a war zone. Grace's first thought was to bring in the garden
hose and flush it all out the back door. Laughing at the thought, she
set her mind to the task and started loading the dishwasher. An hour
later, she was content with a now sparkling kitchen and went back to the
living room to enjoy the solitude in her favorite arm chair.

She had not noticed the package pushed far behind the tree until she
was sitting down. Curious, she slipped down to her knees and crawled
under the tree to retrieve it. The tag read, 'To Grace from G.Aunt Margaret.'
"She never said anything about this! I'll call and thank her later." she thought,
knowing her aunt would not have had time to arrive back home.

Aunt Margaret lived on Social Security, so her gifts were things she
made or personal mementos from another time, such as a lovely cup and
saucer or finely crotchet scarves. Grace took the paper off, disclosing
a large white box now aged yellow with time. Removing the lid, it
contained a strange contraption made of wood. It had a thick handle with
a clamp at one end and five arms coming off the other end in
umbrella fashion. "What on earth?" Grace mumbled to herself.

"How can I call and thank her for this? What should I say?" Walking to
the computer she tried to describe it on search and got no answers. When
her husband returned home, he had no idea what it was either. "Well, it's
really old for sure. Maybe an antique dealer would know." he remarked,
then started thumbing through the yellow pages and calling until he
found one open. After a short conversation, he hung up the
phone."He wants to take a look at it Grace Let's go."

"Where did you get this?, the antique dealer asked.
"My great aunt gave it to me for Christmas." Grace replied.
"Well you have a real beauty here. It dates from the 1880's. It is a wool
winder. You don't see these very often. Its used to wind spun wool into
a coil. These arms fold in to take the coil off." demonstrating how it worked.
_________

Later, Grace dialed her great aunts telephone number.
"I wanted to thank you for your gift and apologize for not finding it
sooner."
With a titter of laughter, the old woman asked, "So, did you figure out
what it is?"
"Yes, its a wool winder."
"I'll be darned." the old woman giggled.
"Didn't you know?
"I sure didn't. Your real gift wasn't done in time, so I gave you that.
I figured you would find a use for it. I never did."

Grace hung the phone up laughing. "Maybe I'll learn to spin wool and knit. I certainly wouldn’t think of returning Great Aunt Margaret’s gift."

The saga of gift giving… it drains me just thinking about it. Finding the perfect gift requires no small effort. My brother on the other hand puts no thought or effort in the process at all. He’s stated many times he hates the season, and finds the whole idea of gift giving senseless and meaningless. We all shudder when it’s time to open his present. The only thing you can be sure of is the gift is useless and pointless. I believe he goes to a great deal of trouble to find such meaningless items. But he’d never admit it. This year, though, I had the last laugh. His present was remarkably useful and I smile just thinking about it.

Let me give you a bit of history. My wife left me in the middle of November. I had no clue she was unhappy. She always had dinner ready for me, like a good wife should. She kept our house spotless, and my shirts pressed. In return I gave her a generous grocery budget, and even gave her twenty dollars a week to spend, as she liked. I took her to dinner every third Friday of the month. Often followed by adult time in the bedroom. I shopped for the perfect Christmas and Birthday gifts. I even gave her roses on Valentine's day. Never chocolates though, they’re not good for her figure. A wife needs to maintain her figure for her husband. Sweets make that much harder. Anyway I digress.

I came home from my normal round of Saturday golf with my buddies, to find her bags packed by the front door. She told me she was leaving. She said her lawyer would be contacting me with specifics about the divorce. As I stood there stunned, a car pulled up and honked. A young man was driving. My wife threw her bags into the back seat, she got in the front seat with him, and they kissed and drove off.

Just as she’d said, three days later her lawyer contacted me. I can’t believe I didn’t see this coming. She wanted the house, all the furnishing and alimony! While our lawyers worked out the specifics, I ambled along.

I didn’t have much energy for shopping this year. For the first time ever, I resorted to gift cards. My family said they understood, but non-the less seemed disappointed. My brother was in fine form this year. Giving our Mother a rather hideous bra from Victoria Secrets, and our Father a bottle of lubricant he said would make their sex life come alive. My parents are in their eighties, and they were mortified. I was stunned speechless. Then my brother handed me my gift. I opened the rather large box with trepidation. As I un-wrapped the gift it slowly dawned on me what it was. Why on earth would he give me a termite farm? He laughed out loud at the look on my face. These are special termites he told me, ones that come from Australia. They’re known for their voracious appetites and resiliency to live and thrive under any circumstance. Virtually impossible to kill, these insects are the Kings of the termite world. He told me he was positive I’d find a good use for them, and perhaps learn from their organizational skills and tenacity for life.

The next day my attorney called. He said if I’d let her have the house and the furnishings, that he could limit the alimony to only a couple of grand a month. Still in shock, I agreed. We met later that day, and I signed the house over to her. That night while packing I kicked the wall in frustration, creating a rather large hole. Great, I thought, just great. At that moment the termite farm caught my eye. A smile spread across my face. I picked the farm up, and placed it inside the hole in the wall, breaking the glass of the farm as I did so. I then put plastic over the hole. The next morning I had our handy man fix the hole before I left.

I’ve got to say that this year I received the best present I’ve ever received from my brother. It will bring a smile to my face for many years to come.

It was a busy holiday season in hell. Apparently the term “peace on Earth good will towards men” had taken on new meaning, the newly damned were showing up on Satan’s doorstep with annoying regularity. He still couldn’t believe the two bozos that took each other out while shopping at a toy store. The day’s new arrivals had all been processed, and Satan shook his head in disbelief.

“Anybody have some good news for me?” he asked.

A minion came up with a gayly wrapped box complete with ribbon and bow. Satan started feeling the onset of a violent headache. “What is that?” he asked with some trepidation.

“It’s a Christmas present O evil incarnate,” the minion said.

“I can see that. Who sent it?”

“The accompanying card doesn’t say. It simply thanks you for all the years of running this place.”

“Wonderful, open it please.”

The minion complied with a tearing of wrapping paper. “Why sir, it is a comfy Christmas sweater!”

The prince of darkness was less than amused. “What by the angels am I supposed to with that down here?”

“Someone gave you a Christmas present. Perhaps it is going to be a cold day in...,” the minion felt the ground softening noticeably beneath his feet and decided not to finish the quote. “So maybe you could donate it to some charity?”

“Sure, and I can just see the headlines in the Weekly Enquirer: ‘Devil receives Christmas present, donates it to orphanage.’ And that does what for my reputation?”

“Didn’t the editors already sell you their souls for the Bradjolina baby pictures?”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t buy their loyalty. Those folks would push their grandmother in front of a train to sell papers. I can’t touch them until they end up on my doorstep. I think I am going to return the sweater for cash, and buy a Senate seat with the proceeds. What is the going rate on those these days?”

“I hear there is a cheap one in Illinois for sale. You will probably have change left over. Your anonymous gift-giver left a card in the box with the name of the store and the amount paid printed on it.”

Satan took the card and read it. “I should be back in 15 minutes,” he said, and transported himself to the mortal plane.

The minion shrugged. He was close to being incinerated once already today, no need to risk the dark one’s ire a second time.

Meanwhile Satan was finding out the problems with returning an unwanted present on December 26th. The line in front of him was long and full of cranky customers. Satan figured he had a good line of potential recruits, but he was really interested in unloading that sweater. He had arrived at the end of the line in mortal form, but had begun to rethink that strategy. Reality shimmered and he appeared in Satanic form with a host of minions, rats, bats, and the Detroit Lions. People turned and stared at him uneasily but nobody moved.

Satan scratched his head. “Aren’t any of you afraid?”

“Buddy, I have been standing in this line for six hours now. No way I am giving my place up.”

A little boy tugged at his mother’s sleeve. “Who is that mommy?”

“Santa Claus with a bad hangover,” she replied.

Satan had had enough. The woman exploded in a cloud of sulphurous smoke. Immediately everybody else in line decided they really wanted to keep their presents, and the line vanished. Satan strode up to the counter.

“I’d like to return this,” he said.

The woman behind the counter picked the sweater up and examined it much as you would handle a ten day old dead fish. “Yes sir, without a receipt though I can only give you the lowest sale price, which for this item was $9.99.

“The gift card accompanying the sweater said it was $79.95,” Satan pointed out.

“Sorry sir, that is not a receipt.”

“But you did sell these for $79.95 right?”

“That was the full retail on them.”

“Then that is what you need to give me.”

“I’m sorry sir, but unfortunately company policy states...”

“I’m sorry ma’am, but unfortunately my policy is to send anybody straight to Hell who says that to me.”

“Oh dear. Perhaps I should get my supervisor then.”

“Perhaps, and perhaps you should stand out of the line of fire when they arrive.”

The salesclerk scurried off in search of a more eminent personage as Satan tapped his fingers on the counter. Satan waited for a suitable period of time, then went behind the counter to see what the delay was about. He spied a likely door - closed - with voices coming from behind it. He incinerated it with a glance, and there stood the salesperson and the supervisor arguing.

“This is the gentleman I was talking about,” the salesperson said unnecessarily and immediately practiced the first rule regarding catastrophes: she got out while the getting was good.

The supervisor had just started stammering when Satan filled his office with rabid hell rats. The supervisor pulled four twenties out of his wallet and handed them to Satan who grabbed them and vanished taking the hell rats with him.

The supervisor took a bottle of Christmas cheer out of his bottom drawer and immediately started making plans for a long overdue vacation.