It was nearly the third week in December, and the North Pole was in full-blown chaos. Elves were hot-gluing glitter to Xboxes, reindeer were having disputes over who had senior sleigh rights, and Santa Claus himself—jolly though he tried to be—was on the verge of becoming North-Pole-Adjacent-Divorced.
"You promised, Nicholas," Mrs. Claus was saying, arms crossed, tapping her peppermint-painted nails against her teacup. "You promised me one night. One night I don't have to smell like nutmeg and play HR for ElfCorp."
"I know, sugarplum, but Macy's in Topeka booked me again. I can't cancel on the kids—"
"The kids will survive. But this marriage won't. Either we're going on this date, or I'm changing my name back to Carol and moving to Cancun with Craig. The hot, retired dentist?"
Santa gulped. Not Craig. Craig had veneers, abs, and a boat…
With desperation filling his jingle-bell soul, Santa flipped through his Rolodex. The elves? Too short. Easter Bunny? Of course not—he smelled like Peeps and wouldn't fit the suit. Tooth Fairy? Impossible—still on parole…
His fingers stopped on a card, the name curling in gold on an embossed plate: Muhammad—Prophet, Friend, Open to Odd Favors.
Santa picked up the rhinestoned, green-and-red telephone. "Yeah, Mo? Listen—you busy on the 23rd?"
Muhammad arrived at the mall in Topeka wearing Santa's backup suit: a hand-stitched, red imitation velvet monstrosity that smelled like mothballs and was slightly too puffy. "Ho, ho, ho," he rehearsed. "Okay, too forced." He cleared his throat. "Peace and seasonal blessings upon you, small consumer!" Better.
The mall manager, Linda, had a bob cut and the soul of a worn-out PTA president. She eyed him suspiciously over her clipboard as he ambled across the busy mezzanine, cutting a line through shoppers' two-way foot traffic. "You don't look like Santa," she said.
"Neither does Tim Allen. Yet here we are," Muhammad replied.
"Hm," was all Linda said, her face betraying nothing, and she turned, leading them toward the sprawling Christmas-themed winter-wonderland display that was the focal point of the mall's main concourse.
Children formed a long, winding line, accompanied by parents whose hot cocoa was laced with Jim Beam. Muhammad chuckled inwardly—he couldn't think of a better depiction of capitalism—earning him a scowl from Linda.
Muhammad mounted the three steps up into Santa's throne-like armchair then fell heavily into it.
…And it began. One by one, the children approached the faux-fireplace, climbed up, and plopped onto Muhammad's lap. The first was a young boy named Braxton. "Are you the real Santa?"
"I'm subcontracting."
"What's that?" Braxton asked.
"Little boy, Santa is on a date. I'm here to fill in."
"Santa goes on dates?"
"Only when Mrs. Claus threatens to burn down the toy shop."
"Oh. I want a Nintendo Switch."
"Very well. What else?"
"A goat."
Muhammad perked up. "Now that's a respectable gift."
Before he could ask why, another kid scrambled up without waiting his turn. "I want a Tesla," the boy announced.
"Child, you are seven."
"Yeah, but Daddy says depreciation is for poor people."
Then came a girl in sparkly boots, clutching a Starbucks cup bigger than her head. "I want an iPhone 16 Pro Max, the rose gold one, because all the other girls in my class have it and if I don't, my personal brand will collapse."
Muhammad blinked. "And what, pray tell, is your personal brand?"
She thought for a moment. "Glitter."
By the tenth kid, he was drowning in a wave of micro-entrepreneurs and brand strategists. One boy asked for a vending machine, "for passive income." Another wanted "seed capital" for a Play-Doh concept-startup. A kindergartner in reindeer pajamas solemnly requested "a diversified portfolio with modest risk exposure."
Somewhere between explaining that Santa does not, in fact, accept Venmo tips, and refereeing a dispute over NFT authenticity, Muhammad began to feel a strange thing… he was having fun.
Meanwhile, back at the North Pole, Mrs. Claus was twirling in a red dress last worn in 1847, the year she and Santa had renewed their vows. Santa, in his finest velveteen suit, absent of any soot stains or cookie crumbs, was handing her a snow-tini, garnished with crushed candy canes.
"You remembered," she said, blushing, eyes gleaming.
"Of course I did. I love you more than my—more than my sleigh."
She blushed harder. "Even with the turbo-thrusters Elon sent you?"
Santa leaned in close. "Even more than Prime Shipping."
Still at the mall, Muhammad was hitting his stride. He'd begun ad-libbing outrageous responses, pitching absurd gift combos ("A skateboard with built-in Wi-Fi!"), and somehow gotten the kids chanting "Hummus for All!" like it was a Christmas carol.
By the time an elf dragged out the karaoke mic for "Jingle Bell Rock," he was on his feet, pulling kids into an improvised conga line. Parents were filming; even the elves, at first skeptical, were now side-eyeing him with the grudging respect of colleagues who'd just been outperformed.
When the music stopped, a frazzled mom shouted, "We've been in line for forty-five minutes!" Without missing a beat, Muhammad called back, "That's called character building, my dear." Parents laughed, kids laughed, and even the mall security guard cracked a smile.
He found himself handing out life advice along with candy canes: "Don't trust anyone who says eggnog is better without nutmeg"; and "Buy your Legos second-hand—it's cheaper, and they're just as hard when you step on them."
By the time the mall's snow machine went rogue, dumping a blizzard's worth of foam over the display and shoppers alike, Muhammad didn't hesitate. He was on his feet, grabbing a broom, turning the mess into an impromptu "Sleigh Curling Championship" with the elves. Kids squealed and parents joined in the fun. And Linda—clipboard Linda—stood at the edge of the madness, her face softening as she took it all in.
She exhaled, then—without a word—flung her lanyard to a nearby elf and heel-kicked her shoes into the fake snow. With a running start, she belly-slid through the foam like a penguin on PTO, popped up whooping, banging her clipboard like a drum. "Left—right—shake!" she barked, inserting herself into the conga line with a strand of tinsel as a feather boa. Parents cheered; the elves stared, dumbfounded.
Later, after all the excitement finally died down, a winded Linda ambled over to Muhammad.
"You're not bad, Mo," she admitted, even if a little begrudgingly. "Maybe next year we make this official."
Muhammad tipped his Santa hat. "Only if I get hazard pay," he said, looking at the mess and the children playing.
Linda laughed—full, genuine, un-PTA-president laughter. "You got a deal." And they shook hands.
When Santa woke up the next morning, he looked younger, felt lighter on his feet, and smelled vaguely of Reindeer Cabernet. He slipped out of bed quietly so as not to disturb a very tired Mrs. Claus.
"How'd it go?" he asked Muhammad, who'd stopped by during Santa's second cup of hot chocolate and espresso.
Muhammad handed Santa the suit and boots, the hat, and a thick scroll with all the Christmas wishes he'd collected from the boys and girls in Topeka. "I was sneezed on by six-year-olds, emotionally manipulated by a girl named Kayleigh-Anne, and asked for crypto by a ten-year-old. You owe me one."
Santa clapped him on the back. "You're a real saint, Muhammad."
Muhammad arched his brow. "Please, Saint Nick is your thing. I'm just here for the hummus… and the hilarious cultural crossover."
They laughed.
Half a world away in Topeka, Linda filed the invoice under "Customer Delight" and added two line items—HUMMUS, HAZARD PAY.
HR had questions.