Ridin’ With Santa

You are pretty much out of ideas as to the whereabouts of the hot, adulterous wife. You bring Santa out into the sunlight, because he is looking like he could use some Vitamin D. And the Grind Room smells really, really bad. Kind of like someone boiled an expired Hot Pocket in a strip club.

“Shame about Bieber, huh?” you say, trying to make some small talk.

Santa doesn’t respond, and when you look over at him, he’s holding a syringe in his teeth while tying a red strip of cloth around his arm.

“That oughta do it,” he says.

“You should probably take that inside.”

As you utter that last line of dialogue, a cop walks up to see what is going on.

Cop: “If you boys are gonna party out here, it’s gonna cost you a few – Holy sh*t! I didn’t realize it was you, Figgypudding. And Santa, I see you still like to have a good time.”

You: “Yeah, just gettin’ some air. Hey, maybe you can help me. This might be a long shot, but do you know anything about the hot, adulterous wife? I’m looking for her.”

Cop: “Funny you should ask. I busted up a teenage drinking party last night. It was a total sausage-fest, but I’ve never seen so many giddy, acne faced vagrants. Either a giant homosexual gang-bang had just occurred, or the hot, adulterous wife was out there.”

You: “Where was it?”

Cop: “Out at the mayor’s place, Appletree Lodge. It was his son’s shindig.”

You: “Mayor Appleman’s, eh? Hey Santa, saddle up, we’re goin’ on an adventure!”

Santa (stumbling around, bumping into passersby and street signs): “Uhhh, ohh, alright, just let me get a little more, ah crap. Not to be a buzzkill here, but I’m pretty sure I may have overdone it.”

Do you:

Take Santa with you anyways, even though his overindulgence could quite possibly lead to your ultimate demise. Or not. But maybe. But maybe not.

Leave Santa to die on the street.

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