Carni's Note: Attention to all of you who believed the summary: Be warned now that none of that is taking placenot even the BDSM fiend part. That's right, we lied. This story has nothing to do with heart-warming Christmas cheer. In fact, it deals with the kidnapping of Mr. Claus' heir, L Lawliet, and Light Yagami's rise to power. If you want the heart warming tale, I suggest you look at the fic nextdoor, the one about Wammy's Christmas. You know the one I'm talking about. To the rest of you, who have read this author's note and wish to continue (or to those of you who have skipped this note entirely): Congratulations, you are our kind of people. Sit back, laugh, and enjoy.

Mistletoe Makes Everything Better

New York Times—11/06/09


[…is found dead in the bathtub after suffering from a severe heart attack]

On November the Fifth, the unfortunate Mr. Claus, with his rosy cheeks and his great white beard, was found deceased on the bathroom floor. An autopsy at a hospital in Greenland later showed that the Grandfather of Christmas suffered a heart attack—no doubt the result of his rather fattening diet.

Remember those cookies we left out every Christmas Eve? Remember those sugar-filled treats we left out for him in front of the chimney, with a glass of milk on the side? Yes, dear reader, we are to blame for the death of dear Mr. Claus. It was our hands, covered in oven mitts, that pulled those cookies from the oven and encouraged the clogging of his arteries.

We must ask ourselves: Did we truly believe he was immortal? That any man could survive so many blasted cookies? When we were children, weren't we told to watch our weight and never to eat one cookie—let alone a dozen at every house in the world? Well?

Mrs. Claus was reported to be very upset at the death of her husband, and with no heir directly in line for Mr. Claus, it appears that Christmas will have to be pushed back to May. I hope you're happy, fat, and as much of a bastard as ever, you sick American pigs. You ruined yet another holiday—wasn't the Easter bunny enough?

Angry, disgruntled, and once again losing faith in humanity, this is your reporter, Mihael Keehl, about to get fired from his job.

Now, to entertain you on page 4B, there is a picture of a bunny with a pancake on his head. If there isn't, someone in the picture department is going to have Hell to pay—"Hell," meaning the bribe I gave them during the lunch hour.

Good night, New York City.

Santa baby, slip a sable under the tree, for me

The Underground Messenger—11/12/09


[…apparently under the influence of some form of bizarre blood compulsion]

Welcome to the Underground Messenger, newspaper dedicated to discovering the real story of the strange case of Mr. Claus and his rather unfortunate nephew. Personally, I believe he was addicted to heroine and was dating some crack-whore he found in an alley. That's my theory. This newspaper is dedicated to the truth regarding Mr. Claus and all his affairs: What was his crack-whore's name, who put the arsenic in his milk, and more! As you know, today, Santa's heir was revealed during an Interpol meeting to be the detective L (otherwise known as the Greatest Detective in the World).

But what was the truth? Did he come out with this declaration in joy, in rage, in sorrow? Your reporter, Mello, recently fired from the New York Times staff, used his inside connections with the mafia to get the truth.

Apparently, in what seems to be a complete mental collapse at exactly 11:53 a.m., L blurted out the fact that he was Saint Nicholas' long lost heir come to claim his throne. He immediately took back the proclamation and began cursing in Arabic. Of course, his mouth then spewed out that he wasn't lying, which is about the time he started swearing again.

Watari was reported to have stood rather awkwardly, not quite sure what to say to his benefactor's mental break down as he waited for it to be over. But it was not. Due to DNA testing performed, it was found that L Lawliet is indeed Santa Claus' heir, and was compelled by some genetic fluke ("the power of Christmas," the fanatics would say) to claim the identity of Santa Claus.

This gene in Santa's line might also be called magic, the magic that allowed Mr. Claus to dedicate his entire existence to supplying the joy of Christmas. In person, L is reported to be a pale, frighteningly thin, dark-haired young man that reminds one of a corpse, more than the bearded fat man we have all come to love so dearly. The poets have already begun to write of the horrors that shall ensue.

'Twas the night before Christmas

and there was no 'all through the house'

because the people were hiding

they even took the mouse*

Could this be the end of dear old Santa Claus?

By the by, check out page 3C; there's a lovely picture of Santa Claus trying to be a nude Marilyn Monroe…. I'm serious. Our editor has a bit of a Santa Claus fetish…

*Yes, it's terrible poetry. I don't care. This newspaper can't afford to fire me; I'm their only source of income. So HAH.

I've been an awful good girl

The Tree of Knowledge—11/16/09

Meet Jolly Old Saint Nick's Replacement

L Lawliet, otherwise known as the former detective L, sat rather glumly on The Tree of Knowledge's stage, avoiding the gaze of the camera. Placing several cubes of sugar on his tongue (the camera man later reported that it had been at least five), he proceeded to swallow them, then dropped even more into the milky cup of tea before of him. Perched on the armchair like a crippled black bird (because even healthy black birds didn't hunch quite that drastically when they sat upon a branch), he watched the host of the show attempt to conduct an interview. At this point, the poor man appeared to be trying not to cry out, "What the hell are you doing?"

"So, Mr. Lawliet, it is reported by the workers at the North Pole and Mrs. Claus herself that you are the sole heir to Mr. Claus's position as Father Christmas." Matsuda shuffled his cards and smiled as he waited for the man to respond; it took a good minute before the man lifted his dark eyes from his tea and sugar cubes, and another minute passed before he said anything at all.

"Unfortunately," was all he said after the pause, helping himself to the plate of cookies that was supposed to be used for decoration. Obviously, he didn't care about the artful arrangement of Christmas decor.

"Do you think you are prepared to take on the role of Father Christmas? After all, it is a very hefty responsibility, and you have a lot to live up to. Your late uncle, Mr. Claus, was deemed a saint back in the fifteen hundreds, and you're so… young." Matsuda gave off a small laugh, attempting to pass off the awkward joke, yet failing. The producers were cringing, but if they didn't conduct the interview, ten other shows would snatch the opportunity up, and they would be screwed in the ratings.

"Nicholas Claus, a saint, wasting his life away on snot-nosed, spoiled little brats who want the next Guitar-Hero for Christmas. Is that what being a saint entails? Two days ago, I was a detective—the best detective in the world to be exact. I worked my way from the status of an orphan to become one of the most powerful men on Earth, and you want me to become a saint. How charming. By the way, I'm not young. I'm at least two centuries older than you." The cookies disappeared rapidly as the man's monotonous tone swelled out towards the audience, which was composed mainly of snot nosed spoiled brats who wanted Guitar-Hero for Christmas.

"Yes, well, spreading joy is a part of Christmas, isn't it?" Matsuda ignored the jab on his age and proceeding to the next question.

"When I was twelve, I was working my ass off sending rapists and murderers to prison. What the hell would I know about joy?"

By this time, the audience (the ones that hadn't turned off the television at the word 'hell') realized that he was attempting to start a riot.

"Yes, well, you did, two days ago, give up your identity as the detective L in order to succeed your uncle. So I have to assume this is your choice. You do understand that you're a hypocrite."

"You think I wanted to stop being a detective? You think I want to squeeze down a chimney every night, working my ass off for no pay but a pile of burnt cookies? Because these, by the way, are terrible. They taste like cardboard."

Someone had neglected to inform Mr. Lawliet that the cookies were cardboard.

"No, I hate children. I grew up in an orphanage because I couldn't stand children. I would rather be sitting, water-logged, in the middle of England than ever go back to the North Pole. Do you know what it's like there? They sing. All the time. It's the most mentally disturbing place I have ever visited. You want to reform criminals, you want to torture a terrorist? Send them up North; they'll be well-treated. So the answer is, I never wanted to take this position, I hate every second of it—but I have no choice."

Matsuda stared blankly at the detective, with his interview ruined, his audience in shocked tears, and his producers gathering the pitch forks and torches.

"Yes, well then. Next question." Awkward throat-clearing. "Tell me, Mr. Lawliet, how you will manage to grow the beard and gain the weight in time?"

"Perhaps your children will have to learn to get used to seeing a man that looks like an anorexic rapist rummaging through their stockings."

No one spoke, no one whispered; the emergency broadcasting signal came on, and Matsuda decided it was high time he cut to commercials and get fired from his job.

Santa baby, and hurry down the chimney tonight

Scourge's Note: If you loved it, reviews would be splendid; if you thought it was moronic, reviews would be splendid; if you wanted to burn your computer screen, reviews would be splendid. If you want me to jump off a cliff for even conceiving of this notion, reviews would also be splendid. (Because this was my fault. Entirely my fault. Carni should not let me convince her to actually write out the parody plot bunnies.)

Also, Carni is in denial. The BDSM does happen.