He read each and every one. He could predict the future for a few with their greedy demands. Some didn’t ask for toys but acts that guaranteed he’d see them eventually. Pretty much everyone past the baby stage ended up crossing the Styx.

Polkie set the tray down, the stack of mail so high that when it toppled, it covered Satan’s massive desk. So many letters. He wiggled his fingers over the pile, trying to choose the first one.

“You look like a hungry pervert,” remarked his wife.

Gaia sat knitting spider webs, fresh from the spinneret glands, while their two youngest played in the corner. Junior fired live rats at Lucifer’s giant, meat-eating Venus meat trap while Jujube giggled and clapped. Daddy’s little hellions. Wait until they saw what he’d got them for the most horribly amazing holiday of the year.

Hating Christmas led to him taking steps to ensure it got ruined. However, his efforts were nothing compared to what one Nikolas Claus accomplished. Turning it from Charlie’s—formerly known as Jesus—birthday into a thing with its own set of decorations, happiness, joy.

Gross.

Lucifer fought back, introducing the greed aspect as people asked for more and more, turning it into a commercial event. A parody of what it used to be and a moneymaker that sent sin spinning off the charts. Christmas brought out the greedy bastards in his life.

“I am hungry to bask in the love of my fans.” He stroked the pile of letters.

“They’re not your fans. You stole Santa’s letters. Again,” Gaia stated without stopping her stitching. Her fingers flew, the needles clacking away, making who knew what. Didn’t matter. He’d tell her it was wonderful because not even the devil was dumb enough to piss off his wife. Why just last week he’d been reminded of this lesson when she asked him if she’d gotten fatter and he said he liked the new curves.

Wrong answer.

The Bahamas got their first deep freeze, which everyone blamed on climate change. Idiots. As if she cared about pollution. Gaia had a way of cleaning up her planet. But when it came to her temper, Lucifer was the one causing havoc with storms and temperature increases. He knew how to get her hot.

“It’s not stealing if they’re addressed to me,” he declared. He even had the fine print to prove his point.

“Fine, I’ll give you they say Satan, but it’s the wrong address. We don’t live in the North Pole.”

“Not true. I have a mailbox there.”

She stopped knitting. “You’re doing it on purpose to justify stealing those children’s wishes from Santa.”