People with morals were just distasteful to Lucifer. It was why he didn’t visit often.
Nick cupped his belly, full of beers and nachos. not jelly. “You’re just jealous of my Becky because your wife can’t cook.”
Gaia laughed.
Laughed at the insult, because she and Nick went way back.
She wagged a finger. “Naughty Nick. You know what happens when I cook. A little bit of this, a little bit of that, and we end up with the blobfish.”
Nick snickered. “Those were ugly but not all your cooking went bad. My elves are still one of your greatest accomplishments.”
Gaia had performed some tricky splicing to create a species that thrived in the cold and were possessed not only of long lives but an extremely good work ethic. Elves truly were happiest when busy. Nick and his crew got things done and delivered without fail every Christmas. Brought joy and happiness all around the world.
And the family called Lucifer the disgrace.
“I remember us making the elves.” She sighed dreamily. “Good times.”
Wait a second, did she ever get that look when she thought of him? Did she like Nick more?
Ridiculous. Still, his wife’s past with his cousin and continued friendship annoyed. “Why are you here?” he barked.
“You know why. My mail.” Nick headed for the desk. “I’ll be taking those.”
Lucifer leaned back in his seat, laced his hands over his flat belly, and smiled. “Touch them and lose that hand. Permanently.”
“They’re not for you.”
“Not true. They’re addressed to me.”
“Satan Claus?” Nick cajoled. “We both know that’s not your last name.”
“Actually, it is.”
“Since when?” Nick blustered.
“Since I applied for a name change. It is a little bit lengthier now. Satan Lucifer Morningstar Yahweh Kardashian Skywalker Manson Easter Bunny Claus Baphomet and a few more.” Nine hundred pages worth.
“And what of the address?” Nick argued.
“That’s what I said.” His wife took the cad’s side.
“You’re not the only one with a mailbox in the North Pole.” Turned out a few people had some redirects. Santa Claws, a grumpy cat living in San Francisco who inherited a billionaire’s fortune. Then there was Satan Claws, Lucifer’s massive and demonic cat who used the shreds of his letters to line his kitty litter box.
“Those letters are for me,” Nick insisted.
“I disagree. Let’s read one, shall we?” Lucifer grabbed the most promising one from the pile. Black envelope, the red marker almost impossible to read. Addressed to Satan. Inside, a scribbled note. “Dear Satan. I’ve been doing my best to be bad all year, but I’m worried that’s not enough to earn me a spot in Hell. How can I sin more this stupid, commercialistic holiday season? Signed Adam.” Lucifer tossed it aside. “For starters, he shouldn’t have to ask. How hard is it to break laws and do no good?”