The Naughty List

"Little Timmy forgot to brush his teeth. Twice!" Kris Kringle's voice boomed through his workshop as if he was announcing the apocalypse.

Ethel Kringle-Claus lowered her crochet needles. "Little Timmy?"

"Yes, Little Timmy Morgan, 247 Tinsel Drive, Washington," Kris declared with the gravity of a judge about to sentence someone for stealing cars. "And last Tuesday, he didn't clean his room."

"There are husbands who never clean their workshop," Ethel remarked drily.

Kris deflated slightly and got up from his desk.

After three centuries of marriage, Ethel knew that tone. Her beloved Kris was about to go full Victorian headmaster again. The last time this happened, he'd put the entire state of California on the naughty list because they dared to replace the traditional cookies and milk with sugar-and-gluten-free protein cookies and almond milk. "And they call that a healthy snack - ha! They'll see what they find in their stockings at their oh-so-precious LED-lit fireplaces. Oh, they'll see..." he had said under his breath for weeks.

"Time to update the naughty list," Kris declared solemnly, reaching for his tablet. Even Santa had to upgrade eventually, though he insisted on calling it his 'magical scrolling parchment.' He'd only agreed to the upgrade after Ethel convinced him that the old paper list was responsible for global warming. "Think of the polar bears, dear," she'd said. And so he'd had a tablet since the beginning of the year.

As night fell, Kris frowned at his digital list. Something was off. Little Kevin from Michigan, who had definitely been on the naughty list for eating cookies before dinner, was now listed under "minor sugar-related incident, possibly due to low blood sugar."

He squinted at the screen. Last week, Judy Jenkins had been marked down for talking back to her manager. Now the entry read "showed remarkable debating skills."

This had happened before. Small changes. Subtle adjustments. Always in favor of anybody from the naughty list.

His eyes narrowed as he watched Ethel, peacefully working on what seemed to be her hundredth elf hat this week. She looked the very picture of innocence, humming quietly while counting stitches. Too innocent, perhaps?

"Dear," he started carefully, "have you noticed anything... unusual about my list lately?"

"Hmm?" Ethel didn't look up from her knitting. "Oh, you mean like putting an entire state on the naughty list because of those cookies you don‘t like?"

Kris remained silent.

The next morning, with Christmas Eve approaching, everything changed. Kris stormed into the workshop, his face as red as his suit. "The reindeer are gone!"

"What do you mean?" Ethel matched two balls of wool in slightly different shades of red.

"I mean... they are GONE! This is IMPOSSIBLE!"

"All of them?" she asked, deciding on the darker shade.

"Well, no, there's one in the stable - but... it's none of mine. It's definitely not Dasher or Dancer, not Prancer or Vixen, not Comet or Cupid, and certainly not Donner or Blitzen. And very obviously not Rudolph." He paused. "You have to see this."

Ethel sighed, carefully placed her needles on top of her soon-to-be green-and-dark-red elf hat, and followed her husband to the stable. Inside stood a very professional-looking reindeer with an envelope carefully attached to its antler, wearing a very decent looking light blue bow tie.

"Now that's a nice bow tie," Ethel remarked. "I should try to knit a matching hat."

Kris yanked the envelope from the antler, ripped it open and read the card. "Hm," he grumbled.

"What does it say?" asked Ethel, studying the tie's pattern.

"According to the upcoming Christmas Operations Directive 7B/NH-23," Kris read aloud, "and in compliance with North Pole Transport Regulations (Section Winter, Subsection Reindeer), temporary replacement service will be provided. Please find attached Form R-12 for immediate deployment of Emergency Reindeer George..."

Kris let the letter sink. "Emergency Reindeer George?" he muttered. "Who ever heard of an emergency reindeer? For Sam Hill's sake, how am I supposed to deliver ALL those presents with just ONE reindeer? ONE!"

"Well," Ethel said, "who ever heard of a reindeer with a glowing nose before it happened? I'll go see if I can find a matching blue."

Kris watched her leave, then turned his attention to the sleigh. While making notes on his digital list, he noticed yet another change. Little Emma's "refused to share cookies" had somehow transformed into "learning complex lessons about portion control."

"Oh no – NOT again! That's IT!" His voice thundered through the stable. "Who would do such a thing? A saboteur in my own workshop!" He kicked a perfectly innocent bucket. "All these constant changes to MY list! It can only be..."

The stable door opened. Ethel returned, carrying three different shades of blue wool. She held one up against George's bow tie, squinting slightly at the color match.

"It was YOU!" Kris bellowed. "YOU changed my list! You can't stand the thought of people getting nothing for Christmas, can you? Even if they deserve coal!"

Ethel froze, her wool dropping from her hands. For the first time in three centuries, she looked genuinely shocked. The blue wool balls rolled across the stable floor, one coming to rest against George's hoof.

"One moment, Sir," George said, carefully picking up the wool ball with his teeth and returning it to Ethel. "I believe we need to talk."

"Talk?" Kris stared at him. "You... you... talk? ... Nah… you don’t talk!"

"I am from the North Pole Security Department," George said, casually delivering the other wool to an equally shell-shocked Ethel. "Division of List Management and Reindeer Operations. We've been monitoring the situation with the Naughty List for quite some time now."

Kris stared at him. Ethel clutched her wool to her chest.

"You can talk," Kris finally managed to say.

"Obviously," George replied. "How else would I file my reports?"

"Reports?" Kris seemed to have difficulty processing the concept of a talking reindeer. "What reports?"

"Quarterly reviews, mainly. The California Cookie Crisis really opened our eyes." George straightened his bow tie. "Sub-section 7, paragraph 3 actually has a clause about alternative milk options now. But those protein cookies..." He gave a slight shudder. "Our taste-testing department found a concerning protein-to-flavor ratio. Even we have standards, Sir.“

Kris finally found his voice. "But... but what about my other reindeer?"

"Ah, yes." George's tone suggested this was a minor administrative detail. "They're on a tranquil Reindeer Wellness Week. Under their vehement protest, I might add." Clearing his throat professionally, George continued, as if discussing top-secret security operations with a stunned Santa Claus was just another day at the office. "Now, about those list modifications. I'm afraid I had to intervene. Our analysis showed that coal distribution will increase by 92 % according to your digital list. The psychological impact on receiving coal will become... concerning."

"But who..." Kris looked utterly lost. "Who authorized all this? After all I am Santa Claus and it is MY naughty list."

"Oh," George said, suddenly very interested in his neckwear. "The Ethics Committee. Established right after your switch to a tablet earlier this year." He paused. "Someone had to make sure the naughty list stayed... fair."

The stable fell silent.

"But..." Kris cleared his throat. "I always adjust the list on Christmas Eve anyway. No one should really get coal just for not brushing teeth. Or eating cookies before dinner. Even California deserves a second chance - after all, those awful protein cookies are a very generous gesture, and I appreciate the very thought behind it."

George and Ethel stared at him.

"You do what?" Ethel's wool dropped again.

"Well," Kris muttered, "I wouldn't be Santa if I didn't have a heart for people. Everyone deserves a present, especially on Christmas!"

For the first time since his arrival, George looked thoroughly unprofessional. His bow tie was distinctly crooked. "But... but all our protocols... the monitoring systems... our quarterly projections... the emergency intervention guidelines... Sub-section 7, Paragraph 3, Clause B..."

"A bit premature," Kris said.

"I'll pack your lunch box, dear," Ethel said warmly, gathering her wool balls.

"Well then, Emergency Reindeer," Kris said to George and patted his neck, "let's get to work. We have a job to do! In fact, the most wonderful job in the world."