The cat lurched at Santa, claws out and sharp teeth bared. Santa swiftly ducked, and the cat hit the wall at full speed. He turned around just in time to kick an approaching turtle into a nearby trash can. "How're ya doin, honey?" he shouted casually in his wife's direction.
Mrs. Claus emptied a clip from her firearm into the charging pot-bellied pig. "Great, hun," she answered cheerfully as she pointed the gun at a hulking dog bounding toward her. She pulled the trigger, but was answered with an unsatisfying click. "Outta ammo!" she called, tossing the gun to the floor. In one practiced motion, she expertly pulled a hunting knife out of the back of her boot, and raised it just fast enough to behead the snarling, demonic canine.
Santa chuckled. "People should really stop building pet stores over ancient Mayan burial grounds."
Mrs. Claus grimaced as she pulled the knife out of the small dog's neck. Blood dripped down onto her hands, perfectly matching the blood-red shade of her dress. "But they won't," she said with a tone of regret.
From behind him, Santa heard a seemingly human voice. "All hail overlord Satan!" it screeched. "Death to oppresion! The superior race will prevail! POLLY WANT A-"
He smiled sadly. "No," he agreed, reaching out, catching the possessed parrot in midair, and snapping its neck. "No, they won't."
They hacked, sliced, and diced their way out of the haunted pet shop, but they weren't upset. To a normal person with a normal life, this might have been a scarring experience. But to the hardened Mr. and Mrs. Claus, saving people and hunting things are just another part of the family business.
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