“Gold? You brought gold?”
“It seemed… it seemed like the right thing to bring.”
“Bloody hell, Mel, we talked about his. We agreed to a £5 limit.”
“I know, I ju-“
“I’ve got myrrh, Cas has frankincense, and you’re bringing gold? We’ll look like utter prawns.”
“I mean, he’s the King of the Jews. I just thought-“
“Of course he’s the king of the bloody Jews. That’s the whole bloody reason we agreed to the limit. I mean, what do you get the Son of God? By definition he has bloody everything. Cas and I just nipped into an aromatherapy shop, picked up a token of, you know, respect, and you… you… gold, Mel?”
“I ju-“
“You know what, it’s fine. It’s bloody fine. I think I saw a petrol station open a mile back. We’ll get some other stuff. Pork pies or something. Bloody hell.”
“I-“
“JUST. Just, be quiet. We’re going to have quiet for a while, okay? Quiet.”
“I-“
”Absolute bloody quiet.”
“What do you think the reindeer do the rest of the year?”
“You mean Santa’s reindeer?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know. Part-time jobs? A little freelance flying?”
“You think Santa would go for that?”
“Yeah, he seems like the kind of employer who’d be down with that. I mean, it’s not going to affect his trade, so…”
“Huh. So we could probably hire one of them ourselves?”
“Sure, I guess. Why, you want to fly somewhere?”
“No, I just want to hire a reindeer. My own reindeer. Donner or Prancer, maybe.”
“Okay.”
“A private Prancer.”
“Uh huh.”
“A Prancer for money.”
“…”
“He’ll do what I want him to do.”
“Listen, I-“
“A PRIIIIIIIIIIVATE PRAANCER, A PRANCER FOR MOOOOOOONEY…”
<Tina Turner ensues>
