Santa crumpled the newspaper he was reading and tossed it out of his sleigh from 2,000 feet of flight elevation, touching the side of his nose and sending a magic invisible beam toward the falling paper. It burst into red and green flames as it fell, then exploded into fireworks displays as it drifted toward the glacial expanse below.

"Everybody wants me to quit smoking," he said with disgust. "That article was about the negative influence my pipe has on the children." He puffed harder on his clay pipe. "I thought the kids liked my pipe." He tamped it and resumed puffing.

"It's adults who don't like smoking," said Isabella, the elf sitting next to Santa in the speeding sleigh. "Remember that Canadian editor who published Moore's Santa poem with the pipe excised? That caused a lot of damage."

"Adults," said Santa. "When did every adult decide they're a child psychologist? Toys have changed and it's tough to keep current."

"Things are more complicated now for sure, but we can handle it," said Isabella. "What I miss most are the Christmas ornaments. No more Santas or Frostys with pipes. Frosty is pretty steamed about that, and that's not good for him. He's looking a little deflated."

Emergency lights on the sleigh's dashboard abruptly flashed and a surface-to-air missile rocketed across their bow. Santa was accustomed to missiles, and his sleigh was equipped with defenses that transformed projectiles into flocks of geese. "That didn't look like a government missile," he said. "It was too accurate. Let's check it out." He swerved the sleigh toward the ground where the missile had been fired and landed next to a concrete bunker in the snow. It was northern Saskatchewan and nothing else was around but one lone figure holding a missile launcher. "That must be our guy," said Isabella as Santa climbed from the sleigh and the reindeer began foraging for lichens beneath the snow.

As Santa walked toward the stranger, the mysterious figure raised his missile launcher. "I know this can't hurt you," he said, "but I need a distraction." He fired directly at Santa, who waved his hand, sending the missile rocketing into the sky, exploding into colorful fireworks depicting Christmas trees and gift-wrapped presents. "Merry Christmas!" said Santa. "You seem to be firing missiles at me, which is fine if that's your thing, but I have a schedule to keep and I'm running behind. It's a busy time of year."

The mysterious figure fumbled with a remote control device of some sort, and a drone zipped through the air past Santa's head, snatching the clay pipe from his mouth with a robotic arm as it passed, throwing off Santa's balance and almost knocking him over. "What?" said Santa as the drone delivered the pipe to the stranger.

"Got it!" said the mysterious figure. He bolted into the bunker, slammed and locked the door.

Santa stood there for a moment, then looked back at Isabella. "Did you see that? That scalawag stole my pipe!"

"Let's take off and nuke him from orbit."

"I'll try knocking." Santa tapped on the door, but there was no answer.

"If you don't want to nuke him, we should go. Tomorrow's Christmas," said Isabella.

"Can't take off without my pipe. It's where my sleigh transportation magic originates. It was a lot of trouble to get that pipe; I'll have to tell you about that adventure some day. But that's another reason I get despondent about people disapproving of my pipe. Without it, I can't deliver presents. Only the smoke from that particular pipe will power the sleigh."

"We can't take off?"

"Not until we get that pipe back."

Santa surveyed the situation, noting a small stove pipe vent in the roof. He dematerialized into smoke and went down the vent into the bunker, rematerializing in a large room filled floor to ceiling with clay pipes identical to his own. They were mounted on all the walls and doors, and bookshelves and tables everywhere were filled. "Which one is mine?" asked Santa.

"I suspected you'd get in even without your pipe. My name is Gaston. I'm a bike courier from New York and I want to monopolize shipping across the globe."

"Oh, we've met before, on Christmas Eve of 1972, when you were seven years old and came downstairs when I was working. Remember that stuffed giraffe you liked so well?"

"One of the best gifts I've ever received," said Gaston. "Almost as good as today's gift."

"My pipe? That's not a gift. You absconded with it, and I'd like it back."

"That's why I've hidden it among thousands of identical pipes, pipes I've been experimenting with for years trying to replicate your magic."

"Ah, you know about the pipe's magic. That explains it."

"Only I know which is yours, and I'm not telling. I'm going to use it to start the most profitable shipping company in history. I've been watching you for years, Santa. That pipe will make me a billionaire."

"Without that pipe, I cannot deliver Christmas presents around the world tonight. Children everywhere will be heartbroken. They'll feel the same way you would have if you'd not found that giraffe under the tree."

"The parents will buy replacement gifts to mend those broken hearts, and I'll ship them instantaneously at a nominal cost. The kids will still get presents immediately, and I'll be rich. Everything's prepared. I spent every dime I could borrow getting ready for this move."

Santa pulled a red pocket square from his breast pocket and snapped it open in the air. It expanded into his large Christmas gift satchel. He waved an arm and all the pipes sailed through the air and into the sack, which Santa shook, listening carefully until identifying his own pipe, and reached in to remove his clay, tucking it back into his mouth before he folded the satchel back into a pocket square and slipped it into his pocket.

"Not all my magic is derived from my pipe," said Santa, turning toward the door and his sleigh. "Gotta run. Busy, busy, busy."

"Wait! That's cheating."

Santa turned. "Cheating? Maybe, but I'm not worried about getting coal for Christmas. How about you?"

"I've planned this for months. This is awful."

"Why do you want to be rich?"

"I want to be rich and powerful enough to make shipping free for everyone. You'll be obsolete, Santa. People will send gifts everyday without a seasonal motivation. It will be the dawn of joy and prosperity on Earth. But if I'm not a billionaire with magical shipping powers, it's back to bicycle delivery for me."

"Seems like a worthwhile ambition, but how do you justify assaulting Santa and destroying Christmas to accomplish such an altruistic goal?"

"It's an issue I've been wrestling with. I've been practicing cognitive dissonance exercises for months to pull this off. I can now act one way while believing something entirely contradictory, like politicians. It's actually pretty easy."

"Do you have your bike with you?"

"I never leave it behind."

"Fetch it."

Gaston went into a back room of the bunker as Santa stepped outside and re-lit his pipe. He blew thick smoke into the air, where it coalesced into figures of elves making toys in the North Pole workshop.

"Always showing off," said Isabella.

"Not showing off. You can't be impressed. Just entertaining myself."

Gaston returned, pushing his bicycle into the snow from the bunker. Santa took another inhalation from his pipe and blew smoke over the bike. "Now your bike is magic and will give you the advantage of super quick delivery power. That should be enough to get your dream started."

"Really? That's fantastic. You really are a Saint."

"It's a Santa thing. Give it a try."

Gaston mounted the bike and pushed through the snow, finally getting enough pedal power to move forward, and the bike immediately rose into the air and circled Santa and Isabella. "Woohoo!" said Gaston. "I feel like a kid again. I should have just written you, like I did about the giraffe, but I thought you'd ignore an adult. I'm sorry, Santa. This will smoke my competition! Thank you!"

Gaston and his bike zipped into the sky and rocketed south toward New York. "Are you ready to stop wasting time and get back to the workshop?" asked Isabella. "Tomorrow's Christmas and you have your pipe back. I don't understand, though, why you didn't just turn that guy into a slime mold."

"It's the pipe," said Santa, climbing into the sleigh. "It has always contributed to the way we do things. A good pipe can't do bad."