"Give me a heartwarming Christmas movie about Satan traveling around the world every Christmas to deliver presents to all the young kids and kids with learning disorders and disabilities who misspell “Santa” on their Christmas letters every year"
"And Santa’s all like, “You know, I can handle a few spelling mistakes, I got this,” and Lucifer is like “They’re addressed to me, fuck off, I’m doing it.”"
"Lucifer being protective of his fanmail is ceaselessly entertaining." -- Gallifreya
Every year, certain letters go to what you might consider to be the wrong place.
They all start the same, and most of them are written in crayon. Deer Satan, i hav tryeded to be gud this yeer and what I reelie want msot for krismus is...
The spelling is variable, of course. Most of them are from children who are just learning to write. And they do go to a mythological man whose main wardrobe choice is red. But the place is usually very hot. And the gentleman who reads them has... what you might charitably call a bad rep.
That is, if you were as charitable as the other gentleman in red, who works in a place that is very, very cold.
"How many, this year?" said Lucifer, Lord of Hell, Corrupter of Souls, The Great Deceiver.
"Well in their thousands," said the minion. "The office awaits."
It's said that there is a hell for every heaven, and this was one of them. A ceaseless array of cubicles where at least five people came by the penitents' cubicles to ask if they were working hard or hardly working, to accuse them of having the Mondays, ask if they caught that episode of a popular reality show and otherwise get them in trouble with their eight bosses.
Here, and only here, paper could last in Hell.
Lucifer, Lord of Darkness, King of Flies, Champion of Decay, sat at his cubicle and picked up one of the letters addressed to him, care of the Noth Ploe.
Ah. Timmy. He wanted a bicycle and a puppy... and his older brother to stop picking on him.
Lucifer checked the files. Timmy was an innocent, of course, and therefore immune from the machinations of Hell. The bicycle would not be a problem. And he would see to it that his parents would receive pamphlets about service dogs. As for the brother... Hm. Most of the bullying was verbal. Whenever James tried anything physical, the parents landed on that in no uncertain terms.
What Timmy needed was a means of combating James as an equal. Ah. A handy book of snappy comebacks to everyday insults. That would probably help him.
Someone was at his cubicle. If this was yet another phantom of the environment... Lucifer looked up. Oh. Him.
The jolly fat man was looking slightly apologetic. "I do hate to go through this every year," he said, "but I am certain that those are meant for me."
"Back off, fat man," snarled Lucifer. "They're addressed to me and I will see to it that they get what they want. And, unlikely as it seems, what they need."
"They're innocents, Nicolas. I won't harm them. And it's nice to be wanted for a change."
"Does that mean I have to deal with -ah- your dyslexic fans?"
"They don't write letters, Nick." Lucifer picked up another letter. "Aaaw... She just wants her mother to have a good job. You can't deliver that, can you?"
"Er," said Santa. "No. I'm more of the toys and cheer department."
A smirk. "Then it's just as well that they wrote to me, isn't it? You carry on with your toys and cheer. And I... will continue with this."
Every year, children who can't spell, or make a crucial error in the address... those children get something special. They get what they need for Christmas.