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There is a place where, once a year, all of the universes converge. A void, dark and empty, that stretches on for eternity, and yet can easily be compressed into a smaller space. Like a house. Or a neighborhood. Or a theater.

Every year, an unlucky few find themselves trapped in this void for one day. Twenty four hours of whatever pandimensional terrors the void has in store for them. They do not end up here by chance, though. They are hand selected by the only sentient being that inhabits this void. A vast, unknowable creature that could break the minds of men with a mere thought. The void is his kingdom, its shadows his subjects, and he crafts it as a child would mold a particularly large booger they had picked during allergy season.

Wait... gross...

Um, anyway, welcome to... THE CHRISTMAS ZONE.

In a dark, moldy, disgusting theater that has housed more rats and roaches than patrons, a single spotlight illuminates the dusty stage, upon which stands a young man who could only be described as kind-of-but-not-really-fat. A blonde beard adorns his face, growing haphazardly like a lawn that's been cut by an epileptic mower. He carries a clipboard under his arm, and is waving as a group of shadowy figures, not caught in the small circle of light, struggle to move props onto the stage.

"Further, further," the author said. "Okay, a little to the left, and... perfect!"

The stagehands gave a relieved sigh and, as one, collapsed to the floor.

"Hey, hey, hey!" the author snapped, clapping his hands. "Quit lying around. The show's going to start any minute!"

"Any minute?" One of them asked. The spotlight swung around to shine on Toke. He waved his hands out at the empty seats. "There's nobody here!"

"This place looks like it's been closed for at least three eternities." The light moved to reveal Kulgan getting back to his feet and dusting off his clothes.

"Why can't we just do another gift exchange?" asked Sarah.

"Because that was a disaster," said the author. He held up a stack of papers and began handing them out.

Porter poked his head out from backstage. "I thought it was fun!"

"I'm sure the fifteen multiverses that were driven extinct by fire and shadow because of it are jumping for joy," the author snapped, and whacked him in the face with his papers. "Besides, the audience doesn't want to see the same thing every year."

He held out some papers to Amber, who snatched them out of his and looked up at the empty seats. "What freaking audience? This place is abandoned!"

The author stopped and gave her a long look.

"What?" Amber asked, inching away from him.

"They're already here," he answered.

Amber looked around. "What are you talking about? We're the only ones..."

The author pointed at you (yes, you!), and Amber's voice trailed off.

"Oh. Right."

"Glad we're in agreement." The author went back to the front of the stage, clapping his hands again. "The audience is here, everybody! Let's get this show started!"

"Wait, right now?" Porter demanded, leaping to his feet. "You just gave us our scripts, like, five seconds ago!"

"It's the literal Christmas story! You've all heard it a thousand times."

Toke raised his hand. "Uh, Christmas doesn't exist on my world."

"Mine neither," Kulgan added.

_"GO!"_the author roared with the fury of a thousand hurricanes suffering from indigestion on Taco Tuesday, and like frightened ants the characters all scuttled backstage.

Going to the front of the stage, the spotlight following him, the author turned his back on the seats and faced the curtain.

"All right," he called, "curtains in five... four... thr-"

The curtain flew back so quickly that the rod holding it up broke in half, sending the entire thing crashing down onto the stage. A cloud of dust took to the air, thick as smoke, and everything went still.

"Speth?" the author yelled into the billowing cloud.

"Death to all, and to all a good night!" a crazed voice cackled from backstage.

The author put his head in his hands and shook his head. "What was I thinking, bringing him here? Okay, forget the curtain, everyone. Lights, camera, action!"

Before anyone could point out they were doing a play, not shooting a movie, he raised his own copy of the script and read in a loud, dramatic voice, "A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away... wait, no..." He stopped and cleared his throat.

"In the land of Judea, in the town of Galilee, an angel appeared to a woman..."

The spotlight moved to show Sarah the sphinx, in all her sphinxy glory, standing inside a house. She blinked and cringed when the light suddenly shone on her, but -the author was glad to see- remained mostly in character. The same couldn't be said for Zashiel, though, who dropped down from above the stage, hacking and coughing when the rope tied around her waist brought her to an abrupt stop.

"I have smiting wings!" she screamed, face red as she slowly revolved on the end of her rope. "Why do I need this?"

"Because health and safety regulations," the author called up to her. "Now stick to the script!"

"You nearly-"

"THE. SCRIPT."

Zashiel groaned and, in a monotone voice, said, "Greetings, favored one. The Lord is with you."

Nobody moved.

"Sarah!" the author hissed.

"What? Huh?" the sphinx asked, looking over like she'd forgotten he was there.

"Be afraid!"

Sarah blinked. "Oh, right!" She backpedaled, nearly tripping over her own tail. "Eek! An angel!"

"Don't be afraid," Zashiel said in her bored 'I-was-forced-to-do-this' tone. "You have found favor with God and, uh..." She looked down at the author. "Line?"

With a groan even louder than Zashiel's, the author said, "You will conceive and give birth to a son, and you are to call him Jesus. He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High. The Lord God will give him the throne of his father David, and he will reign over Jacob's descendants forever; his kingdom will never end."

Zashiel gave a quick nod. "Yeah. What he said."

"Oh, but how can this be?" Sarah shouted to the overdramatic heavens. "For I am but a..." She stopped. "A virgin? Am I allowed to say that?"

"Why wouldn't you be allowed to say that?" the author demanded.

"Because I thought you wanted to keep these things PG!"

"IT'S IN THE FRIGGIN' BIBLE, SO JUST READ IT!"

"It's God," said Zashiel, who had revolved so that she was facing the other way. "He can do whatever he wants. Good enough?"

Sarah hesitated, and then shrugged. "Sure. Works for me."

The author slapped his forehead. "I'm going to hell for this."

Zashiel was yanked away with a yelp, leaving Sarah alone on the stage. A moment later, Porter came out to join her.

"So..." the young man said, hands in his pockets. "Word on the street is you're pregnant."

Sarah gave him her best butterfly eyes. "Oh, but it's okay! God put it there!"

Porter blinked. "God... what... God... what?"

"Do I have to spell it out for you?" Sarah rolled her eyes. "I didn't have-"

"Nope!" Porter threw up his arms and turned to walk away. "Nope, nope, nope! She's crazy, and I'm gonna catch her crazy if I stick around. Bye!"

Then, with a scream, Zashiel plummeted from the ceiling again. This time she hung limp from her rope.

"God says marry her," she croaked, raising a finger.

Porter nodded. "Okay, I'm convinced. Let's get married!"

The author raised his script again. "In those days, Caesar Augustus issued a decree that a census should be taken of the entire Roman world. And everyone went to their own town to register. So Joseph also went up from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to Bethlehem the town of David, because he belonged to the house and line of David. He went there to register with Mary, who was pledged to be married to him and was expecting a child..."

"ROAD TRIP!" Porter and Sarah yelled before running offstage.

"There were no road trips in Bible times!" the author yelled after them. "Those weren't invented until the twentieth century!"

Neither of them were listening. A few seconds later, they came back on stage, riding on the back of a donkey. Or, rather, a brown furred wolf with a sign that had "Donkey" written on it around its neck. A very, very grumpy looking wolf.

"While they were there, the time came for the baby to be born," the author went on, sighing, "but there was no room in the inn."

They approached a prop house, and Porter dismounted from the Amber Donkey and went to knock on the door- just as a series of gunshots came from inside, making everyone jump.

"Speth!" the author yelled. "What are you doing?"

"Census rhymes with execution!" the same crazed voice as before cackled.

"It doesn't sound anything like..." He slapped his forehead again. "Adlis! Inkeeper's wife! Now!"

The door opened a crack, and Adlis' head popped out, her ears white with terror. "C- Can I help you?"

Porter craned his neck to see around her until the author snapped his fingers. "Uh, yes! My wife's about to have a baby, and-"

Sarah screamed bloody murder.

The author stared at her. "What was that?"

Sarah shrugged as best she could with her lion's body. "That's what giving birth sounds like, right?"

"Do you have any rooms available?" Toke finished.

Adlis opened her mouth, but before she could say anything another barrage of bullets ripped through the fake inn's roof. Speth laughed like a ticklish hyena in a massage parlor.

"Nope, no rooms!" Adlis said, and then burst out the door, pushing Porter, and then Sarah, the other way. "But we've got room in the stable! Trust me, it's much safer- I mean, uh, more comfortable out there."

She shoved them over to the other prop building, where their "donkey" had already been stabled.

"And, um, please," she whispered once they were out of earshot of the inn, "when you leave, take me with you!"

"Oh, darrrrrrrling!" Speth called from within. "Hubby wants a kissssss! "

Adlis' ears paled further. "Please, please, please! I will do anything!"

"Adlis!" the author shouted. He pointed at the inn. "Inkeeper's wife! Now!"

Adlis looked from Porter and Sarah, to the author, then to the inn- just as another hailstorm of bullets erupted from the roof. Then, with a sigh, she trudged back the way she had come.

Porter raised a finger. "Uh, shouldn't we do something about him?"

The author waved dismissively. "Nah. It's all noncanon. She won't remember a thing tomorrow."

"Somehow, that seems even worse."

"And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night," the author talked right over him. "An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified."

Edgar and Kulgan lounged on the other side of the stage, while Tick walked slow circles around them wearing a sign that said "Sheep" around his neck. Nothing happened.

"Angel of the Lord?" the author called. "Any time now!"

"I'm not doing that again!" Zashiel yelled from offstage.

"Yes, you are!"

"No, I'm-"

With another scream, she fell back onto the stage- this time dangling from her ankle.

"Okay, okay, fine!" she yelled. "Don't be scared, I have good news." She pointed toward the stable. "There's a baby over there. Go check him out."

"Zashiel!"

"Fine. His name is Jesus, and he is Christ the Lord. You will find him-"

"You're not singing!"

"You can take your singing and shove it where the sun doesn't shine!"

Tick stepped forward, face red and fists balled. "Why couldn't I be the angel?"

The author rubbed his forehead. To think, this had all sounded like a good idea an hour ago.

"Because Zashiel looks like an angel," he said.

"But I can sing!" Tick protested.

"Your singing hypnotizes people! You'd have everyone here running for the real Bethlehem."

Tick grinned. "That sounds awe-"

"No, Tick!"

He stomped his foot, pouting. "But why do I have to be a stupid sheep?"

"Because you're white, and so are sheep!" the author snapped. "And what do sheep say? Do they say 'I want to be an angel! I want to be an angel!'? No! They say freaking baa!"

Tick scowled at him. "I don't-"

"BAA FOR ME, SHEEP!"

Tick's eyes went wide before the unimaginable, un-put-into-wordsable wrath of the author. He immediately turned tail (literally) and ran and hid behind Edgar and Kulgan.

"Baa?" he said, peaking his head out from behind them.

The author, in his cosmic wisdom and stuff, nodded his approval.

Edgar, who looked more entertained by everything around him than by the play itself, finally piped up. "Uh, I think we should probably go check out this baby."

Kulgan spat a glob of tobacco on the stage. "Whatever. I've got nothing better to do."

The two of them got to their feet and made their way across the stage toward the stable, where Porter and Sarah were standing with their backs turned, blocking everyone's view inside.

"Hey!" Edgar yelled, waving in way he probably thought made him look cool. "We hear you've got a baby. Can we see?"

"Oh, of course!" Sarah agreed, no less overdramatic for having apparently given birth. "Por- er, Joseph! Let's show them baby Jesus!"

The two of them stepped aside to reveal... a hulking, bearded man wearing a trench coat, sitting in the manger with a sour look on his face.

"I'm not doing it," Mortoph growled, looking at everyone with murder in his eyes.

"You promised," the author reminded him from the front of the stage.

The Master Slayer huffed, pouting. "This is humiliating!"

"Either you say the line, or it's off to the bad guy table again!"

Mortoph narrowed his eyes, trying to decide if the author was bluffing or not. Surely he wouldn't send Baby Jesus to the bad guy table... would he?

"Wah." he said, voice flat and emotionless. "Wah."

Porter and Sarah began laughing so hard they both nearly fell over.

"Baby Jesus is crying!" Sarah guffawed at the top of her lungs.

"Better give him his bottle," Porter added. "Or... or... change his diaper!"

With a roar, Mortoph sprang to his feet, the tiny manger remaining stuck to his muscular backside. A sword appeared in his hand. "Enough of this! You will all learn to respect-"

"Bad guy table!" the author snapped.

And, just like the year before, a trapdoor opened up beneath him, and Mortoph fell screaming into it. Everyone stopped and stared until the trapdoor slowly closed again. Finally, Porter cracked a grin.

"And then Baby Jesus went to hell!" he cackled.

"WE'RE ALL GOING TO HELL IF YOU KEEP SAYING THINGS LIKE THAT!" the author yelled, nearly blowing everyone over with the sheer power of his (awesome) voice. "Now get back to your places!"

Everyone scampered to do as he said.

Clearing his throat, the author raised the script again. "And up in the sky, a star appeared, and three magi saw this star and followed it in order to see the newborn..."

His voice trailed off when a pair of voices rose in song from offstage. Everyone turned to look just as Toke, Dex, and Za came on the scene. Though Za looked nervous -and completely out of place, dressed as a king but still wearing his painted sackcloth mask-the other two were bopping up and down rhythmically as they sang.

"We three kings of Orient are, trying to smoke a rubber cigar! It was loaded and-"

"What are you two doing?" the author demanded.

Dex grinned and snapped him a salute. "Just doing the best we can, sir!"

"Why are you singing that? That's not in the script!"

Toke gave the shaggy blonde wizard a bewildered look. "You told me the wise men always sing that song!"

"They do," Dex insisted.

"They do not," the author snapped. "Za's the only one of you acting even remotely wise right now!"

"Sorry, sir," the simmk bowed his masked head. "I just couldn't read the paper. Cuz, y'know, I don't got no eyes. I'll try harder next time."

"No!" the author made an X with his arms. "Toke, Za, whatever that idiot tells you... just do the opposite."

Dex's eyes lit up, and the author groaned when he realized what he had just done.

"Okay, okay, back to it!" he yelled. "On coming to the house, they saw the child with his mother Mary, and they bowed down and worshiped him. Then they opened their treasures and presented him with gifts of gold, frankincense and-"

"And a rubber cigar!" Dex butted in.

The author closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and counted to ten. "No. Myrrh. They brought gold, frankincense, and myrrh!"

"Well, shoot." Dex rooted around in his pocket, and pulled out a rubber cigar. "What am I going to do with this, then? It's loaded, and... whoops!"

He threw it across the stage, and everyone instinctively ducked. An instant later, it exploded in a blinding flash of light, incinerating the entire set and leaving the stage bare.

"Ha!" Dex cackled. "I knew my version was right!"

Thunder rumbled outside the theater, and the author's eyes lit up red (and green) in righteous godlike Christmas anger.

"Forget it!" he roared. "I give up! You're all going to the bad guy table this year!"

The floor shook, and then a gigantic crack opened up down the middle. All the characters screamed, and then the ground crumbled beneath their feet, plunging them down into the abyss, where they would suffer the unspeakable tortures that only villains knew of. Come morning, they would wake back up in their own stories, and none of them would remember a thing that had happened here tonight.

The author sighed, and turned toward you (yes, you!). "Sorry about that, everyone. I guess two happy endings in a row was a little too much to hope for. Anyway, thanks for being here. And not just tonight. Thanks for being here... you know, in general. I'd just be a sad, lonely man if you weren't around to read all the nonsense I write. So thank you, each and every one of you. You're awesome, and I love you. Have a good time today. Relax and enjoy yourselves. This is from all of us to..."

He looked around, and remembered he had sent everyone home.

"Okay, this is from just me to all of you: MERRY CHRISTMAS!"