Choices. Everyone says they want the freedom to choose -- that more choices make for better choices, and help make it easier for a person to pursue happiness.

Unfortunately, Ian McKinnon was discovering that, in some cases, freedom of choice was terribly overrated.

A methodical man, he sat in his cold, empty flat contemplating his future. The means to his end was artfully arranged on the scarred coffee table in the center of what he used to call his living room. But with the addition of the pistol, the rope, and the pills, Ian had begun referring to it as his "dying" room. Unfortunately, since his best (and only) friends were out of town, there was no one to laugh at his macabre joke. Or try to talk him out of what he planned to do.

It had been a few days since he first set up the display. An ancient television and a poor excuse for a Christmas tree were the only other distractions he had in the flat, and since the television was broken (and the Christmas lights dark due to his inability to pay his lighting bill), the objects d'art wound up the focal point every time he walked into the room.

The trouble was, there were just too many ways to kill yourself. And poor Ian just wanted to get it over with, and move on. That is, if there was someplace to move on to. In Ian's head, the jury was still out on that one. But before he could even find out for sure what was on the other side, he had to finalize his travel arrangements. Hence, the visual display.

'I could always step out into traffic,' he thought sourly. 'One good-sized lorry would leave me well and truly dead. Maybe.'

It was the maybes that did Ian in. Time and again, he went over his options. But it seems that death, like life, is just as much a gamble as any human endeavor. Like any modern consumer, Ian wanted a sure thing, and as he kept weighing the options, he seemed to come back to the pistol, over and over again. It was a big thing, ungainly and difficult to manage in his small hands, but the fact that it was so large weighed heavily in its favor as the weapon of choice. To paraphrase Clint Eastwood in that American film, it could conceivably "blow his head clean off."

The pills and the rope could be circumvented by timely intervention. But one pull of that trigger, and the farce was over. Finally. No more being a burden on John and Emily. No more having to be the shy awkward guy who stood in the corner at parties, never fitting in with the guys and always stumbling over his words when he tried to chat up a woman. And even when he found a girl who liked him, she never stayed. Eventually, she just drifted away into "let's be friends" land and found herself someone hairier, with more muscles and less empathy. He was lost, and alone, and tired of being both.

The truth was something he didn't want to face, and spent a lot of private time denying. It had hounded him for his entire life, even though he knew he couldn't change it, or even face it head-on. And finally, Ian realized he didn't want to run anymore. He didn't want to try and get past it.

He just wanted it to end.

He'd read somewhere that Christmas had the highest body count of the year when it came to suicide. At least he'd make a mark in the world, even if it was just to add to the body count. Resolved, Ian lifted the pistol to his temple, closed his eyes, and started marshalling the will he needed to pull the trigger ...

... when a voice came from behind him.

"You really don't want to do that."

He turned around, gun still to his head, and found three men standing in the middle of the room directly behind him. His eyes strayed to the door, and found it still triple-locked with deadbolts, with the chain still engaged. The men were all dressed well in suits and ties, although the cut of their clothes seemed dated. They all wore hats -- wide brim fedoras, if Ian was not mistaken -- but under the hats he could see that all three wore their hair short and slicked back. Their suit coats and overcoats were open.

The man up front and in the center was older than the other two, with a little grey at the temples and a few more laugh lines etched into his face. He carried himself with an air of authority, as if command was something that came as naturally to him as breathing. The fact that he was looking right at Ian made the younger man realize that this was the owner of the voice he had heard. And the expression on the older man's face was one of mild concern, which surprised Ian, since he couldn't imagine why the man would care about his fate in the first place.

The leader was wearing a sharp black fedora that went well with his black pinstripe suit. Keeping with etiquette, he removed the hat with a pinch to the crown, then held it in his hands as he looked around for a place to hang it. Not finding one, Ian watched him close his eyes, just for a second.

A tall antique hat rack appeared by the door. Ian saw it just ... fade into place out of thin air. He felt dizzy for a second, and shook his head, but the hat rack remained.

Without looking, the older man tossed his hat behind him. It flew to the top-most hook and settled there. Ian could almost hear a sigh as it gently came to rest, and the center gentleman turned back to face his unwilling host.

"I said, you really don't want to do that." His voice was genial, but marked with some kind of unidentifiable American accent. It seemed strangely familiar to him, but he still couldn't quite place it. It seemed out of context somehow.

Ian swallowed. "Oh?" he said, attempting (and failing) to make his tone completely normal. "And why is that, exactly?"

"Because a guy could hurt himself tryin' a stunt like that," the man replied. His two associates smiled.

"Maybe that's what I want to do." Ian stood up straighter, the gun still raised. The older man shook his head.

"No, kid. I know what you're after, and hurtin' yourself ain't it." He took two steps forward and took the gun out of Ian's hand before he even knew it was gone. "Look," he continued, raising the pistol to his own temple, "putting the gun to your head here looks like it'll work just fine, but if you lose your nerve, even for a second, you jerk the piece up when you pull the trigger and ..."

The muzzle of the gun aimed towards the top of his head, and the man said, "Bang." Ian realized what the older man was trying to say, and the newcomer sighed. "Well, you get my drift. What happens ain't pretty, and sometimes you get to hang around for a long time after -- when all you really wanted to do was check out, am I right?" Ian nodded wordlessly. The man with the gun gave him a smile. He opened the pistol, emptied all the bullets into his hand, and then made both the gun and the bullets disappear.

"Hey!" Ian's surprise over the vanishing pistol was overcome by his indignation. "That was mine!"

"The key word in that sentence is 'was,' kid." The older man glanced over his shoulder. "Either of you guys see a gun around here?" The two men behind him grinned at each other and shook their heads. He turned back to Ian, who was getting more confused by the minute. "See? And don't get so worried. After tonight, you ain't going to need it anymore. Right, boys?"

They both nodded, and Ian started feeling a little like the one actor in the cast of this little Christmas pageant who didn't get the script. "And why, exactly, won't I need it?"

"Because it's Christmas, you mook!" The guy on the right piped up, looking a little impatient. "And he's the Claus!"

"Shut up, Paulie," the other man said, reaching over and slapping him in the back of his head. "Don't you know we got to break it to the mark gentle-like? That's the boss's job, so shut your piehole."

"Thank you, Gino." Still smiling, the leader held out his hand. "I guess I should introduce myself. I'm Santa Claus."

Ian looked at the hand but made no move to take it. "You're ... Saint Nick?"

The older man's smile faltered slightly, but he gave Ian a nod. "Sorta. I'm no saint, but I am a Nick. Nick D'Angelo." He stuck out his hand a little further. Not knowing what else to do, Ian took it and gave him a firm handshake. "That's better. See? I don't bite."

"I still don't understand," Ian said, letting go of Nick's hand and taking a step back. "Am I supposed to believe you're ... Father Christmas?"

Paulie snickered. "More like Godfather Christmas!" Gino reached over and smacked him again, harder this time. Paulie turned toward him, his temper flaring. "Hey! Knock it off!"

"You knock it off, stupid," Gino snapped. "You're cramping the boss's style."

Ian looked at Nick and repressed an urge to smile. "I suppose these two are your ... elves?"

Nick had the grace to look embarrassed. "I know they don't look the part, but they have ... skills other elves don't. Trust me on this."

"Forgive me for doubting you, Mister D'Angelo ..." Ian began.

"Please, call me Nick," the older man said. "And it's okay. I woulda had trouble believin' it myself, if I wasn't livin' it."

"Nick it is, then," Ian continued. "But you don't look anything like the Santa the media is so fond of flashing around this time of year. You're ... a lot younger, for a start. And ... you do seem more ... cosmopolitan."

"Neopolitan, maybe." Paulie snickered again, but batted away Gino's hand as it went for the back of his head.

D'Angelo sighed. "It's Ian, right?" Ian nodded. "Well, Ian, you caught me. I'm not the original guy. That was Saint Nicholas, and that was a hell of a long time ago. Now the Creator ... well, he needed the original Nick for something else, somethin' big. Nobody knows what, but it's sort of a 'need to know' thing. Anyway, the big guy needed the Saint, but he wanted to keep the spirit of the holiday alive. So he chooses somebody new every once in a while to fill in as Santa Claus for a few years, but in honor of the first guy, he always has to be named Nick. Me, now, I've been the Claus since ... how long, Gino?"

"Sixty two, boss," Gino replied.

"Yeah, nineteen sixty two. A lot of years, bringing the cheer and 'ho, ho, ho-ing' and the rest. The presents, the carols ... the whole thing." D'Angelo smiled. "Sure beats the old days. Back when I was alive, the things I used to do ..." He shook his head. "I was not a nice man, Ian. Oh, I looked out for my own, but if you crossed me and mine, look out!" Both Paulie and Gino nodded. "Now I get to look out for a lot more people than I used to, that's all. This job ... well, it's the best job I ever had, and I'm damned lucky to have it. Still don't know why the big guy chose me, but I got no complaints."

"Nick," Ian began, tentatively, "it's Christmas Eve, isn't it? If you're ... the Claus, shouldn't you be out riding the sleigh with the reindeer and the presents and all?"

"Whaddayou, crazy?" Nick gave him a friendly punch on the shoulder, and Ian had to force himself not to rub away the pain, although he didn’t know why he didn't give into the impulse. "It's COLD out there, especially that high up in the sky. Those reindeer STINK! I can't drive for shit. And you think I'm gonna mess up this SUIT climbing up and down chimneys? Sheesh, kid, think a little. I got guys who do that stuff for me, capische? No sense being the boss if you can't delegate, know what I'm sayin'?" Ian nodded again, not sure what else to do. Nick smiled. "No, kid, for me, the spirit of the season comes from ... special jobs. Like you."

"Me?"

"Yeah, you!" Nick put his arm around Ian's shoulders and started walking with him toward the worn leather couch. "This is your lucky night. I'm here to bring you some Christmas cheer. Whatever you want, you got, courtesy of the Claus."

"Well, I had wanted to shoot myself, but you made my pistol go away." Ian sounded petulant, even to himself.

"Oh, come on, kid!" Nick sounded exasperated. "If I'da let you kill yourself, you'da been happy for, what ... a quarter of a second? Just a little slice of heaven between pulling the trigger and when death came around to collect, am I right?" Ian nodded, his brain trying to calculate how long he would have lived had he succeeded in firing the gun ... until he realized how stupid that little exercise was.

Nick was animated, waving his arms around and talking to the air. "Well, a quarter of a second of happiness ain't good enough, not for Nick D'Angelo. You're gonna get the whole nine yards if I gotta shove it down your throat." He turned to Ian with a big grin. "So, what's it gonna be? Money? Cars? Girls? All of the above? You name it, and it's yours."

Ian looked at Nick, ready to work his magic, and sighed. If he was going to die tonight, he might as well admit what he felt ... what he knew was the truth. "There's nothing you can give me that will make me happy, Nick. It's not about things. It's about me ... who I am."

Nick looked at him critically. "What? You're a skinny drink of water, and kinda small, but you ain't ugly. In fact, I bet you clean up pretty good. What's the matter, can't get a girl?"

"No," Ian replied in a small voice. "I can't be a girl."

There was a long silence. Nick looked at him, amazed. "Get outta town! You want to be a broad?" The two elves looked at each other, not sure what to think.

Ian looked at them all, and nodded. "I ... I always wanted to be a woman. Ever since I was small, I knew I was different. I tried to deny it for years, but it's who I am. And since I can't be who I am, I'd rather be no one at all. Do you understand?"

"Huh." Nick seemed truly at a loss for words. "Well, no, I guess I don't. No offense, kid, but why would anyone want to be a broad? Besides a broad, I mean. I like girls plenty, but I like lookin' at them from the outside, ya know?"

"And not just lookin', right boss?" Paulie snickered, and Nick looked at Gino. Gino sighed and shrugged.

Ian shook his head. "I didn't think you'd understand. I spent my life running away from the fact that I'm not what I should have been, and just when I was finally ready to stop running, you come in and take away my pistol." His lip pushed out in a pout that would have done a fifteen-year-old cheerleader proud.

Nick looked back at Ian. "I can't say I get it, kid, but I can tell it really bugs you. You were gonna off yourself tonight because of this. I can't let you do that. Dead is dead, Ian, and you can't fix anything if you're a corpse. Take it from somebody who knows." He looked back at the elves. They shrugged. "I'm supposed to makes things right for you, but I just don't know what the hell I can do to help somethin' like this. I mean, I can't make you what you aren't, ya know?"

"I already am what I'm not, Nick," Ian said, frustrated. "This isn't a choice. This is what is. I've always been ... wrong, somehow."

"Always, huh?" Nick looked at the younger man, and he felt his heart going out to the poor kid. He really believes he shoulda been a skirt, Nick thought. Maybe he's crazy, but he seems like a good kid. Still ... a broad? What's up with that? And how the hell can I fix what ain't broke? He looks okay to me.

A sudden suspicion flaring in the back of his mind. "Hang on a second. I need to check something out." His eyes narrowed, and Ian felt like the older man was looking straight through him. It went on for what felt like forever, but suddenly Nick's expression changed. Ian knew what it was, quick enough, but he didn't know why.

Nick was angry.

"SonofaBITCH!" he shouted. "What the hell do they think they're playin' at?"

Paulie and Gino took a step forward. "What's wrong, boss?"

"Wrong?" Nick thundered, looking up at the ceiling. "I'll tell ya what's wrong. This guy's got a broad's soul, that's what's wrong! He really is a dame, inside. Somebody upstairs screwed up big time, and this guy's ... this girl's been paying the price her whole life. Take a look!"

Both of the elves gave Ian the same deep look Nick had, and both turned white with shock.

"Jeez, lady, that's tough!" Gino said, taking off his hat. "Getting stuck in a spot like that ... well, it's gotta hurt. I really feel for ya."

"I'll say," Paulie chimed in. "Sorry about all the jokes before, miss. I ... I didn't know, you know? I was just being stupid. I just want to tell you ... I don't blame you for trying to ... well, you know. You got a lot of guts stickin' it out as long as you did. I mean, if I was stuck a broad when I was really a guy ... I don't know if I coulda been as stand-up about it as you were, all dis time."

"Well, it ends tonight," Nick said, his anger turning quickly into a smile. "I got the power, I got the time, and you, missy, get yourself one whopper of a Christmas wish. That is, if you really want to be the girl you always was?"

The room filled with a light so bright, it lit the smallest cobwebs in the corners of Ian's living room and made him ashamed of his spotty housekeeping. When it faded, a tall man dressed all in white stood before Nick.

"You can't do that." His voice was level and almost devoid of emotion, but it still made Ian's skin crawl. "I forbid it."

"The hell I can't," Nick practically growled. "This guy here has a broad's soul. She spent her whole life in the wrong body. That kid there went through hell, Michael -- every day of her life. Does that seem right to you?"

"It doesn't matter what I think," Michael replied with a tight smile of his own. "There are many out there with the same problem. It's part of the Creator's plan. God put that soul there for a reason. It's not your place to question why. Or try to change it, for any reason."

"Not my place? It's my job." Nick took a step towards the man in white. "I'm supposed to make Ian happy. How the hell am I supposed to do that when you put her soul in his body?"

"Well now," Mikey smiled, "that's your problem, not mine. I'm your boss, but the Creator appointed you over my specific objections. I wasn't happy with your ... appointment in the first place, D'Angelo. I'm still not convinced you were the right choice for the job. And I really don't like you. It will ... please me to see you fail. You cannot change Ian McKinnon into a woman. And you can be as angry as you want, but you can't touch me ... or the Creator. Go find somebody else to help, 'Santa.' I've got real work to do." He sneered, and vanished.

Nick stared at the place the archangel had stood, his mind a million miles away. That jerk! He doesn't care about the people. He's gonna hurt HER to get at me. How the hell did he get to be an angel, anyway? Nick turned around and sat on the arm of the sofa. There's got to be a way around this. If anyone knows about breaking rules, it's me.

Ian felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. To come so close, and then have it taken away. Well, that's that, he thought. Maybe Nick will give me back that pistol after all. If I ask nicely.

Everything went very quiet for a moment. Ian could almost see the wheels turning in Nick's head, but couldn't see what Nick could do to fix things. Gino and Paulie, on the other hand, watched the boss carefully, half smiling. They'd seen him like this before, and they knew he was coming up with a plan. Nobody beat the boss when he didn't want to be beat. He was smart, the boss was. That's part of why he was the boss.

As for Nick, he turned the whole thing around in his head for some time, replaying the conversation over and over in his head.

Then he smiled.

"Jackpot, gentlemen," he said, grinning. "That Mikey is a real testa di cazzo, but sometimes he's as stupid as a doorstop. He can't stop Nick D'Angelo from doing what's right. Let's make some magic, kid."

The image on the screen above Michael's desk would have made his blood boil ... if angels had blood. There was Ian McKinnon, now fully female and beautiful beyond words, happily opening presents under a brilliantly lit tree, wrapped herself in the arms of a loving boyfriend. Her apartment tastefully decorated, her bank account filled to bursting, her career a success. Her life was everything she had ever hoped it could be.

And all because of that 'Claus!'

"D'Angelo!" He bellowed at the sky. "Get your ass in here!"

There was a flash of light, and Nick and the boys stood before him.

"Whoa! Such language! You got a problem, Mikey?" Nick said with an easy smile. The two elves snickered.

"No," Michael replied. "You do. You disobeyed a direct order from a superior."

Nick shook his head. "Now that ain't true. I disobeyed a direct order from you ... and that ain't the same." Michael's eyes bulged with barely contained anger. "And for the record, I didn't 'disobey' anybody. I just did my job."

"I forbid you from changing Ian McKinnon into a woman. I told you to help somebody else."

"Yes, you did." Nick walked over and sat on the edge of Michael's desk. "That was your first mistake. And your second. And your third."

"What are you talking about?" Michael looked up at the man looming over him.

"Your 'order,' stupid. First, I couldn't change Ian McKinnon into a woman. Fair enough." Nick shrugged, picking up a harp-shaped paperweight on the angel's desk. "So I changed her name to Anne. And when she became Anne McKinnon ... well, I could do whatever I wanted for her, couldn't I? So I did."

Michael was speechless.

"Second, you told me I couldn't turn Ian into a woman, and you was right." He put down the paperweight. "I couldn't, because her soul was already a broad's. Can't change a broad into a broad, right? So I just made the rest of her match the most important part of her. 'Cause we all agree the soul is the most important part of a person, ain't that right, boys?"

Paulie and Gino nodded, still smiling.

"And finally, you told me to find somebody else to help. Well, when Ian McKinnon became Anne McKinnon, that made her 'somebody else.' So I was able to give her all the things she never had before ... because that's MY JOB!" He leaned forward until his face was inches from Michael's. "Ho. Ho. Ho."

Nick smiled, slid off the edge of the desk, and walked back to the center of the room. The two elves smiled back at him, and the "Claus" turned around and faced the angel. "Game over, Citrullo. Don't you ever try to stop me from doin' my job again."

Michael rose slowly to his feet. "I'm going to bring this to the Creator, and when he gets through with you --"

"Stuff it, Mikey," Nick said, the command in his voice bringing Michael's tirade to a standstill. "Geez, listen to you. You been here longer than me, archangel. You KNOW the big guy sees everything. If he didn't want me to help Annie, he would have warned me off ahead of time -- or slapped me down hard himself, long before you tried to call me on the carpet. So in the end, the best reason I had for doing what i did was because I could -- because the big guy let me." Nick watched Michael take it all in, look at all the angles, and realize he'd lost.

When he saw the defeat in the angel's eyes, Nick smiled again. "Do you wanna know why I beat you, Mikey?" The angel nodded, slowly. Nick pulled a cigar out of his coat pocket and paused to light it, then inhaled with a smile.

"Because my entire life, I always looked out for my own," he said. "Always. Since I became the 'Claus,' that means I gotta look out for everybody. I care about people, Mikey. You don't. That's why I won. So if you ever cross me and mine again, ever, you won't know what hit you." He blew a stream of smoke into the room and grinned. "For the record, though, if you get in my way again ... it'll be me."

The trio disappeared, leaving Michael with nothing but the fine aroma from a hand-wrapped Cuban cigar.

Anne McKinnon squealed with delight when she saw the diamond pendant her love had given her as a gift, and kissed him with every ounce of passion her tiny form could hold. It still felt so much like a dream ... as if any second she would wake into the nightmare her life used to be. She almost asked Danny to pinch her, but before she could say a word, he slid his fingertips across her nipples through the fabric of her sweater, making it clearer than any pinch that she wasn't quite the man she used to be. She shivered all over with pleasure, and kissed him again, pressing her whole body against him.

Suddenly, Anne couldn't wait to open her last present. She ripped the shirt from his body like Christmas wrapping -- and judging from the present's reaction to her excitement, Danny was looking forward to it, too.

Over Danny's shoulder, she saw something in the window, and realized that Nick and the boys were standing on the thin air just outside. She hugged Danny tight, and mouthed, "thank you" to the man who had saved her. He read her lips, and she heard his voice in her head.

"Merry Christmas, baby," Nick said with a smile. "Go take your boyfriend to bed and make you both happy. You got a lot of catching up to do."

She nodded happily, and eagerly turned her attention back to her man.

Outside the window, Nick grinned, and turned his back on the scene inside. Gino did the same, but turned around and dope-slapped Paulie, who had been watching the lovers with interest. Paulie turned and shrugged, a little embarassed. All three stood a moment, just breathing in the night air. Then Gino spoke. "Boss? Whadda we gonna do now?"

Nick turned and started walking out into the air over the street. Paulie and Gino followed. "Well, I been thinkin' about that. There's probably a lot of girls like Annie out there, stuck as guys. Maybe a lot of guys out there stuck as dames, too. We got all of Christmas Day to play with, and nothing else to do besides rub Mikey's nose in how badly he lost." He grinned. "So I figure there's a lot of folks overdue for a Christmas miracle, and I aim to give it to 'em.. Come on, boys ... let's go make some magic."

Then the three wise guys disappeared ... into the silent night.

Italian glossary:
Testa di casso - dickhead
Citrullo - someone large, lumpy, and rather flavorless or dense.

Notes: