[i]There was a stranger in the bar on that day. When the message went live, and the voice claimed it had stolen Christmas, everyone in the room collapsed to the floor. All light, perceived and physical alike, drained out of the room, an immense pressure crushing each man both in body and soul. The roar of a vast wind exuding from a gaping abyss filled the room as the one man left sitting began to stand. That he was completely bald, 6'3, and incredibly fit was the only thing perceptible of him, the rest of him blurry, distorted white lines to the eyes of his beholders. Turning, he left the room, taking with him the pressure and the sudden blindness. Outside now, he was revealed by the winter sunlight to be a caucasian male, wearing a pair of silky sweat-pants and a grey shirt with a breast-pocket, over which was the symbol from the old movie "Top Gun," wearing flip-flops and sunglasses to complete his look. Pivoting his head back and forth, looking down the rode, he made out the path to the north, and turned. Crouching low into a runner's stance, he paused a moment, all the muscles in his body tensing as the pressure began to build again. This time, though, the explosive potential was paid off in full, with the man blasting from his position at well over Mach 23 towards the Pole, and ready to pursue Santa through the fiery bowels of Hell itself.[/i]