It was a normal day in London. Christmas day was only but a few hours away and the people there were at their homes, sitting by the fire, drinking eggnog, and doing other stuff for the upcoming holiday.

But little did they know that danger was lurking in the place they would least expect it to be. The thing that made the full of comfort and joy. And that one particular was everywhere. You could not walk a single mile without seeing this. For this thing was...

The Christmas tree.

None of these people knew. And even though they say ignorance is bliss, ignorance is actually the downfall of everything. Ignorance will be the cause of the death of all human kind.

And so, those fair people of London were filled with ignorance. And that ignorance was disguised as bliss. But they would have given anything to not have that ignorance. For at the moment the clocks stroke midnight, announcing Christmas, that ignorance became deadly.

The Christmas trees, every single one, started spinning. The rotation was very slight and slow when it first began, but they started to pick up speed. They spun faster and faster, gathering even more haste.

And then, the trees started moving. All that speed and all of that tremendous force had become enough to let the trees travel. The real evergreens, the fake tinsel trees, all of them. They were all moving.

But now, the real danger had come upon the people of London. For the movement and speed of those iconic Christmas trees made them indestructible, unstopping, invincible. They could break through anything.

The Christmas massacre had begun.

Each moment, the trees slayed another another victim with the deadly needles. They tore through buildings, houses, even Buckingham Palace. The Tower of London: no more. London Bridge: no more. House of Parliament: no more.

And the people, their fate was the worst. Through out those twenty-four hours of the celebration of the birth of Christ the screams could be heard from miles away. They drowned out the sound of the whirring of the moving trees. And everybody was screaming. No adult, child, baby, or elder was silent. Anybody in London was screaming as they saw the trees brutally murder loved ones and as their blood splashed against them.

And so the horror lasted. It was not a movie or a dream, but reality. The cruel reality of this beautiful world. The reality that eight million humans were no more more than corpses that once held souls. The reality that this had actually happened.

Now, once more, the clocks stroke midnight, announcing the end of Christmas. As the final ring of the bell that was splattered in blood rang, the Christmas trees stopped moving. Everything was quiet. Nothing more than silence. Everybody in London was dead.

Up at the North Pole, a man stood upon a glacier and stared into the pitch black sky. He wore a scarlet coat, the color of the blood that had been shed with white fur trim that seemed as if it was snow or icicles.

Upon his head was a hat, much like one used for sleeping in the Victorian era. The same colour of the coat's trim, an adornment hung onto the end of the red cap. The man's boots were heavy, coated with soot and ash that had a very small contrast against the coal black leather.

Gloves concealed his hand, reflecting the white snow.

His beard was long and wispy, no longer holding any color and speckled with snow. Red cheeks whipped by the wind and beady blacks eyes that could look into your soul were seen on his face.

As he stood there among the ice and snow, the wind roared and howled. And with a faint but rasping voice, he spoke out four distinct words...

"The revolution has begun..."