"Winter is here; crisp, cool air," the dragon therapist remarked, inhaling deeply. "I love a good cold day. So, Princess, are you ready for Father Winter?"

The Princess's smile shifted from innocent to maniacal evil, "Yes, I am. That fat bastard won't get away this year."

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"What do you mean?" the dragon asked, her voice tinged with concern for Father Winter's safety.

"I've been on the naughty list since I was born; something about generational crimes," the Princess said with a sneer. "So every year, I try to kill the fat bastard. Almost got the fucker last year." She glanced away, muttering, "Those damn short elves. They should stick to singing or something."