Agent O’Hare’s mask of frustration said she was getting nowhere with this path. This was one tough Santa. The elbow prying didn't work, the battery on the boys failed, a thousand cuts didn't cut it. Her repertoire was deep, but she seldom needed to dig beyond the simple feeling of cold metal touching the scrotum's delicate flesh to get a man singing. John Trafalgar sang a Burl Ives song while the volts decked through his halls. Time to play the nerve game.

“This is going to get a little ugly, ” she said as she pulled a slender piece of metal from her bag of Sado-treats. “So tell me what I need to know before I begin to rearrange your nervous system.”

“Ms. O’Hare, you are no grandma, but wait until you meet my reindeer, ” John knew a...

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