Through frostbitten streets they ride, Two silhouettes in a red machine— Metal, muscle, and myth, Cutting through snow like a blade through bone. The building behind them hums— SANTA'S WORKSHOP, glowing like a broken promise, A cathedral of industry and hollow cheer. They don’t look back. Men like them never do. One grips the wheel, Knuckles pale as the snow outside. The other leans closer, Words burning the cold air between them— A pact, a plan, or a joke only they understand. The windshield is a canvas of stains and streaks, A view of nowhere, going fast. And still, the car moves— A red ghost through a white graveyard. Inside, the laughter’s low, Like an engine just before it screams, And you swear You’ve seen this scene before— Somewhere between a memory and a warning. They keep driving. And the road, As always, Disappears beneath them.